Reckonings Ch. 09-17.25

CHAPTER NINE: CHAMPAGNE AND SHRAPNEL

The so-called jewel of the city's esteemed Historical Society looked more like a forgotten, slightly down-at-heel banquet hall from a bad '90s wedding reception. The flowers were nice though, Lela thought as she moved through the room. But she wasn't here to take in the scenery. Tonight was about representing Lady Rose, subtly rallying support for the St. Sofia preservation order amongst the less overtly McTeague-aligned attendees. If it meant enduring an evening of unidentifiable hors d'oeuvres and even worse, vapid conversation, then so be it; it was a small price to pay.

Hopefully she'd be able to avoid him. That cellar confrontation had haunted her all night long. She and Dee were so disturbed they'd had a sleepover at Dee's place.

Then, as if summoned, Tate McTeague materialized.

"Well, well, well," Tate drawled, as he stepped directly in her path, blocking her escape route. He held two delicate, impossibly tall champagne flutes in one hand, the liquid within them sparkling like captured stars. He flashed a quick and fierce grin with as he extended a glass towards her with an air of exaggerated gallantry. "The little artist herself, out of the dark scary cellar, gracing us with her... vibrant presence. Come to see how actual historic preservation works when the grown-ups are in charge?"

Lela kept her arms crossed and ignored the offered glass. Her expression was flat and unimpressed. "Preservation? Is that what your PR department is calling the systematic demolition of a vital community center and a historically significant orphanage these days? I guess 'ruthless gentrification for obscene profit' didn't test as well in your latest focus group, did it, McTeague?"

Tate chuckled, unbothered by her verbal assault. He looked at her assessingly. "Let us not do this here, Lela. Not tonight. Come on." He gestured with his head towards an empty alcove near a large, fern. "We can talk, like civilized, rational human beings, somewhere... quiet and less performative, perhaps?"

"Civilized?" Lela's gaze hardened, and she took an angry step forward, her voice rising slightly, cutting through the polite murmur of the surrounding conversations as heads began to turn. "You're one to talk. You, who are currently using every legal loophole and dirty trick in your family's extensive playbook to shut down vital community centers and tear down irreplaceable historic orphanages, but I'm the one being dramatic? Boy, bye. Save your condescending PR spin and insincerity for the cameras, because I am not here for it and I'm not buying it."

A look of distinct irritation crossed his face, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. The mask of cool unflappability slipped, momentarily revealing a bit of frustration, perhaps even anger, simmering beneath. "For God's sake, Lela, must you always be so... so unreasonable? That building, St. Sofia, is practically falling apart! It's a safety hazard! My proposal, the one I presented to the council--"

"Cut the shite." Her voice, shard glass sharp, sliced clean, silencing him mid-excuse. "I told you what to do with that proposal.   Which is nothing but a glorified, predatory land grab! Twenty-three children who've already endured more trauma in their few years than you have in your entire privileged and gilded life, are being thrown out of their community center program next week because of your greed! And you are standing up here, sipping champagne and making small talk like it is just another goddamn Tuesday!"

He opened his mouth to give another carefully crafted justification, but the words died on his tongue as a new, entirely unexpected presence slid languidly, almost insolently, between them -- lazy, amused, and entirely, infuriatingly, too comfortable in his own skin.

"Damn," Zeke McTeague said in a low, appreciative drawl as he eased his lean, elegantly disheveled frame against the edge of the groaning buffet table, snagging a canapé with casual grace. He was younger than Tate, softer around the edges, with the same startling platinum curls, though his were artfully tousled, and blue eyes that held a mischievous, almost feral glint. "My favorite spectator sport is watching big bro get publicly spanked by a woman who clearly knows her own mind." He popped a canapé into his mouth and smiled at Lela, a wide, infectious, utterly charming grin. "Shall we celebrate this moment of righteous female fury by cooling off all your dark hot chocolate with some of this delightfully chilled whipped cream, hmm?" he drawled, his gaze openly admiring as he clearly enjoyed the spectacle and Tate's visible discomfort.

Lela couldn't help it -- her lips twitched, a reluctant smile threatening to break through her carefully maintained composure, before she quickly crossed her arms again and shot Zeke a look that could, and probably had, stripped paint from a lesser man.

"Really now?" she said, her voice dripping with amused disdain. "Child, please. Not only do I own shoes older than you, but my cookie, as they say, would snap your entitled little ass in two. You need to back up." She snapped her fingers at him, a gesture of mock dismissal.

"Yep. And my 'entitled little ass' would love nothing better than to be snapped in two by your cookie."

"Zeke!" They both yelled at him in unison.

"What? I'm just saying," Zeke shrugged, entirely unfazed and unrepentant, his grin widening. "You two are literally the most entertaining, and frankly, the only authentic, thing happening at this entire goddamn snooze fest of a fundraiser."

Zeke winced theatrically as Tate, his expression thunderous, leaned forward and clapped a large, heavy hand none-too-gently on his younger brother's shoulder. The grip was clearly meant as a warning. "Zeke. Go. Now."

"And miss this?" Zeke scoffed, deftly sidestepping Tate's grip. "Never. I live for well-articulated drama with a legitimate social cause, and Lela here is clearly the only real person in this room of stuffed shirts and Botox." He turned back to Lela, his expression devilish. "Tate's still pissed that you called him a 'trust fund vulture' at that town hall meeting last month. Big fucker's been downstairs pouting about it for weeks now, playing 'old sad bastard' music, sulking big time."

Lela did smile a little at that.

"ZEKE," Tate growled, his voice tight with restrained fury, white knuckling his champagne flute.

"Oh, calm your shit, man." Zeke waved a dismissive hand. "Looking like a Bond villain in that ridiculous getup, all broody and shit. Listen to the woman; you might get a clue."

Lela interjected, returning to the issue at hand. "That orphanage, that community center, they matter to people, real people whose lives and homes are about to be obliterated because your brother's decided their lives were worth less than another shiny new development."

"Facts," Zeke said, dramatically pulling out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen like the social media addicted teenager he was. "I've got like three hundred comments and over ten thousand views on my TikTok about your protest outside City Hall. My followers? They're totally Team Lela. People are down for her cause, man. She's an icon."

Tate stepped closer to her, his voice dropping, his eyes boring into hers. "Not everything can be saved in exactly the way you want it to be, Lela. Sometimes... sometimes compromise, however imperfect, is how the real world actually works. It's not always pretty."

"Don't you dare lecture me about the 'real world,' McTeague," she hissed, her eyes blazing with righteous fire. "You've never had to genuinely compromise, let alone truly fight, for anything important in your entire privileged, lily-white, silver-spoon-fed life. Your family, your ancestors, have been grinding communities like mine, people like me, into the ground for too many goddamn generations! And I, for one, am not afraid to make a scene about it."

Before he could react, Lela snatched the champagne flute from his slack hand. And in one smooth, deliberately theatrical motion, she tipped the delicate glass, sending a shimmering stream of bubbly cascading down the front of his crisp white shirt and impeccably tailored jacket.

Gasps, both shocked and delighted, rose from nearby guests. A few phones were out recording the moment. Tate just stood there, dripping, blinking, utterly stunned into momentary silence.

"For the record, McTeague," Lela said coolly, with regal conviction, "those children, the ones you're so carelessly displacing, deserve better than being footnotes in your next glossy investor pitch. They deserve champions. And I intend to be one."

And with that, she turned on her heel, the sharp, deliberate click of her stilettos against the waxed parquet floor a defiant punctuation mark to her declaration.

Zeke let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Total Queen behavior. Badass level: expert. Lady Rose would approve."

"Zeke," Tate barked, finally finding his voice, still dripping, still stunned, his face a thundercloud of barely suppressed fury.

But Zeke was already pulling out his phone again, his thumb flying across the screen as a wicked grin spread across his face. "Too late, bro. It's already on TikTok. And Instagram Reels. You're trending. Again. #TrustFundVultureGetsSoaked #ChampagneJustice #TeamLela."

Lela didn't look back. She didn't have to. The entire room, it seemed, had gone utterly, wonderfully, still in her wake.

Sometimes, she thought with giddy, satisfaction, making a scene was the only way to be heard. And tonight, Lela  Wells had definitely been heard, loud and clear.

CHAPTER 10

Lela leaned against the wall watching people dance. It had been interesting, at least a week since Lela privately told Tate McTeague exactly where he could shove his family's "generous proposal"--right up his entitled, -blond ass and then dousing him figuratively and literally in public. Doing so had warmed her like good bourbon: sharp, slow-burning, and wholly satisfying.

"Get your ass on the floor!" Dee shouted over the thumping bass, dragging Lela deeper into the writhing crowd. "You have been brooding all goddamn week. We are young, and it is time to dance that shit out."

