1

Alexander Wolfe The flashing lights of the cameras were bright enough to blind an ordinary man, but I was used to them. As the 34-year-old CEO of Wolfe Holdings, my face was on the cover of business magazines almost every month. Tonight, however, the paparazzi were not interested in my company’s stock prices. They were interested in the man standing right beside me. I adjusted the sleeves of my tailored tuxedo and looked at Jamie Carter. Jamie was 30, built lean, and dressed in a dark blue suit that matched his sharp blue eyes. He was my best friend, my closest confidant, and the only person in the world who could call me an i***t to my face without getting fired. He was also, according to every major news outlet in the country, my lifelong partner. "Smile, Alexander," Jamie whispered out of the corner of his mouth, keeping a broad grin on his face for the press. "If you scowl any harder, they’ll think we had a lovers' quarrel in the limousine." "I am not scowling," I said, though I forced my jaw to relax. "I am simply tired of giving these vultures a show." "Too late for that," Jamie chuckled. "We entered together. That’s tomorrow's front page guaranteed." A photographer near the velvet rope shouted above the noise of the crowd. "Mr. Wolfe! Mr. Carter! Over here! Ten years together—is there an announcement coming soon?" Jamie let out a soft laugh and shook his head, but he didn't correct the reporter. Neither of us did. We just kept walking up the grand staircase of the museum where the charity gala was being held. The lie had started ten years ago, back when we were both at university. I remembered that night like it was yesterday. Jamie had been outed by a bitter ex-roommate who leaked private text messages to the entire campus online board. Overnight, Jamie’s world fell apart. He was targeted by cruel gossip, whispered about in every lecture hall, and cornered by bullies who wanted to make his life a living nightmare. He had looked so small back then, sitting on the edge of his dorm bed with his head in his hands, terrified to walk outside. I couldn't stand by and watch him drown. I was older, wealthier, and utterly fearless when it came to confrontation. The very next afternoon, I walked into the crowded student center, put my arm around Jamie, and loudly declared to a group of sneering frat boys that Jamie wasn't single—he was with me. I told them that if anyone had a problem with Jamie, they had a problem with the Wolfe family. Back then, it was just a shield. I was completely straight, Jamie was gay, and we both knew it was a fake arrangement to keep him safe. We thought the rumors would fade away after graduation. We were wrong. As my company grew and my public profile rose, the media caught wind of the story. They painted us as a power couple—the fierce young billionaire and his loyal artist partner. The lie took on a life of its own, rolling forward like a snowball down a mountain. Every time we tried to clear it up, the press spun it into a dramatic story about us trying to hide our privacy. Eventually, we gave up trying to correct people. It became our little secret, an absurd running joke between two best friends. Inside the ballroom, crystal chandeliers lit up the floor. Hundreds of elite guests were drinking champagne and chatting. Jamie stopped walking and turned toward me. "Your tie is crooked," he said casually. Before I could reply, he stepped closer. His hands lifted to my neck, his fingers deftly adjusting the silk of my black bowtie. He was so close that I could smell the subtle scent of sandalwood and rain that always clung to his skin. Jamie had his eyes focused entirely on my neck, completely calm, entirely at ease. To him, this was just routine—a quick touch between friends who had known each other for a decade. For me, however, something shifted in my chest. My breath caught in my throat. I looked down at his face, noticing the long line of his eyelashes and the soft curve of his lips. For a split second, my body went completely still. It felt remarkably, dangerously natural to have him this close. My hand twitched at my side, wanting to reach out and rest on his waist—not for the cameras, but because I actually wanted to pull him closer. Where did that thought come from? I asked myself, quickly suppressing the impulse. I was straight. Jamie was straight-up off-limits as my best friend. We were playing a role. That was all. "There," Jamie said, patting my chest lightly and stepping back with a satisfied grin. "Perfect. Now you look like a billionaire again instead of a nervous teenager." I forced a dry laugh and straightened my posture. "Thank you, Jamie. What would I do without you?" "You'd probably wear clip-on ties," he teased, snatching two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter's tray and handing one to me. He took a sip and glanced around the opulent room. "Look at them watching us. It is honestly ridiculous that people still believe we're together after all these years. You’d think someone would have noticed by now that we don't even live in the same apartment." "The media believes what it wants to believe," I said, taking a sip from my glass. My eyes followed him as he looked around the room. "Besides, it keeps the gold-diggers away from both of us. It's practical." "Practical," Jamie repeated, rolling his eyes with a lighthearted smirk. "Only you would call a ten-year fake relationship 'practical,' Alex." We spent the rest of the night circulating through the crowd. We talked to investors, smiled for socialites, and played the part of the devoted couple seamlessly. It was an art form we had perfected over the decade. Yet throughout the evening, every time Jamie touched my arm to get my attention, or leaned in close to whisper a funny observation about one of the guests, my skin prickled with an unfamiliar warmth. I couldn't shake the strange feeling that had taken root in my chest. The gala ended past midnight. I dropped Jamie off at his art studio downtown before heading back to my penthouse. I couldn't sleep. I sat in my dark living room, staring out at the city skyline, trying to rationalize the sudden tension I felt around my best friend. It was just exhaustion, I told myself. Nothing more. At seven o'clock the next morning, my phone rang on the nightstand. I picked it up immediately. It was Arthur Vance, the chief legal counsel for Wolfe Holdings. "Alexander," Arthur said, his voice unusually sharp and devoid of its usual morning warmth. "I need you in the boardroom in thirty minutes." I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "What's wrong, Arthur? Is there an issue with the European merger?" "No," Arthur replied heavily. "It's about your father's trust fund and the board of directors. We have a massive problem, Alexander. Get down here right now." Before I could ask another question, the line went dead.