Chapter Text
The elevator doors slid open directly into the penthouse, and for a second, Luke just stood there, breathing in the scent of money and minimalist design. The entire west wall was glass, bathing the open space in the molten gold of a setting sun. The city sprawled out forty floors below, a silent, twinkling witness.
He hadn't called. He'd just come, the frustration of the last two weeks boiling in his veins.
Win was at the kitchen island, a slab of dark concrete, pouring something amber into a low glass. He didn't look up. "The security desk called. You seem agitated.”
"You told the investors to delay the capital release." Luke's voice was tighter than he intended. He stepped onto the polished concrete floor, feeling underdressed in his jeans and worn sneakers.
"I advised caution." Win took a slow sip, his eyes finally lifting. They were the same shade of hazel as Mick's, but where Mick's were warm, Win's were assessing. "Mick's ideas are brilliant. His business sense is... nascent. Someone has to look out for him."
"That's my job. I'm his partner." Luke moved further into the room, the city skyline framing him. "You undermining me isn't looking out for him. It's just you controlling things. Like you always do."
A faint smile touched Win's mouth. He put his glass down with a soft click. "You're twenty, Luke. You have a fire in your gut. I admire it.
But this isn't a college project. This is my brother's future."
"And you think I'm a risk." It wasn't a question.
"I think you're a variable." Win rounded the island. He was bigger up close, his broad shoulders filling out a simple charcoal sweater. He moved with an easy, predatory grace that made the spacious penthouse feel suddenly intimate. "An ambitious, pretty variable who looks at my brother like he's the answer to every question."
Luke's face heated. "That's not-"
"It is.” Win stopped a few feet away. The dying light caught the sharp line of his jaw. "I've seen it. The whole earnest, hungry routine. It's very convincing. Mick's convinced. He talks about you like you invented the sun."
"I care about him. About the business."
"Which one?" Win's voice dropped, a low, insinuating thing. "Because from where I'm standing, your interests seem... delightfully tangled."
The casual accuracy of it was a punch to the gut. Luke's carefully prepared arguments evaporated. He was just left with the raw, messy truth of it. "You have no right."
"I have every right." Win closed the final distance. His presence was a physical pressure. "He's my brother. And you... you're in over your head."
Anger, hot and sharp, finally overrode Luke's nerves. "Stop interfering. Or I'll tell him you're sabotaging us.”
Win's smile vanished. His gaze hardened. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a fact."
For a long moment, Win just stared at him. Then he laughed, a short, humorless sound. "You have no idea, do you?" He took another step, forcing Luke back. "How this works. How I work."
Luke's heel hit the solid, cool pane of the floor-to-ceiling window. The vast drop yawned behind him, a sheer curtain of glass and air separating him from the city. He was trapped.
Win placed his hands on the glass, on either side of Luke's head, caging him in. The warmth of his body was a shock in the air-conditioned room.
"Get away from me,” Luke said, but the command had no force.
"You came here," Win murmured, his eyes tracing the flush on Luke's throat. "To my home. To issue ultimatums. You wanted the grown-up conversation? Here it is."
One of Win's hands slid down from the glass, his fingers splaying possessively over Luke's hipbone, thumb pressing into the soft hollow there. The touch burned through the denim. Luke jolted, but there was nowhere to go. The cold, hard window pressed to go. The cold, hard window pressed against his back.
Win leaned in, his mouth close to Luke's ear. His breath was warm, scented with fine whisky. "You want Mick? His trust? His faith? His pretty, uncomplicated adoration?" His grip tightened, pulling Luke an inch forward before pressing him back firmly against the unyielding glass. A silent demonstration of resistance and its futility.
Luke's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird. This wasn't happening. This wasn't the confrontation he'd scripted.
Win's voice was a rough, quiet growl, vibrating in the small space between them.
"Prove you can take me first.”