Lela laughed. Dee wasn't wrong. She'd been sulking, spiraling. The pulsing underground club--sweaty, electric, and alive was just what she needed. People moving like one big heartbeat under seizure lights. The DJ was a mystery, but his set was nothing short of surgical, featuring clean cuts, wild builds, and nasty drops. The sound system shuddered and whalloped the heavy churning beat. Word had clearly gotten around; the place was packed on a dead-ass Thursday.

The beat dropped and the floor beneath them did the same, and for the first time in days, Lela let herself be swallowed whole. There was no community center, no orphans, and no legal loopholes in her mind. There was just sweat, bass, and the sweet disorientation of losing herself in sound.

"Whoever this DJ is," she shouted, breathless, "he's  worth that stupid-ass cover charge."

Dee didn't reply, already halfway possessed by the beat. Lela closed her eyes and gave in. Letting go was not indulgence--it was survival.

Twenty minutes later, Dee spotted someone across the floor. "Shit--is that Alicia? I thought she moved to Seattle!" She turned to Lela. "You good?"

"Go," Lela said, waving her off.

Dee gave her arm a quick squeeze, then vanished into the crush of people.

An hour in, drenched in sweat and starving for water, Lela pushed through the crowd toward the bar--and froze.

Zeke McTeague.

Richmond was too damned small.

He had the same knife-sharp jawline and the same glacier-blue eyes, but where Tate was all hard edges, Zeke still had a softness to him--boyish, unpredictable, and curious. He was seventeen, maybe, and had no business being here. He definitely had no business grinning at her like a cat who had licked the cream.

"Hot Chocolate!" he called, using the absurd nickname he had decided on and stubbornly stuck with.

Lela rolled her eyes, but she smiled despite herself. Zeke was the only McTeague who did not treat her like an anthropological curiosity. He teased her, he joked with her, and he talked to her like a human being.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked.

"Tate's DJ'ing," Zeke said with a shrug and a smirk.

Lela's gaze shot toward the booth.

And sure enough--there he was.

Tate McTeague, hidden beneath a slouchy beanie and oversized shades, pretending not to be himself. But she knew those shoulders, that lazy sway to the beat, that too-sure stillness. He was trying to disappear, but his presence was unmistakable.

Zeke leaned in, conspiratorial. "He used to spin in college. He was a big man on campus until Dad yanked him out and shoved him into real estate. He has been hiding out here since you drenched him in champagne and wrecked his soul."

Lela didn't bite. "Dance with me," she said, grabbing Zeke's hand before he could dig deeper.

To his credit, Zeke kept up. More than that--he had moves. They lost themselves in the music, slipping and spinning through the bodies. He pulled faces, exaggerated his steps, and cracked her up without even trying. For a minute or two, she forgot everything.

"He's watching," Zeke said between breaths, nodding toward the booth.

"Let him," she replied.

The tempo dipped into something darker--molasses-slow and bass-heavy. It was the kind of beat that did not just vibrate your bones; it reprogrammed them.

Zeke leaned in, his voice low. "He is into you, you know. He's too proud to say it."

Zeke had practically begged to tag along tonight. He claimed it would help his anxiety and swore up and down he would stay out of trouble.

But Zeke had seen the way his brother was looking lately: obsessed and frustrated. And Tate hadn't shut up about Lela in three days.

So when she showed up on the dance floor, it was a surprise.

"I cannot believe it," Zeke whispered earlier, peeking through the booth window. "Look at her move. That ass of hers is epic!"

"Eh," Tate grunted, but his eyes hadn't left her since she walked in.

Zeke slapped both hands on his brother's shoulders and yelled to be heard over the music. "I'll say this and dip: I haven't been at this long, but I have done some... let us say... practical research. And all pussy? Pink!"

A few guys nearby erupted in laughter.

Tate opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it again.

Zeke had already disappeared into the crowd. If his brother would not make a move, he would.

He danced with beautiful Lela using every bit of gentlemanly restraint at his young disposal. He was enraptured watching the play of lights on her glowing dark cheekbones and those closed eyes, the plump perfect protruding roundness of her ass which she kept throwing around as they danced ... She seemed clueless about her appeal. If she'd known...

But the peace shattered when three college jocks crashed into their space. They were big, drunk, and loud. One of them wore a varsity basketball hoodie that looked large enough to be a billboard.

"Mind if I cut in?" the tallest asked, already stepping between them like the answer did not matter.

"Actually, yeah, I do mind," Zeke said, stepping in, his voice cracking but his stance firm.

The guy sneered. "I wasn't asking, kid." He shoved Zeke--hard.

Zeke flailed briefly and went down, hard. His head cracked against a table. There was blood, and then there were screams.

From the corner of her eye Lela saw Tate leap from the booth.

The guy turned back to her, grinning.

"Now where were we?" he asked.

She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Lady Rose always said diplomacy is fine, but sometimes you have got to smack a bitch.

So she did. She pulled her fist back and punched him square in his tatted throat. It was clean, fast, and unapologetic.

Not hard enough to kill him, but with enough force to make her point crystal fucking clear.

Krav Maga taught you to end it before it began, and the throat was prime real estate.

The guy staggered, choking, his eyes wide. The crowd parted around them like water.

Lela dropped to her knees beside Zeke. "Are you okay?"

He blinked up at her, blood running down his temple. "The most badass thing I have ever seen."

"Don't tell your brother."

"Girl, everybody saw that."

Tate arrived, wild-eyed, hat gone, sunglasses nowhere. Looking like he was ready to rip through concrete.

"Sam--Zeke--" he started.

"Im fine," Zeke rasped, grinning through the blood. "Hot Chocolate took care of it."

Lela wouldn't meet Tate's eyes. "We're leaving," she said as she got Zeke up and moving. Outside, she pressed napkins to Zeke's head. It was a superficial cut, but a nasty bruise.

"You'll live," she told him.

Zeke winced, then smirked. "I've had worse. It's good you handled it because from that look on Tate's face, I can tell he wants to Hulk out."

Lela looked over at Tate, who was standing rigid, scanning the street. His jaw was tight, and his shoulders were squared for battle.

She walked up to him. "You left your set," she said flatly.

Tate's eyes flicked to hers. "Some things matter more than music."

He stepped closer--not in her space, just near enough to be there. Protective.

She hated that she didn't hate it.

She nodded toward the car. "Zeke needs ice."

"I'll drive," he said without hesitation.

She almost said no. Almost. Her pulse was still racing, and the way Tate was watching her, unnerved her more than the fight.

"Fine," she said. "Just to make sure Zeke is okay."

He didn't smile, but some small thing in his expression changed.

In the car, Zeke was still buzzing. "One second he's upright, and the next thing I know, wham! He is down--"

"Zeke," Tate warned, white-knuckling the wheel.

"It's fine," Lela said. "Lady Rose started me in Krav when I was twelve. She said it would come in handy for a girl."

"That explains a lot," Tate muttered.

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"You walk like you're not afraid of anything."

"I'm afraid of plenty," she said, watching the city roll by. "Just not assholes who mistake size for power. Might does NOT make right."

"Lela, you're my kind of people," Zeke stated from the backseat.

Tate took them to a taco joint Lela had never noticed--it had graffiti art on the walls, no menu in sight, and bars on the adjacent laundromat. Her kind of place.

"Shit McTeague, this looks almost cool. How the hell do you know about this?" she asked.

"My old roommate's family owns it, the food here is exceptional."

Inside, a bear of a man shouted, "¡TATITOOO!"

The burly man in the apron wrapped Tate in a hug that lifted him off the ground, which was no small feat. Lela stared as Tate responded in fluent Spanish, grinning from ear to ear.

"Tatito," she teased as they sat.

"Don't," he growled lowly.

"Too late," she quipped.

They feasted--elote with crumbled cotija and jaw-clinchingly good limey salty white tortilla chips with fire-roasted salsa as spicy as karma. Lela bit into a fish taco and moaned.

"Holy shit. I am going to marry this taco."

Tate grinned. "Told ya."

He saw the spark in her eyes as she took a bite. He'd given her that pleasure.

They talked. Tate admitted he had fought with his roommate over the Riverside deal.

"He wasn't wrong," Tate said quietly. "Im just... stuck in the machine."

Lela sighed in exasperation. "You don't have to be your father, man."

"You're right," he acknowledged.

Lela blinked at his admission. The words hanging in the heavy air.

By the time dessert came, the ice had cracked. They laughed and shared stories. Burned their greedy tongues on chocolate-filled churros.

Lela sighed inwardly as she caught herself watching him when he was not looking,   him messing with Zeke, being normal.

