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ᴅᴜᴀʟɪᴛʏ

Being in London meant Race sat at the far end of the boardroom table, black shirt crisp, espresso cooling at his elbow. The room was all hush and money, murmured legal jargon, power plays masked in polite tones. He didn’t waste words, he never did when it came to work. One look from him was enough to make seasoned execs shuffle their notes, voices dropping when they thought he wasn’t listening. He'd made quite the reputation as Unique Corp. CEO.

When Race spoke, it was precise, cold. A single question. A clipped nod. He didn’t need warmth to get what he wanted. Rumor had always done half the work, the rumor of him being calculated, impossible to read, ready to walk away from any deal if it didn’t feel right. He liked it that way. The distance was armor.

But under the sharp lines of his shirt, right against his chest, something softer glinted when the overhead light caught it, a gold guitar pick, engraved with one word: Dad. A new rumor he kept just for himself. For her. For the tiny heartbeat waiting back home, not here in this room of sterile ambition.

Midway through a new marketing idea, his hand drifted up, thumb brushing the edge of the pendant. An unconscious gesture. One that didn’t fit the ruthless image the suits sold on his behalf. If they noticed, he didn't give a fuck.

Later, when the got home and her laugh slipped through, bright and perfect, Race changed, the cold edge gone as it did when he was around his people, heart melted at her sight. His fiancée. His hand found her like a fucking magnet, like claiming and promise all at once.

"Missed me, baby?"

He hadn't planned to spend their free time in London working between shows, but Riot had put his trust in him to run the company, and Race wasn't a man who knew how to delegate. Not really. If he wanted things done up to his standards, then he was the one ducking doing them.