“You’re sorry?” I asked, not bothering to look up. “Again? That makes four times since I walked through the front doors. I’m starting to think you just like the sound of your own voice.”
“Yes. Again,” he said, ignoring the bite in my tone. “The first three didn’t seem to stick. You’ve got this way of looking through people like they’re made of glass.”
I coiled the cord with exaggerated care, my fingers working the rubber as if I could smooth out the memory of that beach. “You’re developing a habit. And habits are dangerous.”
“For most people,” he said, giving me a half-smile that was transparently hopeful. “But mine usually involve helping people.”
I gave him a flat look. In truth, the guilt was a two-way street I didn't want to drive down. I knew I’d been a bitch the other night—mouthing off to him like he’d forced my hand, when the reality was I’d climbed into that rig with my eyes wide open. I’d wanted the win. I’d wanted the speed.
But admitting I’d used Luka as a punching bag because I couldn't get close enough to dent his brother’s pride was a level of honesty I wasn't ready to pay for. It was easier to let him play the martyr than to admit Dominic’s smugness had rattled me so badly I’d started firing at the wrong targets.
He groaned. “Okay… occasionally helping. Sometimes accidentally offending. Balance.”
I let him sweat for a beat, enjoying the way his conscience clearly didn't fit right in his chest. It was a distraction from myown. Finally, I nudged the box with my shoe. “Help me run these cables along the back wall. Then we’re square.”
Relief loosened his shoulders. “Deal.”
We worked in silence for a few minutes. Luka was warm and uncomplicated—the kind of presence that didn’t demand I soften to make room for it. He was a steady idle compared to the high-revving disaster of his brother.
“So…” he said lightly. “Haven’t heard from my brother, have you?”
“Do I look like someone who volunteers for a root canal?”
“I told him to apologize.”
I snorted, tugging a strip of tape loose with my teeth. Is that what that text message was supposed to be? An apology wrapped in a threat? “I wasn’t impressed. Anyone with a pulse and questionable morals can send a cryptic text. It takes zero effort.”
Luka laughed under his breath. “Yeah. That sounds like Dom.”
A sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere rippled through the air before the doors even opened. Conversations dimmed by instinct. Movement slowed. Attention tilted as if gravity had picked a new direction.
Dominic appeared.
He walked in with his glasses pushed up onto his head, frames catching the overhead lights like a dare. He wore a fitted shirt rolled to his forearms like the sleeves had personally offended him.
I refused to acknowledge the sudden, sharp spike in my pulse—the kind of static that usually preceded a short circuit. I absolutely did not notice the way the edges of the room seemed to sharpen, the atmosphere tightening as if Dominic had decided the available oxygen was his personal property and we were all just trespassing on his air.
It was a lot of presence for a someone who was essentially just a walking power trip in an expensive shirt, but apparently, the universe was in a mood to indulge him.
Sienna practically launched off her heels. She tried to grab his face for a kiss, but Dominic stepped out of the angle smoothly, a hand drifting to her shoulder to guide her away rather than pull her in. It looked polite if you weren’t paying attention.
I was paying attention.
Dominic’s gaze dragged across the room—a slow, surgical sweep. It found me. There was the smallest hitch—a flicker—like he’d expected me to be hiding and was annoyed to find me still standing.
I raised a brow, refusing to be the one who broke first. He didn’t look away. Not even when Sienna wrapped herself around his waist, her hands possessive as she staked her claim.
A low, localized spark lit in my chest—an unwelcome feedback loop I hadn't authorized. There it was again, that same erratic pulse that had surfaced the other night, uninvited and impossible to ignore. It wasn't that I wanted to be the one standing there; it was just that my instincts were apparently corrupted, throwing a false positive at someone I couldn't stand.
“If looks could kill…” Luka said beside me.
“He’d already be carving the body count into his hood ornament,” I muttered.
Dominic finally blinked, cutting his attention away with precision. He directed Sienna toward a cluster of executives as if she were another task on a checklist that bored him.
“Carter,” an event coordinator called, sounding like she hadn’t slept since the car was invented. “Take that box of merch down to the supply closet? South hallway. We need to clear this riser.”
“Sure,” I said, hoisting the box. Apparently, my job description now included manual labor and pretending my spine loved it.