At the end of the meal, Tate tried to leave a $200 tip on a $50 bill.

Lela gently grabbed his wrist. "That's kinda mildly insulting. That monster hug he laid on you means you are Fam, Man. You are family here. Act like it. Bring more business if it means that much to you."

He blinked, then corrected the tip. It was a small gesture, but a big shift.

Outside, under the flickering neon, they stood awkwardly while Zeke drowsed in the back seat.

"Tonight was..." Tate started.

"Unexpected," Lela finished.

"Was it in a good way?" he asked.

She thought about it--everything: the music, the punch, the tacos, how he stood way too close.

"Yeah," she said softly. "It was in a good way."

"You have got a hell of a right hook," he observed.

"Lady Rose always said diplomacy is fine, but you need to know the right time to go for the throat."

Tate exhaled a soft laugh. "Damn man, these stories I keep hearing about her... I met with her and honestly? She kinda scares the hell out of me."

"She should," Lela said.

They kept standing there.

Then Lela turned toward the car, churros in hand, her heart thudding louder than the music ever had.

Maybe this was not the end. Maybe this was something else. Something real.

CHAPTER 11: The Unquiet Lady

Harrington Manor, originally "Harrington Hall," was built around 1750 by Bartholomew Westchester Harrington III on a Virginia tobacco plantation. Through a cunning blend of gambling, strategic marriages, and outright swindling, Bartholomew had acquired 1,200 acres along the Landon River near Richmond; this land would become the foundation of a quiet, old-money empire built on tobacco dust and whispered deals. The estate featured peculiar "sunken gardens"--charming depressions that were, in fact, accidental, the result of an English landscape architect discovering especially fine Virginia bourbon a little too early in the planning process and miscalculating elevations during a particularly spirited hangover. By 1934, facing foreclosure after generations of genteel neglect and poor investments, what remained of the property was saved by Lady Millicent Harrington-Farthing, who sold off all but 45 acres and the manor itself and shrewdly established a complex trust for its maintenance, ensuring it remained just out of the reach of speculative hands.

It was a lucky stroke indeed that Harrington Hall endured.

Born August 3rd, 1960, amidst the stiff upper lips, stifling expectations, and gilded halls of English nobility, Dame Rose Amelia Caroline Harrington-Farthing had always been a woman of unexpected contradictions, a wild current running beneath a placid, privileged surface. Her official childhood portrait, commissioned by her relentlessly proper mother and hung prominently in the east wing, depicted a solemn child clutching a teddy bear with such grim determination that visitors often remarked the stuffed animal appeared to be silently pleading for rescue. What those visitors never saw was the hidden photograph, secreted away in a locked drawer from the summer of 1982--Lady Rose at twenty-two, sporting a magnificent purple mohawk that defied gravity, safety pins through her ears instead of pearls, and the smeared remains of last night's eyeliner and life choices, passed out cold backstage at a Clash concert in a haze of stale beer and righteous rebellion.

Her rebellious punk phase in 1980s London had been spectacular and spectacularly brief, a blaze of glorious, chaotic energy. The tabloids had had a field day, chronicling her every defiance with gleeful outrage; "PEER'S DAUGHTER POGOS WITH THE PISTOLS," ran one particularly sensational headline, accompanied by a grainy, blurry photograph of a defiant-looking Lady Rose flipping off the camera with a cheeky grin while Joe Strummer patiently signed her battered leather jacket in the background. That same jacket, lovingly preserved despite its history of mosh-pit skirmishes and dubious substances, still hung in her closet at Harrington Manor. These days she wore it only on special, rare occasions, like orchestrating the firing of particularly smarmy or incompetent orphanage board members.

"I was a bloody liability," she'd once confessed to Lela during a late-night confidence session, the two of them huddled over lukewarm tea and illicit chocolate biscuits in the vast, quiet drawing-room of the Manor. "My father threatened to disinherit me three times in one month. My mother simply despaired, clutching her pearls and smelling salts simultaneously. Eventually, they packed me off to Switzerland ostensibly for 'finishing school,' hoping the mountain air and rigorous curriculum would beat the deviance out of me. Really, it was for deprogramming." She'd laughed then, a deep throaty chuckle that still held the rough edges of her youth. "I finished precisely nothing except their best brandy and, regrettably, the gardener's spectacularly dim-witted son. Poor boy."

The punk aesthetic never truly left her--it just went deep undercover, sublimated into a particular, potent brand of aristocratic rebellion. Her triple-strand pearls may have been real and worth more than most people earned in a year, but the steel beneath them, the unwavering spine, the absolute refusal to be dictated to, was forged in the mosh pits of Camden Town and the squat parties of Brixton.

When her husband's relentless infidelities and casual physical abuse had become the whispered currency of London society--a society that was surprisingly tolerant of male 'indiscretions' but merciless towards wives who showed 'poor form'--she hadn't crumbled. She hadn't played the wronged wife; she hadn't retreated behind lace curtains. In the end, she chose to ignore her brittle, hateful mother's final, desperate advice: "Rose Amelia, you are barely pretty, child; you were a disappointment from birth. Close your eyes and think of England. The man is titled and has land and money; we are saved." Lady Rose, standing tall despite the tremors in her hands, had looked her mother dead in her pale, desperate eyes and replied, her voice clear and steady, "I've closed my eyes and thought of England quite enough, Mother. I'm taking my freedom now, and perhaps a little of your Wedgwood." She'd then hurled a priceless teacup against the drawing-room wall with surprisingly accurate aim.

With the help of her dear cousin Myles--a flamboyant art dealer whose own scandalous divorce from a Saudi prince had made him something of an expert in aristocratic escapes and the discreet liquidation of assets--she'd executed a surprisingly flawless exit strategy. Her husband's family had their hooks deep in the Harrington finances, a common affliction among the landed gentry, leaving her with embarrassingly little liquid capital despite her illustrious title and birthright. "That's the frustrating, archaic thing about aristocratic money," she'd explained bitterly to her sympathetic solicitor. "It's all tied up in things you can't bloody sell without seventeen signatures from relatives who've been moldering in crypts for centuries, unless, of course, you have a charmingly criminal cousin with connections."

Thank God for Harrington Hall. Though the Virginia property was tied up in a complex trust, certain tangible items within it--paintings, silver, specific pieces of furniture--were indisputably hers by her grandmother's meticulously worded will, a wise woman who clearly distrusted the subsequent generations. Three minor Gainsborough portraits, a rather melancholic minor Turner landscape, and a surprisingly vast and valuable collection of Georgian silver tea services disappeared overnight from the Manor's vaults, funneled discreetly through Myles's less-than-legitimate connections at Christie's. The money wasn't enough to live like a proper, titled aristocrat in London--no Belgravia townhouses or private jets--but it was gloriously enough to live free, to simply exist on her own terms, comfortably if not opulently, in the quiet Virginia countryside at Harrington Manor.

Her attachment to St. Sofia Orphanage hadn't begun as a profound calling or the expected ladylike dabbling in charitable good works to occupy her time. What had begun as the standard aristocratic obligation of appearing once monthly for dreary board meetings and awkward photo opportunities quickly, inexplicably, transformed into daily visits that stretched longer and longer, until the orphanage staff, bewildered but grateful for the distraction, began automatically setting an extra place for "Her Ladyship" at the children's communal lunch table.

"These children... they remind me of myself," she confessed to Myles during one of their regular transatlantic telephone calls, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "They are trapped in circumstances not of their making, with rules they never agreed to, fighting for every scrap of dignity and comfort." The building itself was a disaster--leaky Victorian plumbing on its last legs, electrical wiring that made her former punk squat look up to code by comparison, and a budget so threadbare the children wore handed-down uniforms that had seen better decades and were somehow perpetually stained with something unidentifiable.

She'd poured almost every penny from the art and silver sales into the place, fixing the boiler, replacing ancient windows, and buying proper bedding. But old buildings, like some aristocratic families, were bottomless money pits, constantly demanding more. "It is never enough," she'd mutter, reviewing the meager accounts late at night at the Manor. "But we'll manage. We always do. We are nothing if not resourceful," she'd add with a nostalgic sigh for her more anarchic youth. She'd fallen back on forgotten skills from her punk days--finding creative ways to make minimal resources stretch, negotiating with suppliers using a baffling combination of aristocratic intimidation and shrewd, street-smart haggling honed in back alleys, and occasionally terrifying potential donors into bewildered generosity with the same death glare she'd once used to secure prime spots at Sex Pistols concerts or stop unruly pub brawls.

