The bar was hushed, the way it always was when Nate closed it for the brotherhood.

Arianne arrived with Gilbert, the autumn chill caught in her coat. The neon sign in the window was off, its blue script dark against the glass. The chairs were up on the tables in the main room, their legs pointing at the ceiling like overturned insects. The hum of the fluorescent light buzzed overhead as they made their way past the empty booths toward the back room where they always met.

Julian was already there, sprawled in his usual seat with a glass of bourbon in his hand and a tan that made him look like he’d spent the past week somewhere far more exotic than Montclair. His skin had gone a deep golden-brown, the kind of tan that came from days of doing nothing but lying in the sun, and his hair had lightened a shade at the tips. Healthier than he’d been in years.

"Look who finally showed up," Julian said, raising his glass in greeting. "I was starting to think you’d forgotten about this place."

"You were early," Gilbert said, sliding into the booth across from him. "That’s not our fault."

"It’s called being on time. You should try it sometime. It’s very refreshing."

"I’ll take your word for it."

Nate emerged from behind the bar, a bottle of gin in one hand and a glass of cold lemonade in the other. He set the lemonade in front of Arianne without being asked, the glass beaded with condensation.

"For you. I figured you wouldn’t want anything stronger."

"Thank you." Arianne wrapped her hands around the cool glass, grateful for the chill against her palms. The baby had been making her warm lately, a constant low heat that had nothing to do with the season and everything to do with the small life growing inside her. She’d been drinking cold things whenever she could.

Nate finished preparing drinks, pouring bourbon for Julian, whiskey for Gilbert, gin for himself, then took his chair at the head of the table. He looked around the room, something rueful in the way his eyes moved.

"It’s been too long. I should have come on that trip with you. If I’d known it would take this long to see everyone again, I would have closed the bar and gotten on the plane."

"You say that now," Julian said, swirling his bourbon. "But you wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much as you think."

"Why not?"

"Because I spent the entire trip as an unpaid babysitter. Kyle wanted to be everywhere at once, in the ocean, on the sand, at the pool, back in the ocean. The twins kept asking me questions I didn’t know how to answer. Lily wanted to know why the ocean is blue and why whales aren’t fish and how sand is made and why the tide goes in and out. I had to look things up on my phone while building sandcastles. I now know more about marine biology than I ever wanted to."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Kyle is your son. No one else should be looking after him."

"I know he’s my son. I’m not saying I didn’t want to look after him. I’m saying it was a lot of work. More work than I expected. And on top of all of that, I had to watch Franz and Arianne being—" He gestured vaguely with his glass, searching for the right words. "You know. The way they are with each other."

"The way they are?" Nate asked, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Disgustingly happy. Holding hands every five minutes. Him putting food on her plate like she couldn’t feed herself. Her leaning against him like he was a piece of furniture. They were like teenagers. Grown adults with children, acting like teenagers. It was exhausting to witness."

Arianne took a sip of her lemonade, her expression blank.

"You complained the entire trip. You complained about the heat. You complained about the sand. You complained about Kyle waking you up at dawn. You were smiling through all of it. Laughing. You enjoyed yourself."

Julian opened his mouth to protest, closed it, and took a long drink of bourbon instead. He didn’t deny it. The tan on his face couldn’t hide the flush creeping up his neck.

Nate chuckled, a low, warm sound. "You’ve changed, Julian. Since Kyle came along. You’re more responsible now. More settled. A few years ago, you would have complained about the trip and meant it. Now you complain and you’re secretly happy about it."

"Don’t say that. It makes me sound old."

"You are old."

"I’m the same age as you."

"And we’re both old. Accept it. Embrace it. Buy comfortable shoes."

Julian muttered something into his glass that sounded vaguely insulting, but he didn’t argue. They lapsed into the kind of ease that doesn’t need tending. The fluorescent light hummed overhead. The drinks sweated onto the table.

Nate turned his attention to Gilbert, his eyes moving over him with the look of someone who catches what others miss. "Speaking of changes. You look different. Better dressed. More put together. Married life must be good for you."

Gilbert was, in fact, wearing a new jacket—something in a deep charcoal that fit him better than anything Arianne had seen him in before. His tie was straight. His shoes were polished. He looked like someone had been taking care of him.

"Audrey bought him new clothes," Julian said before Gilbert could respond. "She’s been fixing him up. Making him look nicer. More approachable. His usual scary face used to frighten investors. Now he looks almost friendly. Like someone you could have a conversation with without fearing for your job."

