Page 76 of Wild Promise

The gear felt sticky when I put the truck in drive, but I pulled out of the lot anyway.

And I didn’t look back.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Zane

The suit was suffocating me.

Maybe not literally, but close enough. The collar of the dress shirt dug into the sides of my neck, and the tie felt like a noose I’d knotted myself.

I’d bought the whole thing that morning from a store near the hotel where I was staying. It was charcoal grey, and expensive enough to look like I belonged here. Like I hadn’t spent my entire adulthood pouring drinks and throwing parties in a town most New Yorkers couldn’t find on a map.

The lobby of BTA-Xander Pharmaceuticals was exactly what I’d expected and everything I hated. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Polished marble. Chrome fixtures that reflected the cold, sterile light back at me from every angle.

Even the air here was wrong. Flat, without a hint of scent to it. Just recycled, temperature-controlled nothingness.

I sat in one of the low-slung leather chairs near the reception desk, my hands clasped between my knees, watching people move through the space with purpose and efficiency. They all looked the same—pressed suits, polished shoes, lanyards swinging from their necks like proof of belonging.

No one looked at me. I was just another body waiting to be processed.

A guy who looked to be about the same age as Caleb sat across from me, flipping through a leather portfolio. He had that sharp, hungry look of someone fresh out of an Ivy League MBA program.

He glanced up, caught me watching, and gave a tight, competitive nod before going back to his notes.

Was that what I’d look like in a year? Sitting in this building like I’d earned my spot, pretending I gave a shit about quarterly projections and market share?

My stomach turned and I reached for my phone, checking it for the third time in ten minutes. Still no new messages.

Melina hadn’t spoken to me in over twenty-four hours, and every second of silence felt like another nail in my coffin.

My last text to her sat on the screen like an accusation.

I’m sorry.

The one thing she’d told me never to say, and I’d typed it out like it meant something. Like it could fix what I’d broken. Of course she hadn’t responded. And I hadn’t sent anything since because the words I actually wanted to give her were too big to say over text.

“Mr. Alexander?” The receptionist’s voice was polite but impersonal. “Mr. Alexander will see you now. Seventy-ninth floor.”

Mr. Alexander will see you now. Like I was a fucking stranger.

But maybe that was the point. And honestly, it was probably a hell of a lot closer to the truth than calling me his son.

I stood, buttoned my jacket the way I’d seen men do in movies, and walked toward the elevator bank. The MBA kid watched me go, probably wondering what division I was interviewing for.

If he only knew.

The elevator was mirrored on all sides, and no matter where I looked, some version of Zane Alexander in an expensive suit stared back at me. My hair was slicked back instead of falling in its usual mess. My jaw was clean-shaven for the first time in months. Even my shoes were new, stiff, and pinching at the heel.

I didn’t recognize myself. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to, so I kept my eyes on the floor.

The doors opened to a hallway with thick carpet, muted lighting, and art on the wall that reeked of money.

A woman in a black blazer was waiting for me. “This way, please.”

She led me past a reception area, a conference room with a long glass table, and what looked like a private lounge before we reached his office at the far end. The door was already open.

My father stood behind a huge desk, his back to me as he looked out at the Manhattan skyline through a wall of glass. He didn’t turn around when I entered. The woman disappeared, and the door clicked shut behind me.