The children of St. Sofia, particularly a pair of bright, fiercely loyal girls named Dee and Lela, had formed such powerful, heartbreaking attachments to the dilapidated institution that Lady Rose quickly realized uprooting them entirely, however tempting it was to whisk them away to the luxury of the Manor, would be a trauma rather than a rescue. The orphanage's cracked plaster and perpetually leaking roof somehow contained more than just shelter; it contained memories, makeshift family bonds forged in shared hardship, and a sense of belonging that even her seventeen spare, opulent bedrooms at the Manor couldn't replace overnight.

"The children need continuity, Myles," she'd declared decisively to her cousin. "Especially the older ones who've been there the longest. Therefore, I shall provide it by fixing that godforsaken place myself and staying put right alongside them." Myles, having witnessed Lady Rose's particular brand of unyielding determination before--a force of nature masquerading as an English gentlewoman--had sighed heavily into the phone and asked only whether she needed her checkbook or her most intimidating solicitor first.

Within six months of dedicating herself to St. Sofia, Lady Rose had somehow maneuvered herself onto the orphanage's notoriously corrupt and incompetent board of directors, navigating the petty politics with surprising ease. Within eight months, she was serving as interim director after the previous administrator mysteriously received a too-good-to-refuse job offer from a prestigious private school in Massachusetts (the school would later wonder why they had created a high-paying position for "Director of Ancient British Relations" but found the woman too pleasant and effective at baffling problematic parents to dismiss).

St. Sofia began to undergo a transformation that could only be described as architectural whiplash--bleak Victorian dormitories suddenly featuring silk curtains (salvaged at discount from a bankrupt luxury hotel that owed Myles a favor), industrial kitchen equipment arriving unannounced one Tuesday morning (courtesy of a restaurant supplier who owed Myles an even bigger favor), and an entire wing being renovated after Lady Rose had swept through it and pronounced it "an offense to both God, good taste, and basic sanitation." When the perpetually bewildered board questioned the increasingly audacious changes, Lady Rose merely smiled vaguely and mentioned something about "family connections" and "surplus materials" from Harrington Manor's "ongoing maintenance," a phrase designed to shut down further inquiry instantly.

Childless herself, but with a fierce, protective maternal ferocity that would put lionesses to shame, Lady Rose had unexpectedly found her true calling among the institution's freshly painted walls and increasingly less threadbare furnishings. And in two particular girls--seven-year-old Dee and eight-year-old Sam--she'd found something she hadn't expected: a profound sense of connection, a purpose beyond herself, and a chance at redemption for her own misspent youth and privileged detachment.

The first time she'd visited, Lady Rose had arrived in full aristocratic regalia--a string of impossibly perfect pearls, a pristine vintage Chanel tweed suit, and an expression that suggested she might at any moment demand to speak to the small god of poverty itself and demand better conditions. But something fundamental had changed within her when small, fierce, unafraid Dee had marched right up to her, examined her immaculate (and undoubtedly expensive) shoes with forensic intensity, and announced in a loud, clear voice: "You walk funny, lady. Like you got a stick up your butt."

Instead of the expected outrage or scandalized retreat, Lady Rose had erupted into a snorting peal of laughter so genuine, loud, and unexpected that several junior staff members yelped and gasped in alarm. "My dear child," she'd replied, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, addressing Dee not like a child but an equal observer, "that's precisely what my late mother's sadistic etiquette instructor intended. Fourteen excruciating years of deportment lessons designed specifically to achieve 'walking with royal rectitude.' How marvelously, shockingly observant you are."

From that exact moment, Lady Rose was utterly, hopelessly smitten with the orphanage's most opinionated and rambunctious resident. And where the irrepressible Dee went, the quieter but equally watchful and focused Lela followed--a protective shadow with suspicious eyes, a formidable internal calculator for a mind, and a quickness for mathematics that had once enabled her to point out an accounting error in the orphanage's notoriously messy budget while simultaneously pilfering an extra pudding cup with sleight-of-hand precision.

It was Lela who'd stubbornly refused to leave St. Sofia entirely, even after Lady Rose had begun the official adoption process. "The little ones need someone to read to them at night, Rose," she'd explained with the solemn certainty of someone twice her age. "And Sister Mary Margaret always puts too much water in the oatmeal if I don't stay to supervise." Lady Rose, recognizing a kindred spirit in organizational tyranny and a deep, protective heart that mirrored her own newly discovered one, had nodded gravely and proposed a rather peculiar compromise: they would divide their time between the spacious comfort of Harrington Manor and the crumbling familiarity of the orphanage until Lela deemed the transition appropriate and the younger children sufficiently managed.

From Lady Rose, Lela had learned that family wasn't about shared DNA or archaic titles, but loyalty, fierce protection, and showing up when others didn't. Lela had done a quick and ugly bounce through the system--placed with distant, uninterested relatives after her mother's death and treated like a burden, before ending up back at the Orphanage. Lady Rose had stepped forward without hesitation, announcing to the startled orphanage director: "I shall require these two girls immediately. My driver will collect their things while we complete the necessary paperwork. I assume you have adoption forms readily available?" She'd then turned to a shell-shocked Lela and Dee and added, her voice brisk and utterly confident, "I have seventeen spare bedrooms, a cook who specializes in chocolate mousse, and absolutely no patience for unnecessary tears, false modesty, or excessive gratitude. We shall get along splendidly. Be ready in fifteen minutes."

The adjustment period had been complicated by Lela's unwavering insistence on returning to St. Sofia daily after school, ostensibly to "check on her kids" and make sure Sister Mary Margaret wasn't drowning the oatmeal. Lady Rose, rather than fighting this deep attachment to her former home, had simply incorporated it into their increasingly unconventional routine, transforming what might have been a standard adoption into a peculiar, almost formal joint custody arrangement between Harrington Manor and St. Sofia Orphanage. Eventually, as Lela's trust grew and she allowed herself to accept more of the affection and security Lady Rose offered, Lady Rose discreetly hired several exceptionally qualified childcare workers -- often presenting them as "specialists from overseas who require Lela's expert guidance on proper orphanage protocols, darling; they simply can't grasp the intricacies of the supply closet inventory without your input" -- to ease Lela's self-imposed burden of responsibility without undermining her sense of purpose.

Dee had flourished immediately under the lavish, unexpected affection, soaking it up like a thirsty plant after a long drought. But Sam--raw, wounded, and wary after navigating the system's callousness and the brutal abandonment by her own relatives--had resisted, building walls of self-sufficiency. It had taken Lady Rose's particular blend of patience, persistence, and utterly bizarre eccentricity to begin dismantling Lela's formidable defenses. The breakthrough had come during a violent thunderstorm three weeks after their arrival at the Manor, when Lady Rose, searching the house, had found a terrified Lela hiding, trembling, deep in a linen closet.

"Ah, excellent choice, my dear," Lady Rose had said, squeezing her tall frame into the tiny space alongside the frightened child and closing the door on the booming thunder; the scent of expensive laundry soap filled the darkness. "I always preferred closets myself during storms. A delightful sense of enclosure it's  far more immediate, don't you agree?"

Lela had stared at her, bewildered, as Lady Rose somehow produced from the depths of her cardigan pocket two perfectly preserved chocolate biscuits wrapped in a pristine handkerchief. "Storm rations," she'd explained seriously, pressing one into Lela's hand. "They are essential for closet campaigns. Tomorrow, we shall upgrade to proper emergency supplies, perhaps a small flask of brandy for medicinal purposes, and most definitely a small pillow. One must be comfortable during crises."

That night, huddled among the impossibly soft Egyptian cotton sheets and listening to Lady Rose's tales of "closet adventures" across Europe (including one particularly harrowing escape from an especially awful royal garden party involving three unusually aggressive dachshunds and a surprisingly nimble Danish ambassador), Lela had felt the first genuine stirrings of safety and hope since her mother's death. She was no longer alone.

Thus the arrangement evolved into what the long-suffering Manor staff privately termed "The Royal Residence Program," with Lady Rose installing herself in the orphanage's director's office and the small, dingy caretaker's cottage during the week -- ruling her domain with an iron fist wrapped in a velvet glove -- and returning to Harrington Manor with the girls, and often a rotating cast of other orphanage children, every weekend. This commute frequently involved Lady Rose's ancient, stately Bentley being filled with an ever-changing assortment of loudly singing children being treated to "cultural excursions" that frequently involved excessive amounts of ice cream and judiciously chosen detours.

Lela smiled faintly, remembering the day Lady Rose had publicly, gloriously  eviscerated some local society matron--a prominent member of the women's auxiliary whose husband was heavily invested in downtown real estate (perhaps even Hadrian's circle)--who'd made a dismissive, casually racist remark, calling the orphanage children "nappy-headed hoodlum rug rats" within earshot of Lady Rose and a room full of potential donors. Lady Rose had been magnificent, rising to her full height, her aristocratic British accent a rapier-edge sharp and ringing out clearly in the stunned silence that followed the matron's vulgarity.

