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CHAPTER THREE

DEE

Wednesday afternoon, I finally received an email from Jacob Amon’s assistant letting me know that my background has cleared and the employment offer is firm. Now, I have to tell Nathan and Eamon I’m quitting before I lose my nerve.

I stand outside Nathan’s office in my typical T-shirt and jeans, reciting the same six sentences on loop in my head. “Thank you for the opportunity. This was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. I’m giving you two weeks’ notice, effective immediately. I’m moving to New York for a job I can’t refuse.” I have rehearsed it so many times that I’m not sure if I sound like a robot or an infomercial, but it doesn’t matter. All I have to do is say the words. After that, it’s out of my hands.

I am not nervous. Or, that’s what I tell myself. I mean, there are worse things than quitting your job in front of two of the most intimidating men I know, right? People skydive. People run marathons. I can survive a five-minute HR meeting.

I check my phone for the fourth time in as many minutes. One missed call from my sister, a string of silly memes from Veronica, and a single text from Eamon letting me know he’s on his way to the meeting.

I rub my palms on my jeans and force myself to knock on the door.

“Come in,” Nathan calls. I take a deep breath and push the heavy door open. His office smells like coffee, leather, and a subtle, masculine cologne that likely costs more than my rent. It’s clean enough to pass military inspection, the only hint of chaos being a pair of mismatched mugs on his desk and a stack of legal pads with cryptic notes in his impossible handwriting.

The bossman looks up from his desk and points at the seat across from his desk. “Dee, have a seat.” He gives me his serious, CEO version of a smile—quick, efficient, not really reaching his eyes. “You needed to see me?”

Here goes nothing. “Yeah. Thanks for making the time,” I mumble as my rehearsed speech escapes my mind.

He sits back and steeples his fingers, all cool confidence, but I catch the faint lines of worry at the corner of his mouth. He’s not the kind of guy to show weakness, but even he can’t hide it completely.

Eamon materializes, like he’s been conjured out of thin air by the sheer force of my anxiety. He closes the door behind him, doesn’t bother with small talk, and fixes his laser-beam eyes on me. He wears a charcoal blazer today, open over a plain black tee, and his arms look stupidly huge crossed over his chest. I make a conscious effort not to stare at his jawline, which is already flexing so hard I worry he’ll grind his molars to dust before this conversation is over.

I don’t wait for the “so what’s this about” because if I hesitate, I’ll never get the words out. “I’m quitting,” I blurt, and immediately want to crawl under Nathan’s desk and die. “I mean, not today. Two weeks from today. But—” I clear my throat, trying again. “I got a job offer in New York City. A bar called Velvet. Management, full benefits, and actual vacation. It’s… well, it’s the opportunity I’ve been looking for.”

The silence that follows is so fucking suffocating.

Nathan’s first to break, though he covers it with a cough and a shuffle of papers. “That’s… wow. That’s a hell of a surprise, Dee.” His gaze flicks to Eamon, as if expecting a reaction, then back to me. “You’ve been with us since the beginning. You’re practically part of the foundation at this point. I thought you were—” He stops, recalibrates. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

I pick at a thread on my jeans and force myself to meet his eyes. “Honestly? I wasn’t even sure I’d get the job. I applied on a whim. But they flew me out for an interview last weekend, and…” I let my voice trail off, hoping the implications fill the space better than my actual words would.

Nathan leans back, chewing it over. “Velvet, you said? Who’s the owner?”

“Jacob Amon. He basically offered me the job on the spot.” I try to keep my tone neutral, but I can’t help the little tremor of pride that sneaks through. I earned this. I fucking earned it. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks, defensive reflex flaring. “It’s not about money. It’s about a future. There’s nowhere left for me to go here, Nathan. I’m not even a full manager. I’ve hit my ceiling here.”

Eamon, on the other hand, hasn’t moved. He sits in the guest chair beside me, hands folded so tightly I can see the white of his knuckles, eyes locked on the far wall. For a second, I wonder if he’s having a stroke.

Nathan keeps glancing between Eamon and me, like he expects his right-hand man to jump in and do the talking for him. But Eamon doesn't say a word. The silence stretches, thick and awkward, before Nathan finally takes the lead. "Tell me what you want. More money? A bigger role?" He leans in a little, his eyes locked on me, all business now. "I'll match whatever offer they're dangling in front of you, Dee. And if a new title is what you're after, just say the word. It's yours."

I hesitate. Not because it isn’t tempting. For a split second, I imagine accepting a promotion. But then I remember my real reason for leaving—the feelings I have for Eamon that will never be returned. In my gut, I know this is the right move.

I shake my head. “Thank you, but no. This isn’t a negotiating tactic. It’s just… time.”

The look on Nathan’s face is somewhere between disappointment and acceptance.

But Eamon? Still nothing. Not a word, not a sound, just that marble statue pose and a jaw that looks one snarl away from snapping in half.

Nathan exhales, then stands and rounds the desk. “You’ve got my blessing, Dee. I’ll even write the reference myself. You’re one of the best hires I’ve ever made.” He offers his hand, and when I take it, he does the double handshake thing—one hand strong, the other on top. “You let me know if New York doesn’t treat you right. There’s always a place here for you.”

The words settle heavily in my chest. It means more than I can say. “Thank you, Nathan.” I guess we’re just going to ignore Eamon, or actually, Eamon’s lack of reaction.

Nathan nods. “Take the rest of today to sort things out. And if you want to make it public, you should be the one to tell the team.”

I nod, wiping my palms again, and get up to leave when Eamon finally moves. Not just moves, he fucking erupts.

He stands so fast the chair shoots backward, skidding against the hardwood and slamming into the wall with a thunderclap. I jump, heart in my throat as Nathan’s eyes widen almost comically.

“You can’t fucking leave,” Eamon says, voice low and raw, like each word is being ripped from his bones. He pins me with a glare, every muscle in his body coiled for war.