The world narrowed to the points of contact: the hard press of Win's hand on his hip, the solid wall of Win's chest barely an inch from his own, the terrifying, exhilarating drop at his back. The challenge hung in the air, obscene and electric. It wasn't about business anymore. It had been stripped down to something primal, a test of will in this golden, gilded cage at the top of the world.
Luke's breath fogged the glass beside his head. He was trembling, from anger or fear or something else entirely. Win didn't move, just held him there, waiting, his expression unreadable. The city's lights began to blink on below, indifferent to the silent war being waged high above its streets.
The choice, terrifying and absolute, was now his.
The air between them was charged, thick with the scent of Win's cologne and the ozone-tang of confrontation. Luke's mind raced, a frantic scramble against the static in his veins. Prove you can take me first. The words weren't just a challenge; they were a key, twisted and ugly, fitting a lock Luke hadn't fully acknowledged.
He wasn't just fighting for the business. He was fighting for oxygen.
"This is insane," Luke breathed out, the words a shallow cloud on the glass.
"It's transparent.” Win's thumb moved, a slow, deliberate circle on his hip. "You want something from my family. This is the price.
Let's see what you're really made of."
The condescension was the spark. Luke's fear combusted into a sharp, clean fury. He brought his hands up, not to push Win away, but to fist them in the soft, expensive wool of Win's sweater. He held on, anchoring himself in the storm.
"You don't get to set the price for me," Luke said, his voice gaining a grit he didn't know it had.
Win's eyes darkened, a flicker of surprise followed by intense, predatory interest.
"No?”
"No." With a wrench of his body, Luke shifted his weight, breaking the pinning pressure at his hips. He used Win's own closeness against him, turning them so Win's shoulder was against the glass. They were chest-to-chest now, both breathing hard. "You want to test me? Fine. Test me. But not like some bully in a hallway. You think I'm after his money? You think this is all a game to me?"
"Show me it isn't."
"How?" Luke demanded, the word cracking.
"By letting you manhandle me? By playing your screwed-up power games? Mick trusts me because I see him. Not his last name, not his trust fund. Him. What do you see, Win? You just see threats and variables and things to control.
For a heartbeat, Win was silent, his gaze searching Luke's face. The city's twilight glow carved the planes of his features into something severe, almost beautiful. The arrogance wavered, just for a second, revealing something more calculating, more intrigued.
Then his hand came up, not to strike, but to cradle the side of Luke's neck. His palm was warm, his fingers pressing gently against the pulse hammering in Luke's throat. The touch was shockingly intimate, a contrast to the violence of the moment before.
"I see ambition," Win said, his voice lower now, a rough murmur. "I see a beautiful, hungry boy who doesn't know what he's truly hungry for. And it's fascinating." His thumb stroked the line of Luke's jaw. "Mick sees a partner. I see... potential."
Luke was drowning in the contradiction. The anger was still there, white-hot, but it was melting, pooling low in his stomach under the heat of Win's hand. He should shove him away. He should knee him in the gut and walk out.
He didn't move.
"I am his partner," Luke insisted, but the fight had bled out of the words.
"Partners are equals." Win leaned in, his lips a breath from Luke's. "You and I both know you're not his equal. Not yet. Maybe you could be mine. The kiss wasn't gentle. It was a claim. Win's mouth was demanding, skilled, and utterly consuming. It tasted like dominance and expensive scotch. Luke froze, then a shudder wracked through him-a surge of pure, undiluted want that obliterated every protest. His fingers tightened in the sweater, pulling Win closer. He kissed back, a clumsy, furious response, all teeth and desperate energy.
Win made a low, approving sound against his mouth, the vibration shooting straight down Luke's spine. The hand on his hip slid around to the small of his back, pressing their bodies together. Luke was achingly, unmistakably hard. So was Win. The reality of it was a shockwave, humiliation and desire twisting into one incomprehensible knot.
Win broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at him. Luke's lips felt swollen, sensitive. His vision was hazy.