"You, children," Lady Rose had declared, fixing the stunned children with an acutely proud look while advancing on the offending woman like a particularly elegant guided missile in tweed, "are the immediate descendants from the dawn of the creation of man, the original people--you are royalty in human form, and you will be proud of who you are, always," she'd informed them with imperious certainty, one hand clasped dramatically to her heart while the other held her teacup with such rigid precision it never spilled a drop despite her growing animation. "And you must realize that you do not have to listen to or ever believe the pronouncements of the alleged so-called rightful citizens of this stolen country, many of whom are, in fact," she paused, letting the weight of her words sink in, directing them squarely at the society matron, "descended from British thieves, murderers, and paupers. That's right, children. The Americas started as little more than a penal colony, a massive jail for the undesirable elements of England, murderers, thieves, what have you. They sent their criminals here."

She'd paused again, fixing the offending woman, who was now bright red with a mixture of embarrassment and outrage, with a look that could have flash-frozen napalm. "Yes. And ever so many years later, they--are--still--here." The final words were punctuated with tiny, devastating, precise stabs of her index finger towards the woman's chest--a technique she'd perfected decades ago in punk clubs, tapping ash from her cigarette with just enough contempt to make even the most intimidating skinheads reconsider their life choices.

The society matron had departed the event with the stunned expression of someone who'd expected to encounter a decorative garden snake and instead found herself face-to-face with a venomous cobra in pearls.

By the time Lela entered high school, Lady Rose had officially transformed St. Sofia from a barely-functional, desperate institution into what local papers, under Lady Rose's gentle 'guidance' to the editors, were calling "a model of innovative childcare"--a description that made Lady Rose snort tea through her nose the first time she heard it. "Innovative? My dear, I've simply applied the basic principles of a well-run country estate combined with what I learned squatting in Brixton and trying to survive on three pence and a can of beans. Children require good food, adequate space, regular exposure to both sunshine and books, and absolutely no condescension. My chief innovations, in fact, were removing that ghastly institutional linoleum in the common areas and teaching Sister Anne how to correctly apply eyeliner -- frankly, the poor woman looked perpetually startled."

Chapter 18: Steal our Queen? Never

Lela's eyes narrowed; drugging her, forcing her compliance? This went beyond simply trying to get land; this was about silencing inconvenient truth. "Where is he now? Where is Hadrian?"

"He is bargaining with the administrator, I expect," Lady Rose said dryly, "trying to bully the paperwork into existence. He prefers intimidation to actual legal process because he thinks waving money and titles is a shortcut to consent."

Dee was already moving, assessing the situation, her mind shifting into logistical mode. "Lou is on her way. She will handle the legal complaint against the facility and Hadrian after we get you somewhere safe." She quickly began unplugging the IV pump and gathering Lady Rose's personal medications into a small bag she had brought.

"We must go to the cabin," Lady Rose said firmly, naming a remote, secure property owned by the Harrington trust, hidden deep in the woods. "It is the safest place. There is no paper trail and minimal access."

Before Lela could say another word, before they could make a move towards helping Lady Rose out of bed, the door swung open sharply. Hadrian McTeague walked in, looking entirely too polished at this hour; his silver hair was perfectly combed, and his expensive suit was utterly without a wrinkle despite the midnight dash. Trailing behind him was a nervous-looking Administrator Jensen, who was wringing his hands.

"How touching," Hadrian purred, his voice smooth, almost oily, and laced with condescending amusement as he took in the scene -- Lela and Dee Dee by the bed, Lady Rose looking far more alert than he likely anticipated. "It is an unexpected family reunion."

"Mr. McTeague," Lela said, stepping forward instantly and positioning herself directly between him and Lady Rose, her body a small, fierce shield. Dee moved to her other side, creating a united front. "You are interrupting our mother's discharge. We are taking her home."

Hadrian's smile remained, but it became a cold, thin slice of ice, entirely devoid of warmth. His eyes, cold as glacial melt, fixed on Lela and Dee Dee. "Your mother?" he drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. "I was not aware Lady Rose had any... family. Legitimate family, that is."

Dee moved slightly forward, her eyes meeting Hadrian's with unflinching defiance. "Maybe you would like to discuss our adoption papers and the attached medical power of attorney with our attorney, Mr. McTeague. She is on her way and is quite familiar with elder abuse statutes, unauthorized confinement, and conspiracy charges. She takes these matters very seriously."

Hadrian's mask of smooth arrogance cracked visibly; a look of genuine shock was now in his eyes. This was not the reaction he had expected. But he quickly recovered, his smile tightening as he turned his cold gaze to the Administrator. "Administrator Jensen, would you care to explain why unauthorized visitors are attempting to remove a patient in the middle of the night against protocol and pending transfer arrangements?"

Jensen cleared his throat, his discomfort growing palpable. He nervously glanced between the imposing figure of Hadrian McTeague and the two determined young women who had just mentioned lawyers and serious charges. "Actually, sir, Mr. McTeague, Ms. Wells and Ms. Fine do have valid medical power of attorney for Lady Rose. Everything seems to be in order, legally speaking, regarding their authority."

"Impossible," Hadrian hissed, his balking at the surprising legal roadblock; his voice was low and dangerous. "Lady Rose has no family, no living relatives with any claim over her affairs, certainly not... these." His eyes raked over Lela and Dee Dee with open contempt.

"She legally adopted us sixteen years ago," Lela said sweetly, relishing every second of this moment. "It was a private adoption, handled quietly through the trust and the Harrington estate. The paperwork is thorough, Mr. McTeague, and it has been updated regularly, including granting us full medical power of attorney."

Hadrian's expression twisted with barely contained rage, his eyes burning with frustrated fury. The casual power he usually wielded was useless here, against inconveniently legal fact. "This facility is not equipped or authorized to discharge patients in the middle of the night!"

"Then it's fortunate we brought our own transportation," Dee said, gesturing coolly towards a folded wheelchair propped against the wall she must have grabbed on the way in. "As her designated legal guardians and holders of medical power of attorney, we are well within our rights to transfer her care elsewhere immediately."

Hadrian snapped. His voice dropped, becoming a low, guttural growl, raw with frustrated malice. "You have no idea what you are meddling with, girls. You are playing with things you do not understand. That journal you found? Those bones? They have nothing to do with you. They are ancient history, buried. Leave them buried."

"You should be very worried, Mr. McTeague," Lela shot back, her gaze unwavering, her voice quiet and resolved; his confirmation that he knew about the evidence only solidified her purpose.

Hadrian's eyes locked on them both, simmering with dangerous malice as he assessed, dismissed, and underestimated them simultaneously. "Lady Rose is not in full possession of her faculties. She's unwell. I doubt you have the capacity, the means, to provide the specialized care she requires. Let me call the necessary..." He reached for his phone, intending to bring his resources to bear.

Before he could finish, Lady Rose, who'd been watching the exchange with sharp, glittering eyes, interrupted him. She straightened further in the bed, her fragile frame somehow radiating immense power as she willed away the remaining weakness. She had finished the candy bar Dee had given her upon arrival, drawing strength from the sweetness, and now, fully lucid and entirely in command, she spoke. Her voice was clear, firm, and dripping with the kind of aristocratic authority that could curdle milk and stop trains.

"No," she said, with a pointed, chilling glance at Hadrian, dismissing his foul suggestion in a single syllable. She paused, precisely before delivering her opening salvo. "'Lady' is not the correct honorific for a Dame of the Order of the British Empire, Hadrian. The proper title is 'Dame,' followed by my first name. 'Lady' is typically used for the wives of knights or women with certain peerage titles." She paused again, letting the subtle correction hang in the air before delivering the punchline. "I, however, happen to be both a Dame and a Lady in my own right. Therefore, to my friends and family," she emphasized the last word with deliberate weight, looking warmly at Lela and Dee Dee, "I am 'Lady Rose' or simply 'Rose.' You, on the other hand, Hadrian," she fixed him with a look of utter contempt that spanned decades of quiet loathing, "if you must address me at all, may refer to me as Dame Rose Harrington. Now, kindly take your leave, or, if that is too unclear for your limited understanding of proper English etiquette, remove yourself from this room at once, before I instruct my daughters to call the authorities and have you removed for trespassing."

Hadrian's face froze, the condescending smile curling into a thin, contemptuous sneer, but the shock and naked fury in his eyes were unmistakable. He had been utterly, gloriously, dismissed and corrected by a woman he thought he had sedated and sidelined.

