Twisted Flames

TheCalmBeforeCollision

Jason’s POV

There are two kinds of bars in the city, one where everyone comes to forget, and one where people like me come to feel powerful. Marlowe & Rye was the latter. Dim lighting, polished environment, a bartender who knew not to speak unless spoken to, and a vintage jazz record playing just loud enough to drown out regret.

I sat in the corner booth, playing with a glass of whiskey like it held answers. It didn’t. It never did.

Nathaniel was late, typical. The man ran on “architect time,” which apparently meant showing up exactly when he damn pleased, with no apologies and no rush. And yet, he was the only person I’d ever allow to be late for drinks with me.

I glanced at the glass door as it swung open. There he was.

Nathaniel Cross. Six-foot-three, broad-shouldered but never sloppy. Charcoal suit, no tie, crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t made entirely of steel and stone. His thick black hair was slightly rumpled as always, like he’d just left a meeting he hated. Classic Nathaniel: professional from the neck down, chaos from the neck up.

“Still loyal to scotch,” he said, sliding into the seat across from me.

I smirked. “Still pretending wine isn’t a personality flaw.”

He raised a brow, then nodded to the bartender without a word. Two fingers of bourbon landed before him like magic. Nate had that effect, quiet power. No demands, just expectations.

We clinked glasses, more out of habit than celebration. “To late nights and dying empires,” I offered.

He gave a lazy smile. “And to the men trying to save them.”

There was a beat of silence between us. The kind that only came from fifteen years of friendship and knowing too damn much.

“So,” I leaned back, “Verdant Form. Still saving the planet one sustainable villa at a time?”

He gave a slow nod, sipping. “We just closed the Singapore retreat project. Green rooftops, solar decks, reclaimed wood everywhere. You’d hate it.”

“Disgusting,” I grinned. “You could’ve used imported marble and gotten away with murder.”

“You would’ve gotten away with murder,” he replied dryly.

Well Said.

We drifted into business talk. I told him about Carter Edge Studios’ new international portfolio expansion. The Milan partnership, the magazine features. He asked if my mother was still “strategically setting up my calendar.” I said she calls it efficiency. He rolled his eyes. Same old rhythm.

“You still haven’t asked what she looks like,” I said, swirling my glass again.

He leaned back. “I figured I’d find out tomorrow. Like everyone else.”

I laughed. “You make it sound like this is about love or something.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked, deadpan.

I studied him for a second.

“You think I’m marrying her for a deal,” I said, not even bothering to phrase it as a question.

He shrugged. “Aren’t you?”

That hit me. I sipped slowly, letting the warmth distract me from the truth.

“You know how this works,” I said finally. “Her family owes us. My mother’s been planning this since her father signed the silent share agreement. I’m just… following through.”

“Does she know?” Nathaniel asked.

“Not everything.”

“That’s a no, then.”

I sighed. “She will. Eventually.”

Nathaniel stared at me like he was peeling back layers I hadn’t given him permission to see. I hated that look.

“You’re judging me.”

“No,” he said softly. “I’m wondering when you started lying to yourself.”

Ouch.

I finished the rest of my drink in one gulp and signaled for another. He didn’t say anything, which meant he was waiting for me to flinch.

“Look,” I muttered. “You of all people know what legacy means. My father, before he passed, nearly ran our empire into the ground. My mother clawed it back with blood and bone. I’m doing what’s best for the family.”

Nathaniel’s jaw flexed. “At whose expense?”

I stared at him, annoyed that he could be so damned calm while I was boiling. “You think she’s some helpless girl who doesn’t know the cost of power?”

“I think she’s not your pawn.”

I scoffed. “You don’t even know her.”

“Neither do you.”

We let the silence return.

I watched Nathaniel carefully. His fingers traced the rim of his glass with idle concentration, his dark eyes fixed somewhere past me. He looked like he was trying to solve an equation only he could see.

“You’ve got that look again,” I said.

“What look?”

“The one where you’re about to say something wise and ruin my entire night.”

He smirked. “Maybe I’m just wondering if you ever get tired of pretending.”

I didn’t answer.

Because sometimes… I did.

I thought of her then, the girl I’d only seen thrice, briefly, months ago. . Barely a glimpse, really. Brown hair, soft eyes, elegance that didn’t scream money but whispered something more dangerous: authenticity.

That was Ava Williams, and tomorrow, she’d officially become my fiancée.

Nathaniel sat forward. “Does it ever get to you?”

“What?”

“Being this calculating.”

I laughed, though it came out bitter. “Does it ever get to you? Pretending you’re not judging me every time I breathe?”

He didn’t flinch.

“You’re my best friend, Jase,” he said. “But if you’re going to lie to her, don’t expect me to smile through it.”

I felt that like a punch to the gut. Nathaniel rarely used full names. He rarely said things that cut. But when he did, you felt them.

I looked away.

“You don’t know what she’s like,” I muttered.

“And you don’t know what you’re doing,” he replied.

We finished our drinks in silence.

He stood first. Buttoned his suit jacket like the gentleman he was. “Good luck tomorrow,” he said.

As he walked out, I realized something unsettling:

He wasn’t angry because I was marrying for convenience.

He was angry because, deep down, he knew I wasn’t ready for what was coming.

And neither was she.