Chapter 99
Emily's POV
Two years changed everything and nothing at all.
I was a senior now. That meant something on paper but felt mostly like a technicality. I barely spent time on campus these days. The restaurant—Alex's restaurant, though increasingly it felt like mine—had become the center of my universe.
I ran it now. Managed every detail from inventory to staffing to financial projections. Alex still insisted on reviewing the numbers even though he trusted mine more than his own instincts. I wasn't the general manager in title. Couldn't be, not until I had my degree. But I did the job. Made the decisions. Collected a salary that reflected market rate for the position rather than what a college student had any right to expect.
Alex had made that happen. He'd taken over his family's empire six months ago. The transition was seamless in that way that came from a lifetime of preparation. He still found time to micromanage my career development like it was a personal project he refused to delegate.
The law minor had been his idea. Floated during one of our late-night strategy sessions when I'd been too tired to mount proper resistance. Accounting and law were academic, he'd argued. The university could teach me theory and precedent. All the structural knowledge I'd need.
But marketing? Marketing was alive. Organic. Something you learned by being close to it rather than reading about it in textbooks. So I took classes off-campus twice a week. Taught by professionals who actually ran campaigns. Who understood that the real world moved faster than curriculum committees could keep pace with.
Ethan had gone pro. Signed his first contract two months ago with a team that saw his potential. He was good. Everyone could see that now. Not just the scouts who'd been tracking him since freshman year but the commentators and analysts who made their living predicting which college phenoms would translate to the professional level.
He traveled constantly. Lived out of hotels and team facilities more than anywhere that felt like home. But when he came back, he came back to me. To us.
The apartment was mine. A four-bedroom. Alex and Ethan had both raised eyebrows at the four-bedroom decision. Suggested it was excessive. But I'd signed the lease anyway. Everyone needed their own space, I'd argued. A room for me. A room for each of them for when they stayed over.
One left over as a study because we all needed workspace. A place to spread out files or textbooks or game footage without tripping over each other.
Revenge spending, I suspected. That's what it was. Making up for all those years when space was a luxury I couldn't afford. When home meant a cramped apartment where privacy didn't exist and safety was conditional at best. I didn't buy designer clothes. Didn't collect handbags or shoes or any of the things people with money were supposed to want. But housing? Space? The ability to close a door and know I had room to breathe?
That felt worth it. I was a senior pulling a general manager's salary even without the official title. If I wanted to be a little excessive about where I lived, that seemed perfectly reasonable. When Alex or Ethan stayed over, they stayed in my bed. In my space. We'd figured out a rhythm over the past two years that somehow worked despite how completely insane it would sound to anyone I tried to explain it to.
They still bickered. Alex and Ethan, throwing barbs at each other over whose turn it was to handle something or who'd left dishes in the sink. But it had evolved into something different over time. Less like enemies circling for an opening and more like siblings who knew exactly which buttons to push.
Territorial friction that came from familiarity rather than hostility. Expecting two men who shared a woman to become intimate partners themselves? That was asking too much. I'd accepted that early on.
But they'd learned to coexist. To coordinate. To function as a unit when it came to the things that mattered. Like me. And the bed, where whatever antagonism existed between them during daylight hours dissolved into something synchronized and focused. They'd never disappointed me there. Not once in two years.
Senior year was supposed to be easier. Fewer classes, more time to focus on what came after graduation. But my schedule had only gotten more compressed. More demanding. And lately the four-bedroom apartment felt less like a home base and more like a way station I passed through between the restaurant and campus and the marketing classes I still made time for.
Tonight was one of those nights where the apartment was just mine. Alex was in New York for meetings that would keep him away through the weekend. Ethan was in Texas for an away game. His third road trip this month. Our communication had been reduced to text messages and the occasional late-night call when our schedules actually aligned.
I'd gotten used to it. The quiet. The space that felt too big when I was the only one filling it. Coming home meant walking into a place that was technically shared but functionally solitary more often than not.
I told myself it was fine. I had work. I had goals. I had a life that didn't require constant companionship to feel valid. But there were still nights when the emptiness felt heavier than it should. When I worked late just to avoid coming home to rooms that echoed.
Tonight was one of those nights.
The rain hit so hard it felt like the sky was trying to drown the world. I had the wipers on maximum. Their frantic rhythm barely keeping pace with the sheets of water slamming against the windshield. I'd slowed to a crawl with my hazards flashing because I couldn't see more than fifteen feet ahead. Smart people would have pulled over and waited it out. Smart people weren't trying to get home before the loneliness of an empty apartment became too loud to ignore.
The headlights caught movement—a shape launching itself into the road directly in front of my car.
No warning. No time to process. Just sudden dark motion where the road should have been empty.
I slammed the brakes. Hard. The ABS kicked in immediately, that juddering pulse shooting up through my foot and into my leg. The car skidded on the flooded asphalt. Hydroplaning for one endless second where I had no control, no traction, nothing but momentum carrying me forward toward impact. My hands locked on the wheel. Knuckles white. Brain screaming calculations I couldn't complete fast enough. Distance. Speed. The inevitability of collision.
The car stopped. Three feet. Maybe less. Close enough that I could see the figure sprawled directly in front of my bumper in perfect detail.
My heart was trying to break out of my chest.