"Dame Rose Harrington," he sneered again, spitting out the words as he attempted to reclaim some authority through mockery. "How... quaint. Your delusions of grandeur are amusing, but they will not save you, Rose, nor will your convenient legal guardianship or whatever farcical paperwork you have cobbled together with these... girls." He flicked a glance at Administrator Jensen, who visibly shrank back further against the wall, desperate to become invisible.

But Lady Rose, now fully embodying the "high priestess of badass" Lela had dubbed her, locked her cold gaze onto Hadrian's, her eyes burning with a light that seemed to penetrate his polished exterior. The fragile figure they had seen hours earlier was gone, replaced by the unyielding force of nature forged in punk clubs and quiet defiance.

"I see now that I lack clarity, Hadrian," she said, her voice steady, quiet, and absolutely cutting as she deftly sliced through his bluster. "Let me try again: fuck off from whence you came. And when you get there, fuck off again."

The administrator exhaled faintly, visibly shocked by the blunt, un-aristocratic language, even from Lady Rose. He shifted awkwardly, torn between loyalty to Hadrian McTeague's considerable influence and the undeniable, legally backed authority Lady Rose--and her daughters--now commanded, coupled with her terrifyingly explicit language. He cleared his throat and nervously glanced between the two formidable figures.

"I... I think it is best we proceed with the discharge, Mr. McTeague," Jensen muttered, stepping slightly away from Hadrian. "Everything is in order, legally. Dame Rose... Dame Rose Harrington is within her rights, as her daughters hold power of attorney."

Hadrian's sneer evaporated like smoke in a strong wind; his face was now a mask of cold, barely controlled fury. His voice, low and dangerously smooth, carried an edge that sent a chill down Lela's spine, a promise of future retribution.

"Administrator, I am sure you will agree that a little... correction might be in order here regarding this paperwork at a later date," Hadrian said, his eyes narrowing at Lela and Dee, a clear threat hanging in the air. "Surely these... girls do not actually have any real authority here. They are clearly being manipulated."

"Cease your prattle," Lady Rose snapped. "Dee, your phone. Hand it over, at once."

Dee, her hands trembling slightly but her eyes blazing with defiance, reached into her purse and handed her phone to Lady Rose, who held it loosely, but conspicuously, in her hand, staring at Hadrian with unwavering defiance, a silent promise in her gaze.

For a long, tense moment, Hadrian did not speak. He merely stood there, radiating suppressed rage, measuring Lela and Dee Dee with an unreadable expression, weighing his options, the potential consequences of escalating against a legal document and a woman who clearly held dangerous knowledge and was now backed by formidable protectors. Finally, with a stiff movement that looked painful, like pulling off a layer of skin, he turned to Administrator Jensen. His voice, now dangerously calm, held a sharp, brittle edge of defeat and simmering menace.

"Fine," he said coldly, the word a tight expulsion of air. "Take her. But mark my words, Administrator, and you two... girls: you have no idea what you are meddling with, no idea what you are about to unleash."

Lady Rose's lips curved into a slow, sly smile, a genuine, knowing expression that conveyed both triumph and a deep, weary understanding of the darkness they were uncovering. It was the kind of smile only those who had played this brutal game for years, and won against impossible odds, could muster.

"Oh, I think I have a very good idea what you have been hiding, Hadrian," she said, her voice steady, almost conversational, but with an undercurrent of steel that promised reckoning. "The journal was quite... illuminating. And the bones... well, they tell their own story, do they not? You do not have a transfer to arrange, Hadrian. You have a perp walk to prep for." She leaned back slightly in her bed, a regal ease settling over her as her fingers smoothed the thin, crumpled blanket. "A reckoning is coming for your family, a full and proper accounting. And there is nothing you can do to stop it, not anymore."

Hadrian's eyes narrowed to slits, and though he was chilled with fear, his face was a composed and angry mask. For the first time, he seemed to understand that Lady Rose was not bluffing. This was not just about a property deal or old money squabbles; this was about history, crime, and the very foundations of the McTeague empire. And despite his outward control and his considerable power, a part of him knew, with bone-deep certainty, that she meant exactly what she said. A part of him feared what she might unleash upon him and his family name.

"I will be watching you, Dame Rose Harrington," he muttered, his voice low and threatening, a predator thwarted but not defeated. "Every move. And when the time comes..."

"I will be ready, Hadrian," she finished for him, her voice icy, final, and filled with the quiet confidence of someone who had been ready for a confrontation like this her entire turbulent life.

Hadrian opened his mouth to respond, perhaps to deliver one last threat, but the absolute finality and dangerous calm in Lady Rose's tone, coupled with the unwavering stares of Lela and Dee Dee, made him pause and hesitate. With a brittle, mocking bow that felt more like a threat, he turned on his heel.

"I will leave you to your delusions," he sneered, his voice strained with suppressed rage, unable to land a final blow. "For now."

He stalked out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence. Administrator Jensen scurried hastily after him, eager to distance himself from the escalating, legally fraught, and unexpectedly vulgar scene.

The door slammed shut, leaving Lela, Dee, and Lady Rose alone in the quiet room. The weight of the moment hung in the air--an unspoken promise, a line drawn in the sand.

Dee exhaled slowly, her hands trembling slightly in the aftermath of the confrontation. "Well... that went... better than I expected, actually," she murmured, half to herself and half to Lela. "I did not expect her to drop the F-bomb on him, though."

Lady Rose let out a soft, dry, utterly unladylike laugh. "It is a classic finishing school technique, dear, highly effective against overgrown bullies. I do enjoy putting the fear of God, or at least the fear of scandal and prison, into him."

Lela smiled, the tension easing slightly, as she felt a surge of fierce love and admiration for this extraordinary woman. "You were incredible, Rose. Absolutely incredible."

Lady Rose's eyes softened slightly as she looked at her daughters, but the fire still burned bright within them. "I have been waiting for this--for far too long, planning for it, preparing." She pushed the blankets aside, swinging her legs carefully to the side of the bed. "Now. Get me out of here before he manages to bribe the cleaning staff to tie me up. I am done playing games. We have work to do, important work."

Lela nodded, moving forward to help her, already feeling the shift in their purpose. "We are going to make sure they never get away with it, Rose. Not the orphanage. Not the history. Not... the bones. Not any of it."

Dee stood, her hands still shaking slightly, but her resolve was clear, solidifying into cold determination. "And we start by getting you somewhere safe. The cabin it is." She retrieved her phone, already mentally plotting the route and the timing.

Lady Rose's lips curled into that knowing, slightly dangerous smile again. "Good girls. Let us go. I have much to explain, much you need to understand. And I will need to rest a bit. One can only swear at racist misogynists for so long before it becomes utterly exhausting."

Lela helped Lady Rose gently into the wheelchair Dee had procured, the quiet click of the wheels startling in the silence. The three of them moved swiftly, purposefully, through the darkened halls and out into the cool, pre-dawn air. The battle against Hadrian McTeague and the dark legacy of his family had only just begun, but the first decisive strike had been made. And Lady Rose Harrington, now more alive and formidable than she had been in a year, was ready to see it through to the bitter, beautiful end.

CHAPTER 12

It had been a few days since Lela told Tate McTeague exactly where he could shove his family's "generous proposal"--right up his entitled, platinum-blond ass. Doing so had warmed her like good bourbon: sharp, slow-burning, and wholly satisfying.

And after a considerable amount of drama, Lady Rose was safely away at her cabin. Lela and Dee were taking a much needed break.

"Get your ass on the floor!" Dee shouted over the thumping bass, dragging Lela deeper into the writhing crowd. "You've been brooding all goddamn week. We are young, and it's time to dance that shit out."

Lela laughed because Dee wasn't wrong; she'd been sulking, spiraling in her own head. The underground club pulsed around them--sweaty, electric, and alive, with people moving like one big heartbeat under seizure lights. The DJ was a mystery, but his set was nothing short of surgical, featuring clean cuts, wild builds, and nasty drops. Word had clearly gotten around because the place was packed on a dead-ass Thursday.

As the bass detonated, the floor seemed to drop out from under them. For the first time in days, Lela let herself be swallowed whole; there was no community center, no orphans, and no legal loopholes in her mind, just sweat, bass, and the sweet disorientation of losing herself in sound.

"Whoever this DJ is," she shouted, breathless, "he's worth that stupid-ass cover charge."

Dee didn't bother replying, as she was already halfway possessed by the beat. Lela closed her eyes and gave in; letting go wasn't indulgence--it was survival.

Twenty minutes later, Dee spotted someone across the floor. "Holy shit--is that Alicia? I thought she moved to Seattle!" She turned to Lela. "Are you good?"

"Go," Lela said, waving her off. "I'm good."

Dee gave her arm a quick squeeze, then vanished into the crush.