"See?" Win whispered, his own breath uneven. "You want complicated. You want a fight. He can't give you that. He'll just give you everything, and you'll be bored in a year."
"You don't know that," Luke gasped.
"I do." Win pressed his forehead against Luke's, a grotesque parody of tenderness. "So here's the new deal. You stay away from Mick. The business stays alive I'll release the capital myself. And you... you come here. You prove you can handle the real thing."
The proposition hung in the air, monstrous and seductive. It was a betrayal woven into a rescue, a poison that tasted like power. Luke saw it all-the easy path to everything he thought he wanted, paved with the ruin of the one decent thing in his life.
He closed his eyes. The image of Mick's easy, trusting smile flashed behind his lids, followed immediately by the visceral memory of Win's kiss, the weight of his hands.
"I can't," Luke said, the words tasting like ash.
Win's stillness was more dangerous than his movement. He withdrew, his hands falling away. The sudden space between them was cold, vast. He smoothed his sweater where Luke had gripped it, his expression shifting back into that unreadable mask of casual authority.
"Then the capital stays frozen,” Win said, his tone flat, businesslike. "And I'll have a very concerned conversation with my brother about his partner's instability. Showing up uninvited. Making accusations. Getting... overly emotional."
The cruelty was so precise, so clean, it took Luke's breath away more effectively than the kiss had. He'd walked into a trap with his eyes wide open, and now the exits were covered.
Win walked back to the kitchen island, picked up his glass, and took a long, slow drink. He didn't look back. "The elevator's that way. Think it over. You have forty-eight hours before I sink your little dream."
Luke's legs felt like water. He pushed himself off the glass, the imprint of his body a fading ghost on the window. He walked to the elevator, each step echoing on the concrete. He didn't look back either. He couldn't.
As the doors slid shut, enclosing him in a silent, descending box, his reflection stared back at him-a young man with kissed red lips and eyes full of a terrifying, new kind of hunger. The city lights streaked upwards outside, a reverse meteor shower. He touched his mouth, still feeling the burn.
He had come to fight for a future. Now he was leaving with a choice that felt less like a decision and more like a slow, inevitable fall.
The night air hit him like a slap. It was cool, ordinary, filled with the distant wail of a siren and the stale scent of downtown. It felt surreal after the controlled, rarified atmosphere of the penthouse. Luke leaned against the rough brick of the building's exterior, letting the solid, grimy reality of it ground him. His heart was still doing a frantic, uneven tap dance against his ribs.
Prove you can take me first.
The words looped, a corrosive mantra. He fumbled for his phone, its screen blinding in the dark alley. Mick's name was at the top of his recent calls. His thumb hovered over it.
What would he say? Your brother just kissed
me and offered me a really messed-up deal.
Also, we're broke.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket, unanswered.
The walk to his car was a blur of neon signs and laughing groups spilling out of bars.
Their normalcy was an insult. He felt marked, as if the imprint of Win's hands was visible on his hips, the taste of him still on his lips. It wasn't disqust he felt. That was the worst part. It was a sick, thrilling wake-up call.
His ancient Honda Civic was a sanctuary of familiar smells: old coffee, vinyl, and ambition. He sat in the dark, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles ached.
The phone vibrated in his cup holder. Not Mick.
An unknown number. The text was brief.
> Unknown: The view is less interesting now. 48 hours. The clock started when the elevator doors closed.
Luke stared at the words. He didn't save the number. He didn't need to. The precision of it -when the elevator doors closed-was pure Win. A reminder that every move was being observed and measured.
He started the car, the engine coughing to life. He drove aimlessly, not toward his cramped apartment, but away from the gleaming towers of downtown. He needed noise, chaos, something to drown out the quiet, calculating voice in his head.
He ended up at a 24-hour diner on the edge of the city, a place with sticky floors and fluorescent lights that buzzed like angry insects. He slid into a vinyl booth, ordering a coffee he didn't want just for something to hold.
The waitress, older with a tired smile, filled his cup. "Rough night, hon?"
