Camilla leans close, her Chanel No. 5 a comforting shield. "I swear, if she comes at you again tonight, I'll have Marcus dump his champagne on her dress and claim it was an accident." Her eyes sparkle with mischief and fierce loyalty.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, unexpected but welcome.
"Oh shit." Marcus' words force us to turn, and my heart stops.
The air doesn't just shift when Scott Sullivan enters, it fractures like ice moments before it shatters. He moves through the crowd, his presence electric and suffocating, commanding space with the confidence that comes from decades of crushing others beneath Italian leather shoes.
Lydia's gasp from nearby is barely audible, but it reverberates through my bones. Nate transforms beside her, his spine snapping straight as though replaced with steel. His expression settles into something carved from marble—beautiful, cold, and utterly lifeless. It's a mask I've seen before, the one he wears when burying emotions six feet deep.
But Jake—Jake is different.
Where others ripple with tension, he remains still waters. There's an unsettling serenity in his demeanor, like he can finally exhale. When he meets his father's gaze across the room, their subtle nod feels like a secret handshake to a club I never knew existed.
"This is not good," I whisper, turning back toward our table like a moth seeking flame.
Camilla's perfectly arched brows knit together, her crimson lips pressing thin as she tracks the Sullivans. "No kidding. Who invited that walking midlife crisis?"
Marcus swirls his champagne with practiced nonchalance. "Forget reality TV. You can't script this shit if you tried." His attempt at levity dissolves into the thickness of the air.
My eyes magnetically pull back to Nate. The sight makes my heart fold in on itself—his jaw works like he's grinding glass, hands clenched into fists so tight I hear his knuckles protest. The usual fire in his eyes has been replaced by something worse: a vacuum-sealed emptiness that swallows light whole as he watches his father work the room like a master puppeteer.
The council head's voice cuts through tension like a dull blade.
"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we honor a legacy that runs as deep as Eden's foundations themselves. Please welcome to the stage, one of the founding family members of this town, Mr. Scott Sullivan."
The room's applause swells like an approaching tide, but Nate stands immobile. Lydia's fingers dig into his arm like she's afraid one of them might shatter. Scott takes the stage like a king claiming his throne, his smile as practiced as a surgeon's hands and twice as cutting.
"Thank you, Joe." Scott's voice fills the room with practiced authority. "When my grandfather first came to Eden, this was nothing but untamed coastline and big dreams. He saw potential where others saw wilderness. My father expanded that vision, turning those dreams into reality, brick by brick." He pauses, words settling like seeds in fertile soil. His eyes sweep the crowd with calculated warmth.
"Tonight, as I accept this recognition, I'm reminded that the Sullivan name isn't just a family legacy—it's Eden's legacy. We've shaped this town, its economy, and its very identity. But legacies aren't meant to be preserved in amber. They're meant to evolve, to grow stronger with each generation."
The way he looks at Nate feels less like a father's gaze and more like a predator marking territory. Each word about legacy drips with honey-coated venom.
"Which is why I'm proud to announce that our five-year plan for this town is to expand. And I'm especially proud to announce that my brilliant son, Jacob, will be joining The Sullivan Group this year." He gestures to Jake, who rises with practiced grace. "Come up here, son."
Jake joins him on stage like a prince being crowned, and the air grows thick as concrete.
"Jacob understands what it means to be a Sullivan. He knows that our name carries not just privilege, but responsibility. Under my guidance, he'll learn to shoulder the weight of this legacy, to carry Eden into a future worthy of its past."
Scott's words about Jake's future leadership detonate across Nate's features in microscopic flinches that only someone who knows him would catch.
"Legacy is everything," Scott continues, words slithering like smoke. "It's about making the right choices. Some of us know how to honor that, and for others—" His lips twist into something that resembles a smile the way a knife resembles a spoon. "Well, let's just say not everyone is suited to the responsibility."
The barb finds its mark with surgical precision. Nate's mask fractures for a heartbeat, revealing raw devastation before walls slam back into place.
"This is bad," I breathe.
The applause that follows feels like the nail in the coffin. Scott's gaze, when it finds Nate and Lydia, carries all the warmth of a snake sizing up prey. Jake follows as Scott descends, but my attention is locked on Nate. He's a statue carved from tension and spite, every muscle wound so tight he might shatter at a touch.
This isn't just a celebration anymore—it's ground zero, and the Sullivans are nuclear.
The moment Scott exits, Lydia transforms—her gentle demeanor crystallizing into something dangerous. She tracks him like a lioness stalking wounded prey, each step carrying the weight of twenty years of buried rage. Nate stands motionless, as if movement might detonate him. His fists are clenched white-knuckled, tendons straining beneath skin. Ten eternal seconds pass before he follows, trailing storm clouds in his wake.
"I need to go," I say quickly, chair scraping marble like a warning bell.
"Call if you need backup!" Camilla's worried voice chases after me.
The hallway beyond swallows the ballroom's noise into plush carpeting. Nate stands ahead like a sentinel, staring at patio doors, shoulders rigid with barely contained fury. I approach cautiously, taking his hand between mine like something precious and volatile.
