Vanic arrived early the next morning — earlier than Claire, earlier than the janitorial crew still polishing the marble floors to a mirror shine. The building felt hollow at that hour, the glass tower more mausoleum than empire.
He needed the stillness. Needed to feel in control again — or at least to pretend he could be. He carefully arranged Lorenzo's schedule, double-checked the appointments he'd stayed up half the night fixing. He typed each memo twice just to make sure there were no typos.
By the time the elevators chimed, spilling in the first wave of the day's polished professionals, Vanic's stomach was a knot of caffeine and dread.
Lorenzo swept in like a winter wind behind Claire — crisp suit, expression unreadable, eyes flicking over Vanic only once before moving on as if he didn't exist at all.
"Coffee," he said, without pausing. "Black. Strong. Don't take all day."
Vanic jumped up. "Yes, Mr. Atlas."
He didn't see the faint furrow in Lorenzo's brow as he vanished into his office. Didn't see the way the man's fingers flexed on the doorknob, knuckles white for half a heartbeat.
---
The day crawled.
Vanic did everything right. He answered calls before the first ring finished. He handed Lorenzo the right files before he even asked. He double-checked the email drafts three times over.
It didn't matter.
Every time Lorenzo looked at him — when he bothered to look at him at all — it was with the same sharp, bored coldness. He spoke in clipped commands, never lifting his gaze from the phone in his hand, never a please or thank you. Just do this, fix that, next.
By three in the afternoon, Vanic was sure of it — sure he'd become nothing more than a nuisance in his boss's eyes. A stain on the corner of his perfect empire.
Once, he lingered too long outside the office door when Claire asked him to drop off a file. He found Lorenzo standing by the window, phone to his ear, the city sprawled out beneath him like prey. Vanic watched the sharp lines of his shoulders under the crisp suit, the elegant tilt of his wrist, the cold power radiating off him in waves.
And for one reckless second, their eyes met through the glass.
Something flickered. There, then gone.
A tiny spark that died the instant Lorenzo turned away, voice sharp as he waved Vanic off like an afterthought. "Go. Close the door."
Vanic closed it. He pressed his palm to the cold glass for a moment after, fighting down the stupid, aching twist in his chest.
He told himself it was hate. That had to be it. The only thing Lorenzo Atlas felt for him was contempt.
---
That night, Lorenzo did what he always did when the pressure under his ribs built too high to hold.
He didn't bother telling Claire. He didn't bother telling Cole, though he knew Cole would find him anyway.
The club was dark and expensive, tucked away behind an unmarked door downtown. Inside, the air buzzed with bass and whispered deals that would never see the light of day.
Lorenzo didn't drink much — he didn't need to. All it took was a look, a nod, the faint crook of his finger to draw someone to him.
Tonight it was a man with an easy grin and quick hands — someone beautiful in that generic way that meant he'd be gone by dawn, and neither of them would pretend otherwise.
They found the private room on the second floor. The lights were low, the couch soft and wide enough to forget the rest of the world.
Lorenzo pushed the man down, his hands rough where they gripped dark hair, breath tight and shallow. He forced his mind to stay blank — but it wouldn't listen.
The man's mouth was warm, willing. He moaned Lorenzo's name like a prayer.
But it wasn't the right voice.
Do you know what people do here, Mr. Rov?
The echo of Vanic's throat bobbing when he swallowed an apology. The heat of that soft flush against his collar.
Lorenzo cursed under his breath, hips jerking harder, faster — punishing. He dragged the man's hair back, forced him to look up. Green eyes didn't look back. No innocence, no quiet defiance. Just lust, empty and easy.
He came harder than he meant to, eyes squeezed shut, one name buried so deep he'd never speak it aloud.
When it was done, he didn't kiss the man. Didn't look at him. He left money on the table though the man hadn't asked for it.
By the time Lorenzo stepped back into the night air, the cold bit at his throat but did nothing to cool the heat still humming under his skin.
He told himself it meant nothing.
It would always mean nothing.
---
Back in Queens, Vanic sat at his mother's tiny kitchen table, staring at the steam curling from a mug of cheap chamomile tea.
Beatrice stood at the stove, stirring a pot of soup she insisted on making even though he'd told her he wasn't hungry.
"You're too thin," she scolded gently. "You don't sleep. You let that man work you like a mule."
Vanic managed a faint smile. "It's just work, Mama."
"You don't come home to your mama's kitchen at ten p.m. looking like that if it's just work."
He lowered his eyes, picking at the chipped edge of the mug. "He hates me."
Beatrice turned, her eyebrows knitting. "What did you say?"
"He hates me," Vanic repeated, quieter. "I can't do anything right. No matter how hard I try. I think I'm just… disappointing him. Every day."
Beatrice crossed the room, pressing her warm palm to his cheek like she'd done when he was five and feverish. "No man like that gets to decide if you're enough, Vanic Rov. You hear me?"
He nodded, but he didn't believe her. Not really.
Because every time Lorenzo's eyes brushed over him — cold and sharp — he felt that spark. Stupid. Dangerous. And every time, it died in the frost.
---
Cole found Lorenzo the next day, as he knew he would.
They stood in the private lounge above the club — Cole with his grin, his easy whiskey, Lorenzo with his sleeves rolled up, staring out the window like the city was a chessboard only he knew how to play.
"You look like shit," Cole said cheerfully, dropping into the leather chair opposite him.
"Get out."
Cole ignored him, stretching his legs out. "Heard you found a pretty thing last night. Did it help?"
Lorenzo's jaw ticked. He said nothing.
Cole's grin sharpened. "Did you think about him?"
Lorenzo's eyes flicked to him, cold enough to silence most men. But Cole just laughed. "Don't bother denying it. I know that look. I've seen it before — the cracks."
"There are no cracks," Lorenzo said flatly.
Cole raised his glass. "Sure there aren't."
He drained the last of his whiskey, pushed to his feet. He clapped Lorenzo on the shoulder on his way out — a rare gesture he'd never dare with anyone else.
"Careful, old friend," Cole murmured. "Soft things have teeth too."
When Lorenzo was alone again, he stared at the skyline, the city crawling awake beneath him.
One spark. That's all it was. It would burn out.
It had to.