"You could say that.”
"Well, the pie's fresh. Apple fixes most things that aren't fatal."
He managed a weak smile. "Just the coffee, thanks."
Alone again, he replayed it. Not just the confrontation, but the months leading to it.
Mick, with his brilliant, sprawling ideas and absolute trust. Luke, handling the spreadsheets, the logistics, reining in the dreams to fit a budget, feeling like the anchor. He'd mistaken that for equality. Win had seen the truth-Luke was the hired engine on Mick's shiny train. Useful. Not essential.
And the other thing. The attraction he'd diligently channeled only toward Mick, clean and straightforward. Win had taken a crowbar to that, jamming it into a crack and prying open a whole other dimension of want. It was complicated, dirty, and charged with a voltage that made his connection with Mick feel like a gentle hum.
His phone buzzed again. This time, it was Mick. A photo of a chaotic whiteboard covered in schematics, followed by a voice message.
Luke pressed play, bringing the phone to his ear.
"Dude, breakthrough! I've been at the warehouse all night. The modular casing idea is trash, total trash. But what if we embrace the wiring? Make it a visible, artistic feature? Like cyberpunk vascular system. It cuts production costs by like, sixty percent, and it looks way cooler. Call me when you get this! We need to run new numbers. Also, I ate your leftover Thai. I'll buy you more. You're a genius for suggesting the overnight lock-in."
The excitement in Mick's voice was palpable, contagious. It was the sound of their future, the one they'd sketched on napkins and dreamed up in late-night coding sessions. It was pure, unfiltered Mick. No games, no subtext, just joyous, brilliant creation.
Luke's throat tightened. He listened to the message twice.
Then he looked back at the text from the unknown number. Two futures, laid out in stark relief. One with Mick, bright and collaborative and now financially doomed. The other, in the shadowy penthouse, a transaction of power and secret, shameful heat that would keep the dream afloat.
He typed a reply to Mick: "That sounds insane. In the best way. Run the preliminary numbers. I'll look at them first thing." He hesitated, then added, "Don't stay up too late."
The response was immediate: a thumbs-up emoji and a photo of a redbull can.
Luke sipped his bitter coffee. The waitress refilled it without being asked. Outside the window, a city bus hissed to a stop, then pulled away.
He pulled out his laptop, the diner's Wi-Fi sluggish. He opened their shared financial model. The projected balances were already threadbare. A capital delay wouldn't just slow them down; it would rupture them. Suppliers would drop them. The warehouse lease would lapse. Mick's brilliant, visible wiring would never see the light of day.
He closed his eyes. The sensation of the cool glass against his back returned. The heat of Win's body. The devastating competence of that kiss.
It wasn't a choice between right and wrong.
It was a choice between a slow, honorable death and a rapid, corrupted survival. Win knew that. He'd engineered it.
Luke's fingers hovered over his keyboard. He opened a new, blank document. He needed to see the words, make them real.
He typed two lines.
Option A: Tell Mick everything. Burn it all down.
Option B: Go back to the penthouse.
He deleted "Go back to the penthouse." It was too passive. He typed again.
Option B: Prove I can take him.
He stared at the sentence. It didn't mean lose. It meant win on a different battlefield.
It meant walking into the lion's den and walking out with what he needed. It meant beating Win at his own game.
A grim, unfamiliar energy began to coil in his stomach, tightening around the fear and the want. It wasn't excitement. It was resolve. The kind that comes when you realize you're already falling, so you might as well try to land on your feet.
He saved the document to a hidden folder. He closed his laptop.
He left a ten-dollar bill under his saucer, the coffee mostly untouched. The waitress nodded to him as he left.
Back in his car, he didn't drive home. He drove toward the river, where the old industrial buildings stood, their windows dark. One of them, a converted forge, was their warehouse. He could see a light on in the second-floor office-Mick, still working, fueled by passion and caffeine.
