Chapter 73: Job jurisdiction
Chapter 73
Ronan
"Finally, Snowball—I was starving!" I call out the moment I hear the familiar beeps of the penthouse door unlocking.
They’re back. About time.
As much as I love tagging along like the professional third wheel I’ve perfected myself into, there was no way I was sitting through an entire golf course crawl full of crusty old men trying to one-up each other over swing speeds. Not my scene.
So here I am—stretched out on the couch, living my best slacker life, one sock half-off, TV muted, and a plate of leftover pastries within easy reach. The city skyline is bleeding gold from the sunset outside, making the whole living room glow. It’s perfect.
Until it’s not.
The door swings open and my smile freezes in place.
Because trailing in behind Len and Cameron—like a bad smell—are the Neta brothers.
Oh, for f—
I don’t even bother sitting up straight for them. If anything, I sink deeper into the couch cushions, arms crossed. My eyes flick between the two of them, already calculating the odds of them leaving before I say something that gets me banned from polite company.
And then a third figure follows them in.
Allison.
Yeah, that’s it. Mood: dead. Straight to the bottom.
I stand up this time, because whatever this is, it just became the opposite of a casual evening.
"I didn’t know there was going to be company. I’ll excuse myself," I say, already thinking about where I left my car keys.
"Come on, we’re not strangers, are we? No need for that," Austin chimes in, tone too smooth for my liking.
Lenora’s gaze snaps to me, sharp and assessing. She knows. She can smell it on me—something’s wrong.
"Well, I’d rather not be in the same room as certain people in this room," I say flatly, and Allison flinches like I’d aimed it directly at her.
Lenora crosses the space and rests her hand on my bicep. Her touch is grounding, her eyes searching my face.
"Don’t take the car. Walk, okay?"
I want to argue, but she’s right. I’m too agitated, the kind of wound-up that would have me running red lights just to get away faster.
"Fine," I mutter.
"Seriously, it’s not so bad we can’t have a polite meal," Austin chimes in again from the couch, all lazy charm and grating optimism.
"We cannot exile someone from their own home," Adrian adds, smooth and diplomatic. "If someone must leave, let it be us."
Perfect. Now I really can’t leave.
"Fucking hell," I breathe under my breath.
"I’ll help Len in the kitchen," I announce, not bothering to wait for a response.
The kitchen is blessedly quieter. I head straight for the counter, grabbing the cutting board like it’s a shield. I don’t even check what she’s making—just start pulling vegetables from the fridge. Carrots. Peppers. Onions. Tomatoes. I lay them out like soldiers, the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of the knife my only tether to sanity.
Two minutes pass before I feel her presence behind me. Not loud—just there. She doesn’t speak right away, letting the silence fill with the sound of the knife.
"Are we going to talk about it?" she finally asks, her voice careful.
"I’d really rather not," I say, my eyes fixed on the half-diced pepper in front of me.
There’s a pause.
"Okay," she says simply.
***
Simone
I carry the plastic bags of frozen food straight to the kitchen. Lenora had texted me a list earlier—short, but precise.
Stepping into the kitchen, expecting to find her alone, Ronan’s there.
I open my mouth, ready with some dry comment about him playing house, but the mood stops me cold. His head is bent over the counter, shoulders tight, his movements mechanical as he grates something into a glass bowl. The rasp of metal against the grater is the only sound from him.
Lenora turns just enough to see me. "Thank you, Simone, you’re a lifesaver." She takes the bags from my hands.
No acknowledgment from Ronan—no glance, no quip. Just the same mindless scraping.
I shoot Lenora a questioning look, brows raised. She shakes her head slightly, the silent signal that means leave it.
What’s going on?
I step out of the kitchen, leaving the hum of the extractor fan and the rhythmic chop of Lenora’s knife behind me. She’s never liked people hovering while she cooks—less so if they try to help—and the way she’d subtly angled her body between me and the counter said she wasn’t budging on that tonight either.
I walk out and find the three guests in the living room, chatting quietly. No drinks yet—just an unopened crystal decanter sitting untouched on the coffee table.
Cameron isn’t there. I glance around and spot him at the bar, easing the cork cage off a bottle of champagne.
"Here, let me," I say, stepping in to take over.
"I thought you were just going to that golf thing. How did it turn into dinner with the Netas?" I ask as I twist the cork.
He exhales, his eyes flicking toward the kitchen for half a second. "It just happened. You know how Austin is. I don’t particularly dislike them—actually, I’m fond of them, you know that—so I didn’t mind. But now..." He shakes his head.
"Now I think it might’ve been a mistake, because Ronan is obviously not happy about this."
The cork eases free with a muted pop.
"Yeah, I could tell earlier in the kitchen," I say, setting the bottle down and heading for the cabinet to retrieve glasses. The cool clink of glass against glass fills the pause. I arrange them on a silver tray, the faint reflection of the room bending in its surface.
"It’s awkward. I hope this evening goes on well," he says.
"Well, good luck with that." I’m already picturing the hot bath waiting for me in my apartment.
"You’re staying too. For dinner."
I turn my head slowly toward him. "No."
"Simone, I need someone to smooth things over."
"Nope. There’s Lenora. I’m sure she can calm down her best friend."
"I need your ability to read a room and handle awkward situations. You’re good at it."
"Of course I’m good at it—have you met yourself? But still no."
"Simone."
"It’s not part of my job jurisdiction."
"Then I’m not asking you as your boss," he says smoothly, "but as a friend."
I glare at him, my jaw tightening.
"You— you— argh." My hands clench around the neck of the champagne bottle.
"Fine," I snap, setting one last glass on the tray with a decisive clink.
His smile spreads slow, self-satisfied, and entirely too pleased with himself. He even chuckles.
Manipulative piece of shit.