"That’s not true," Gilbert said, though his ears had gone a touch pink. "Investors care about the company’s value and the numbers I present. They don’t care about my appearance."

"They care about both. And you used to look like you wanted to fire everyone you met. Now you look like you might only fire half of them."

"Arianne looks worse than I do, and she manages to secure deals. What does that tell you?"

Julian waved his hand dismissively, the bourbon sloshing in his glass. "That’s completely different. Arianne is actually beautiful if you look at her properly. She negotiates with men—men who are weak for beautiful women. How could they possibly say no to her when she’s sitting across the table looking like that?"

"I’m sitting right here," Arianne said.

"I’m saying something nice. Take the nice thing."

"It didn’t sound nice. It sounded like you were saying I use my appearance to manipulate business partners."

"I’m saying you’re effective. You use the tools you have. That’s a compliment."

"It’s a backhanded compliment. Those aren’t real compliments."

"Take it however you want. I stand by it."

Gilbert snorted into his whiskey, the sound suspiciously close to a laugh. Arianne gave Julian a look that promised she would find a way to retaliate when he least expected it, but she let the matter drop. The brotherhood had always been like this, teasing and needling and pushing each other’s buttons. It was how they showed affection.

Nate turned to her, his face easier now, more open. "How is the little one? You’re showing more now."

Arianne’s hand moved to her belly without conscious thought. The curve was more pronounced now, a gentle swell that was visible even under the loose blouse she’d chosen for the evening. "I can feel movement. Small flutters. Nothing strong enough for Franz to feel from the outside yet, but it’s there. It’s real."

"Do you know the gender?"

"Not yet. We have an appointment in a few days. The doctor will tell us then, if we want to know."

Julian leaned forward, his earlier teasing forgotten. "Are you planning a gender reveal party? Ellie was asking about it the other day. She said she’d help organize if you wanted one. She has about a dozen ideas already: balloons, cake, some kind of elaborate confetti situation."

"No." Arianne’s voice was firm but not unkind. "Franz and I barely have time for anything else. Between filming and the company and the twins, our schedules are full. We’ll find out the gender at the appointment, and we’ll tell everyone in the group chat. If anyone wants to send a gift, they can do so after the baby is born."

"That’s very practical."

"I’m a practical person."

"You’re the most practical person I’ve ever met. It’s mildly terrifying."

"Thank you."

"That wasn’t a compliment."

"I’m taking it as one."

The banter wound down. Nate swirled his gin in slow circles, eyes on the glass rather than on any of them. Gilbert caught it first—the small tension in Nate’s shoulders, the way he was turning his drink instead of drinking it, the held quality that meant he was working up to something.

"You asked us here tonight," Gilbert said, his voice cutting through the lull. "Are you going to tell us why, or are we supposed to guess?"

Nate set his glass down. The sound was soft, barely a click against the wood, but it seemed to echo in the small room. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. The air thickened.

"I found something. About the investigation."

Julian straightened in his seat. Gilbert’s hand stopped around his whiskey. Arianne remained motionless, her hands wrapped around her lemonade, her dark eyes fixed on Nate’s face.

"The restaurant chain," Nate said. "The one near every Blackwood shell. The one you noticed, Arianne, at the meeting months ago. Same franchise. Same branding. Always near a shell company connected to Blackwood Corporation." He paused, his jaw tight. "I’ve been tracing the ownership for months. Shell companies inside shell companies. Offshore accounts. Dead ends that led to more dead ends. It was designed to be impossible to follow. Someone went to great lengths to make sure no one could find the end of that trail."

He looked at Arianne. His expression was difficult to read—something between reluctance and a grim, certain resolve.

"I finally found the real owner."

The room went motionless. Arianne’s hands tightened around her glass of lemonade, the condensation cold against her palms. Gilbert and Julian were frozen, their drinks forgotten, their eyes on Nate.

Nate held Arianne’s gaze. His voice, when he spoke, was low and certain.

"It’s someone related to you."

The words landed like stones dropped into calm water. The fluorescent light hummed. No one moved. No one spoke. What Nate had just said pressed down over the booth, heavy and cold.

Arianne’s face held, the same look she wore in boardrooms and press conferences, the one that gave nothing away. Her hands, though, were white-knuckled around the glass of lemonade.

Nate said nothing more. He looked at her, waiting.