Luke parked across the street, watching that lone, lit window. He could go up right now. He could tell him. It would be the honest thing. The right thing.
His phone buzzed. Another text from the unknown number.
> Unknown: He works too hard. He always has. He needs protecting, even from himself.
The manipulation was so blatant it was almost artistic. Win was in his head, weaving justification like a spider spins silk.
Luke looked from the glowing screen to the glowing window. Two beacons in the dark.
He made his choice.
He put the car in gear and drove away from the warehouse, back toward the skyscrapers. He didn't know what he would do when the forty-eight hours were up. But he knew, with a cold, sinking certainty, that he was not going to tell Mick a damn thing. The game was in play. And for better or worse, he was now a player in it.
The fall was already happening. All that was left was to decide how to land.
The city lights blurred into streaks of white and red. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The metallic taste of panic was back, but underneath it, something else had taken root-a cold, sharp focus.
He drove without a destination until he found himself on a quiet, tree-lined street in a neighborhood of old brownstones. He pulled over, cutting the engine. Silence, except for the tick of the cooling car and the distant hum of the city. He rested his forehead against the wheel.
Prove you can take me.
It wasn't just a challenge to his desire. It was a challenge to his entire sense of himself. Earnest Luke. Hardworking Luke. Mick's faithful Luke. That guy was about to lose everything because he played by rules Win didn't even acknowledge.
His phone lit up with a calendar notification:
Meeting with fabricators – 10 a.m. Tomorrow. Or rather, today. A meeting they'd have to cancel if the capital wasn't released. A chain reaction of failure would begin.
He couldn't let that happen.
The thought was clear, and with it came a surge of direction. He wasn't going to wait forty-eight hours. Waiting was for people who had options. He opened the text from the unknown number.
He typed a reply, his thumbs clumsy. The view from down here is pretty predictable. What's your schedule look like at 8 a.m.
He hit send before he could dissect it. Direct. Unemotional. A business proposal.
The response was almost instantaneous. Coffee. Penthouse. Don't be late.
No smiley face. No teasing. Just an address he already knew. The game was acknowledged.
The next few hours were a strange, suspended emptiness. He went home to his studio apartment, a space cluttered with prototype parts and clean laundry he'd never put away. He showered, the water scalding, as if it could slough off the feel of Win's hands. It didn't. It just made his skin feel sensitized, raw.
He didn't sleep. He dressed with a care he usually reserved for investor meetings: dark jeans, a simple grey henley, boots. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked tired. Older. The earnestness in his own eyes had been shadowed by something harder.
He left early, stopping at a boutique coffee shop he couldn't afford. He bought two black americanos. A peace offering. A weapon. It was just coffee.
The morning sun hit the skyscraper's glass façade, turning it into a blinding pillar of light. The lobby was all marble and hushed tones. The security guard, a different one from last night, simply nodded and directed him to the private elevator after a brief call upstairs. He was expected.
The ascent was silent. This time, he watched the numbers climb, his heart rate climbing with them.
The doors opened. The penthouse was different in the daylight. The sunrise streamed in, painting the concrete and glass in soft pinks and oranges. It was cleaner, sharper. Less like a lair, more like a museum.
Win stood by the window, already dressed in tailored trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He held a tablet, scrolling. He looked like he'd been up for hours.
"You're two minutes early," Win said, without turning around. "I appreciate punctuality.”
"I brought coffee." Luke stepped out, placing the cardboard carrier on the kitchen island. The sound was too loud in the quiet space.
Win finally turned. His eyes swept over Luke, a quick, comprehensive assessment. He seemed... pleased. Like a chef seeing a quality ingredient delivered. "So you've thought."
"I've thought." Luke's voice was steady. He kept his hands at his sides. "Your offer is unethical and manipulative."
Win shrugged, a small, elegant movement. "It's transparent. That's more than most people get."
"I want the capital released today. The full amount, as originally agreed. No delays."
"And in return?"
Luke met his gaze. He didn't blink. "You get to test your theory. You get my attention. But we set terms."
