The solarium was massive—vaulted glass ceilings, glass walls, sunlight pouring in like it had somewhere to be. Marcus stood at the center of it all, shirtless, barefoot, and bathed in gold. He looked like some tragic painting: ancient myth meets tabloid royalty. A bottle of bourbon rested near his feet, already a quarter empty. Again, like the first time we met, he was shirtless and drunk. Also again, I couldn’t seem to look away.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked, gesturing toward the bourbon with a tilt of my chin.
Marcus didn’t answer right away. He stared upward, swaying slightly, the muscles in his back tight with whatever storm was brewing in him.
“Theodore. Arthur. Frederick. Wilder.” He rattled off the names like a prayer. Or a curse.
I recognized them immediately. “Middle names,”
