Page 94 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

THE PRICE OF BELONGING

CONNOR

Twenty-four hours after watching Ariana leave the dance studio, I find myself in the exclusive private lounge of The Summit, a sanctum of Seattle’s elite where billionaires negotiate everything from acquisitions to art investments over aged Scotch.

The air is thick with the scent of old money—polished mahogany, imported cigars, and single-malt whisky older than me. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city skyline, where the rain paints shifting silver patterns against the glass, a Monet of excess and power.

And somehow, in this temple of affluence, we are debating... corsages.

"The flowers have to coordinate," Alex’s fiancée, Mackenzie Gallo, insists over video chat while my so-called friends and fellow groomsmen nod seriously. "And no, Alex, matching pocket squares are not the same thing."

"But—" Alex starts.

"No buts!" Her image freezes momentarily. "I've already compromised on Vegas?—"

"Because someone," Grayson coughs while looking pointedly at me, "ruined that location for everyone."

"—so the Monaco party has to be perfect," Mac continues. "That means coordinated everything. Including flowers."

I tune out the flower debate, watching Seattle's spring rain paint patterns on The Summit's windows.

My thumb moves on autopilot, opening Instagram, scrolling to a profile I shouldn't still check. Amanda's latest post fills my screen—her daughter beaming at some academic awards ceremony, Matt's arm around them both. The same eyes I used to know so well, now reflecting a happiness that shouldn't bother me anymore.

But it does.

Not because I want her back—that ship sailed years ago. Bu there’s something else, something needling I can’t shake.

And now all I can think about is how Ariana ran last night. How she looked at me like she wanted to say something important, then fled into the darkness.

How I let her go.

"Connor?" Luke waves a hand in front of my face. "You with us?"

"Hmm?"

"I asked if you're bringing a plus-one to Monaco." He pushes his glasses higher, grinning. "Perhaps a particular PR exec that you’ve been obsessed with lately?"

"That's..." I clear my throat. "Complicated."

"Everything's complicated with you, late.” Callum’s voice cuts through the chaos, commanding attention without effort. He prowls the room like the Highland-born predator he is, phone pressed to his ear as he argues in rapid-fire Gaelic before switching to regular old English. “No, Grandmother. The estate is my responsibility now. My rules." A pause. “That was twenty years ago. Let it go."

He ends the call with a decisive tap.

Like everything about Callum Abernathy—His Royal Highness, the purported future Duke of Kingham—the perfectly tailored suit, the aristocratic features that belong on currency, the way he moves through space like he owns it.

Because he usually does.

"Family drama?" Grayson asks.

"The usual inheritance warfare." Callum sprawls in a chair with lethal grace. "Grandmama’s threatening to auction off another estate unless I ‘settle down properly.’ As if I'd let her."

"Most people would be worried about losing a Scottish castle," Luke notes.

"Aye, well, most people aren’t me." Callum’s smirk is pure devilry. "Besides, I own the auction house."

"Of course you do. Because buying auction houses is a completely normal response to family drama."

"Says the man who’s supposedly already ‘playing house’ with a certain brunette? I heard about the family dinner.”

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