An hour in, drenched in sweat and starving for water, Lela pushed through the crowd toward the bar--and froze.

It was Zeke McTeague.

Richmond was too damned small.

He had the same knife-sharp jawline and the same glacier-blue eyes, but where Tate was all hard edges, Zeke still had a softness to him--boyish, unpredictable, and curious. He was seventeen, maybe, and had no business being here; he definitely had no business grinning at her like a cat who'd licked the cream.

"Hot Chocolate!" he called, using the absurd nickname he'd decided on and stubbornly stuck with.

Lela rolled her eyes, but she smiled despite herself. Zeke was the only McTeague who didn't treat her like an anthropological curiosity; he teased, he joked, and he talked to her like a human being.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked.

"My brother's the DJ," Zeke said with a shrug and a smirk. "Don't tell him I told you."

Lela's gaze shot toward the booth.

And sure enough--there he was.

It was Tate McTeague, hiding under a slouchy beanie and oversized shades, but she knew those shoulders.

Zeke leaned in, conspiratorial. "He used to spin in college. He was a big man on campus until Dad yanked him out and shoved him into real estate. He's been hiding out here since you drenched him in champagne and wrecked his soul."

Lela didn't bite. "Dance with me," she said, grabbing Zeke's hand before he could dig deeper.

To his credit, Zeke kept up; more than that--he had moves. They lost themselves in the music, slipping and spinning through the bodies. He pulled faces, exaggerated his steps, and cracked her up without even trying. For a minute, maybe two, she forgot everything.

"He's watching," Zeke said between breaths, nodding toward the booth.

"Let him watch," she replied.

The tempo dipped into something darker--molasses-slow and bass-heavy; it was the kind of beat that didn't just vibrate your bones, it reprogrammed them.

Zeke leaned in, his voice low. "He's into you, you know. He's too proud to say it."

Zeke had practically begged to tag along tonight, claiming it would help his anxiety and swearing up and down he'd stay out of trouble.

But Zeke had seen the way his brother was looking lately: obsessed and frustrated, and Tate hadn't shut up about Lela in three days.

So when she showed up on the dance floor, it was an unexpected gift.

"I can't believe my damn luck," Zeke had whispered earlier, peeking through the booth window. "Look at her move. That epic ass of hers could solve global warming."

"Eh," Tate had grunted, but his eyes hadn't left her since she walked in.

Zeke had slapped both hands on his brother's shoulders. "I'll say this and dip: I haven't been at this long, but I have done some... let's say... practical research. And all pussy? Pink."

A few guys nearby had erupted in laughter.

Tate had opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it again.

Zeke had already disappeared into the crowd; if his brother wouldn't make a move, he would.

But their momentum shattered when three college jocks crashed into their space; they were big, drunk, and loud, and one of them wore a varsity basketball hoodie like a billboard.

"Mind if I cut in?" the tallest asked, already stepping between them as if the answer didn't matter.

"Actually, yeah, I do mind," Zeke said, stepping in, his voice cracking but his stance firm.

The guy sneered. "I wasn't asking you, kid." He shoved Zeke--hard.

Zeke flailed briefly but went down, hard; his head cracked against a table, there was blood, and there were screams.

Lela saw Tate leap from the booth, but she knew he'd never reach them in time.

The guy turned back to her, grinning.

"Now where were we?" he asked.

She smiled, but there was no warmth in it; Lady Rose always said diplomacy's fine, but sometimes you have got to smack a bitch.

So she did. She pulled her fist back and punched him square in his tatted throat; the punch was clean, fast, and unapologetic.

It wasn't hard enough to kill him, but it was with enough force to make her point crystal fucking clear.

Krav Maga taught you to end it before it began, and the throat was prime real estate.

The guy staggered, choking, his eyes wide, as the crowd parted around them like water.

Lela dropped to her knees beside Zeke. "Are you okay?"

He blinked up at her, blood running down his temple. "That was the most badass thing I've ever seen."

"Don't tell your brother."

"Girl, everybody saw that."

Tate arrived, wild-eyed, hat gone, sunglasses nowhere; looking ready to rip through concrete.

"Sam--Zeke--" he started urgently.

"I'm fine," Zeke rasped, grinning through blood. "Hot Chocolate took care of it."

Lela didn't meet Tate's eyes. "We're leaving," she said, getting Zeke on his feet and moving. Outside, she pressed napkins to Zeke's head; it was a superficial cut but a nasty bruise.

"You'll live," she told him.

Zeke winced, then smirked. "I've had worse. But I'm glad you handled it because from that look on Tate's face, I can tell he wants to Hulk out."

Lela looked over at Tate, who was standing rigid, scanning the street, his jaw tight, his shoulders squared like a soldier.

She walked up to him. "You left your set," she stated flatly.

Tate's eyes flicked to hers. "Some things matter more than music." His voice was low and unfamiliar, with less armor and more man.

He stepped closer--not in her space, just near enough to be there; protective.

She hated that she didn't hate it.

She nodded toward the car. "Zeke needs ice."

"I'll drive," he said without hesitation.

She almost said no; she almost did. But her pulse was still racing, and the way Tate was looking at her--not like an opponent, but something else entirely--unnerved her more than the fight.

"Fine," she said. "Just to make sure Zeke's okay."

He didn't smile, but some small thing in his expression changed.

In the car, Zeke was still buzzing. "One second he's upright, and the next thing I know, wham! He's down--"

"Zeke," Tate warned, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"It's fine," Lela said. "Lady Rose started me in Krav when I was twelve; she said it'd come in handy for a girl."

"That explains a lot," Tate muttered.

"What's that mean?" she asked.

"You walk like you're not afraid of anything."

"I'm afraid of plenty," she said, watching the city roll by. "I'm just not afraid of assholes who mistake size for power. Might does NOT make right."

"Lela, you are my kind of people," Zeke stated from the backseat.

Tate took them to a taco joint Lela had never noticed--it had graffiti art on the walls, no menu in sight, and bars on the adjacent laundromat; it was her kind of place.

"Shit McTeague, this looks almost cool. How the hell do you know about this?" she asked.

"My old roommate's family owns it," he replied.

Inside, a bear of a man shouted, "¡TATITOOO!"

The burly man in the apron wrapped Tate in a hug that lifted him off the ground, which was no small feat; Lela stared as Tate responded in fluent Spanish, grinning from ear to ear.

"Tatito," she teased as they sat.

"Don't," he said.

"It's too late," she replied.

They feasted on elote with crumbled cotija and jaw-clenchingly good limey salty white tortilla chips with fire-roasted salsa as spicy as karma. Lela bit into a taco and groaned.

"Holy shit. I'm going to marry this taco."

Tate grinned. "I told you."

He saw the pleasure in her eyes as she took a bite; he had given her that pleasure.

They talked, and Tate admitted he'd fought with his roommate over the Riverside deal.

"He wasn't wrong," Tate said quietly. "I'm just... stuck in the machine."

Lela sighed in exasperation. "You don't have to be your father."

"You're right," he acknowledged.

The words hung in the air, heavy.

By the time dessert came, the ice had cracked; they laughed and shared stories, their tongues burning on chocolate-filled churros.

Lela caught herself watching him when he wasn't looking.

At the end, Tate tried to leave a $200 tip on a $50 bill.

Lela gently grabbed his wrist. "They'll be insulted. That monster hug he laid on you means you're Fam, Man. You're family here. Act like it. Bring more business if it means that much to you."

He blinked, then corrected the tip; it was a small gesture, but a big shift.

Outside, under the flickering neon, they stood awkwardly while Zeke drowsed in the back seat.

"Tonight was..." Tate started.

"Unexpected," Lela finished.

"Was it in a good way?" he asked.

She thought about it--everything: the dance, the punch, the tacos, and how he stood way too close.

"Yeah," she said softly. "It was in a good way."

"You've got a hell of a right hook," he observed.

"Lady Rose always said diplomacy's fine, but you need to know the right time to go for the throat."

Tate exhaled a soft laugh. "Damn man, these stories I keep hearing about her... I met with her and honestly? She kinda scares the hell out of me."

"She's supposed to," Lela said.

They stood there a second too long.

Then Lela turned toward the car, churros in hand, her heart thudding louder than the music ever had.

Maybe this wasn't the end.

Maybe this was something else.

Maybe this was something real.

CHAPTER 13: RUBBER MEETS THE ROAD

Lela had burned through the night like a madwoman. In the aftermath of a small, caffeine-fueled war, there were mugs everywhere, legal texts stacked precariously, papers scattered across every surface, and the blue light of her still humming laptop casting long shadows. Her eyes stung, and her back ached, but she didn't care; the case against McTeague Enterprises--methodical and damning--was airtight, built on hours of painstaking research and the irrefutable facts Dee Dee had dug up. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she was finally one step ahead, armed for the fight.

