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The coffee is still warm when I finish it. The mountains are dark shapes against a darker sky, the stars so thick they look like someone spilled flour across black marble. Somewhere down the trail, the bonfire crackles. Music carries up through the pines.

Tomorrow is the last day. Closing ceremonies, teardown, final vendor settlements. Then I drive back to Vancouver with a contract offer on the table, a portfolio piece that could change everything, and the taste of a man I can't have still on my tongue.

My mom's voice echoes. This is what you've been working for. Everything you gave up.

She's right. She's always right.

Success is exactly what I chose.

So why does it feel like losing?

CHAPTER FIVE

DANTE

Sunday morning. Last day of the Harvest. Six AM, and I'm sitting on the porch of my staff cabin with a cup of coffee I made too strong, staring at the mountain while the sky turns from black to gray to pale gold.

I slept like garbage. Four hours of staring at the ceiling, replaying the look on her face when she walked out of the cabin yesterday morning. The careful way she buttoned her blouse. The professional voice she put on over the wrecked one, smooth and polished, sealing everything that happened between us into a box labeled mistake.

Copy that.

That's what I said. Two words, military crisp, zero emotion. The exact response my father would've given. Twenty two years of watching that man shut down every woman who tried to reach him, and when my moment came, I reached into his playbook without thinking.

The coffee is terrible. Too many grounds. My abuela would've slapped the mug out of my hand.

My phone sits on the railing. Jake texted at midnight, a check in about today's schedule. Rivera sent an update about the south perimeter camera that keeps triggering on deer. Normal stuff. Clean, professional, impersonal.

There's another text. The one I typed at one AM and didn't send.

Me (unsent):

I don't want to be the man who lets you walk away because it's the professionally appropriate thing to do.

My thumb hovers over the send button. Then I delete it. Because texting a woman your feelings at one in the morning when she told you to back off is exactly the kind of move that gets a man fired, or worse, makes him the guy who doesn't respect boundaries.

Boundaries. Right. My father had plenty of those too. Professional ones. The kind that kept him safe at work, kept his career spotless, kept his reputation clean as a whistle while three women packed their bags because he couldn't show up for anything that wasn't in a duty roster.

I drain the coffee. Pour another cup. Burn my tongue on it. Good.

At seven thirty I'm walking the perimeter when Jake calls. Not the earpiece. His personal phone.

"You sound like hell."

"I sound the same as always."

"Yeah, that's what I said." A pause. "Rivera told me you've been at your post since five forty five. The shift doesn't start until eight."

"Wanted to get ahead of the teardown logistics."

"Morales. I've known you for three years. You don't come in early to get ahead of logistics. You come in early when you're avoiding something." Another pause. Longer. "Or someone."

Jake Winters is a lot of things. Billionaire. Former Special Forces. The kind of man who built a security empire from a laptop and a grudge. He's also annoyingly perceptive when it comes to the people who work for him.

"I'm fine, Jake."

"Cool. Then you won't mind me telling you that Sloane Whitfield was crying in the parking lot last night at nine thirty, and Rivera, who I specifically asked to mind his own business, told me about it anyway."

My chest tightens.