A slow smile spread across Win's face. It wasn't warm. It was fascinated. "Terms. Okay. Lay them out, partner."
"First. This stays between us. Absolutely. If Mick ever hears a whisper of it, from anyone, for any reason, the deal is off and I will make it my personal mission to burn your world down. I might fail, but you'll smell the smoke for years."
Win's eyebrow arched. "Noted. Dramatic, but noted.”
"Second. You don't interfere with the business. Not a single suggestion, no 'advising' investors, no 'protective' delays.
You are a silent benefactor. You fund it, and you step back."
"I'm buying a hobby, not a job. Fine."
"Third." Luke took a breath. This was the line.
"This isn't about you owning me. It's a... renegotiation. Of everything. You think I'm a variable. I think you're a hurdle. So we see.
We see who's right."
Win put the tablet down and walked toward him, stopping on the other side of the island.
He picked up one of the coffees, took a sip, and nodded. "Not terrible." He studied Luke over the rim of the cup. "A renegotiation. I like that. It implies you think you have something to bargain with."
"I'm here, aren't I?"
"You are." Win put the cup down. "But presence isn't power, Luke. It's just presence." He circled the island, stopping close. He didn't touch him. The space between them crackled. "My terms are simple. You be honest. With me. No more earnest-boy routines. If you're angry, be angry. If you want something, take it. You pretend with Mick, you play the grateful partner. Here, you don't pretend. You show me what's underneath all that desperate ambition. The capital gets released at nine
a.m. The second I see you're faking it, playing some long con to save your company, the money stops. And I'll tell Mick you begged for it."
It was a mirror of his own threat, sharper and more credible. Luke felt the ground solidify beneath him. This was the pact. A dive into the dark.
"Okay," Luke said.
"Okay," Win echoed.
They stood there, in the morning light. The city waking up below them. The transaction was complete. The silence stretched, filled with the unspoken question of what now.
Win reached out, but not to pull him close. He straightened the collar of Luke's henley, his fingers brushing the skin of his neck. A simple, proprietary gesture. "You should go. You have a meeting with fabricators at ten."
Of course he knew the schedule.
Luke didn't flinch. He held Win's gaze, letting the touch linger. "I know."
He turned and walked to the elevator. He could feel Win's eyes on his back, measuring.
As the doors closed, he didn't look at the view. He looked at his own reflection again.
The tiredness was still there. But the shadow in his eyes had solidified. It had a purpose.
His phone buzzed in his pocket as he crossed the lobby. A banking notification. A pending transfer. An amount that made his breath catch. It was real.
He stepped out into the bright, ordinary morning. The noise of traffic was a welcome assault. He pulled out his phone and called Mick.
Mick answered on the first ring, sounding breathless. "Dude, you will not believe the quote I just got on neon-conductive tubing
"The capital's released," Luke interrupted, his voice surprisingly normal. "The full amount.
We're green."
A beat of stunned silence. Then a whoop so loud Luke had to hold the phone away from his ear. "What? How? Did you talk to Win? I tried calling him last night, he was so weird about it-"
"I handled it," Luke said, starting to walk toward his car. A strange, buoyant feeling was rising in his chest, unrelated to the money. It was the thrill of a gamble taken.
"Don't worry about it. Just get the best neon tubing money can buy. I'll see you at the warehouse at ten."
"You're a legend! I knew it! I told him you were the one who could make it happen!"
The faith in Mick's voice was a physical weight, both sustaining and crushing. "Yeah,” Luke said, his eyes on the glittering tower receding behind him. "We make it happen. See you soon.”
He ended the call. He stood on the sidewalk, people brushing past him, heading to their own normal jobs, their own simple problems.
He had just sold a piece of his soul to save his dream. And the terrifying, exhilarating part was, he couldn't wait to see what happened next. The freefall was over. He'd landed on his feet.
Now he had to learn how to walk on this new, treacherous ground.