With a shaky exhale, she pushed back from the desk and retreated to her sanctuary--a cramped bay window nook she called an art studio, though it was mostly just a few canvases, some old brushes, and her peace of mind. She lost herself in the colors, the gentle scratch of bristles against canvas slowly scrubbing the tension out of her bones as she painted with a fierce, raw energy. By dawn, the painting was done--or done enough--a swirling abstraction of urban grit and defiant green. She fell on the couch, holding Mocha like a furry, purring shield against the world.

It felt like no time at all had passed when three sharp, insistent knocks broke the silence.

Lela blinked, groggy, as she surfaced from a shallow, exhausted sleep. She fumbled her way to the door, one sock half on, squinting through the peephole.

Of course, it was just her luck: Tate McTeague. He was the subject of her most exasperating battles and, she admitted with a weary internal groan, the pulsating center of each and every one of her most forbidden, inconvenient masturbatory fantasies lately.

She opened the door just wide enough to block his easy entry, finding him leaning against the frame with that infuriatingly casual, self-possessed air. His suit this morning was artfully rumpled, giving him that whole "I didn't try but still nailed it" vibe; even slightly disheveled, his hair was like a magazine ad for expensive conditioner, and he had a five o'clock shadow on a jaw sharp enough to cut glass. And those impossible eyes--shifting from deep navy to teal in the morning light--raked over her with more than just clinical interest, a slow, deliberate scan that made the hairs on her arms stand up.

She crossed her arms over her chest, acutely aware of the paint-splattered band tee, jeans as old as her (and just as comfortable), and the distinct lack of a bra. She was unbothered; let him judge. He'd shown up at her door, unannounced, at the crack of dawn, and this was her turf.

"McTeague," she said, flatly. "It's entirely too early for your particular brand of bullshit."

He didn't even try to muster a polite smile; he just watched her, an unreadable look settling over his face as he exaggeratedly checked the chunky, expensive watch on his wrist. "It's 8:30."

"Exactly," she replied.

A look crossed his face before he spoke. "You left your truck at Baxter's."

"Yeah, I know where it's parked," she replied, feeling a prickle of unease despite herself. Why was he even bringing that up? "It'll survive a night out."

"It didn't," he said, his tone shifting, losing its usual controlled edge; his voice was quiet, clipped, and grim.

The way he said that made her stomach twist.

"What?" she asked.

He pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer, forcing her to step back to avoid contact. His eyes held hers, sober. "I went back for some gear this morning, early. Your truck was... there were lights and police tape. It was stripped and burned. It's... gone, Lela."

The floor tilted as Lela gripped the edge of the open doorframe. Gone? Stripped? Burned?

"That was last night, Tate," she repeated, needing him to confirm the timeline, the impossibility of it.

"I know." His voice was softer now, the harshness replaced by something akin to regret.

She swallowed, her throat tight. "Okay." She reached behind her for her jacket and phone. "I'll call an Uber."

"I'll drive you," he offered instantly, already turning towards the stairs.

She eyed him, the familiar surge of defiance rising. "Do you just... have to be the answer to every damn thing that happens to me?"

"It's for convenience's sake, not charity. I'm here already."

He had a point. She hated more that her painfully practical mind, tallying up the potential cost of the Uber, knew he was right. She hated most of all the tiny, traitorous part of her that just wanted to get there now, and having him handle it felt... easier, and safer, somehow, though she'd never admit it.

"Fine," she said, pulling her jacket on.

The drive downtown was silent, a tight, charged quiet Lela didn't dare break. She sat stiffly, bracing herself for the worst. But when they arrived at the cordoned-off street, it was beyond what she could have imagined.

Her truck, her ancient, reliable Chevy, wasn't just damaged; it was a gutted shell, stripped to the bone, its interior charred and melted into grotesque shapes. The seats were burned down to springs, and the dash was a blackened mess of fused plastic and metal. It looked precisely like the crime scene it was, and the bitter, acrid smell of burnt rubber and upholstery hung heavy in the morning air.

She stopped dead a few feet from the yellow tape, staring. The ancient Chevy had been more than just a vehicle; it had been her escape, her refuge, her mobile studio, carrying canvases and supplies for countless projects. More than that, it had been her temporary home during a brief, too-proud two weeks between apartments, a time she'd never told anyone about. The emergency supplies she kept in the glove compartment--cash she shouldn't have had, a clean shirt, and snacks. And a small, intricately carved wenge wood bird Lady Rose had given her after her first gallery show, a symbol of flight and freedom. Now, it was all ash and twisted metal.

She felt a sharp, physical pain in her chest as she took in the sight of the ruins, breathing in the smoky air.

Tate was beside her, watching her face with... not pity, which she would have hated, but a dawning comprehension of what this kind of loss meant to someone who didn't have a fleet of luxury vehicles at their disposal, to whom a car wasn't just transportation but security. When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher than she'd ever heard it.

"I'm so sorry, Lela," he said quietly, the words sounding inadequate against the backdrop of destruction.

She couldn't look at him; she couldn't articulate the depth of the blow. It was just a truck, logically, but it felt like a piece of her independence had been incinerated.

"That bird..." she murmured, her voice thick. "Lady Rose gave me a little bird."

"I know," Tate said, and there was something in his voice that suggested he did know, that he understood this wasn't just about property value. He reached out, his hand hovering near her back, not quite touching, a gesture of restraint that was somehow more impactful than contact would have been.

He let his hand drop. "I wanted to thank you again for what you did for Zeke last night," he added quietly, changing the subject, perhaps sensing she couldn't talk about the truck just yet. "Not just... for the self-defense. But the talking, the dancing with him... you helped him. He hasn't stopped talking about you."

She blinked, pulling her gaze from the wreck and turning toward him, her arms crossed over her chest, her stance protective; her vulnerability was receding, replaced by prickly defense. "What? I didn't do it for you, McTeague."

"I know," Tate said, and this time, a faint, genuine smile touched his lips, a glimpse of the man she'd seen at the taco joint. "That's... why it mattered."

"Don't make it a thing," she warned, trying to inject her usual bite, but the emotional punch of the truck still resonated in her voice.

But Tate only stepped closer. "It is a thing, Lela. What you did for him, what you are... it matters. You matter." His voice was low, intimate, cutting through the sounds of the city.

Lela frowned softly, completely disarmed. You matter. Coming from him? She had no response to that. Instead of dignifying it with an answer, she simply shrugged, and turned to walk back to his car.

He followed her, pausing as she reached his car. "He'd love to see you, by the way. He said to thank you, again. Though... I'd understand completely if you told him to go to hell after this." He gestured vaguely back at the truck.

Lela stopped and faced him. "Why would I do that? This wasn't his fault." She threw up her hands.

Tate's expression softened further. "No. But... you saved him, Lela, from those guys. And just... generally. He doesn't get that a lot." The last part was said quietly, loaded with implications about Zeke's life and his place in the McTeague family.

"Again," she repeated firmly, opening the car door. "Don't make it a thing, Tate. Seriously."

"It is a thing," he insisted softly still not wanting to leave; he ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, a rare sign of agitation. "Lela... please."

Something in his voice-- simple human exhaustion or the weight of his complicated life--made her hesitate.

She looked at him, trying to process all the conflicting signals he sent out -- the powerful, controlled heir, and the thoughtful, almost pleading man standing before her, then she got in the car.

Zeke's loft was quiet when they arrived; it was spacious and minimal in a way that spoke of expensive independence. He stood up from a large sofa as soon as Lela stepped inside, surprise and obvious relief lighting his face.

"Holy shit, Hot Chocolate! You came. I mean, he actually got you to come."

Lela scanned his face, checking the bruising on his temple; he seemed fine, a little tired perhaps. "I came to look at you and make sure you're still alright, kid. Don't make me regret it."

He pulled her into a hug, a clumsy but genuine embrace, and to her surprise, she let him, patting his back gently; he felt too thin, too young to be caught up in his family's orbit.

"Seriously though, I'm sorry about your truck," Zeke said as he released her, rubbing the bruise on his temple. "Is there any chance of fixing it? Like, really fixing it?"

Lela gave the devastated truck a silent burial in her mind. "Only if you know a really good necromancer, Zeke. That thing is most sincerely deceased."

Tate stepped fully into the loft, watching their interaction. "I'm replacing it," he stated firmly.

Lela spun to face him, startled. "Excuse me?"

"I'm buying you a new truck, Lela." His gaze was steady and unwavering.

"Absolutely not," she shot back instantly, defenses at the ready; this felt like a different version of that proposal wrapped in his money and his power.

"It's not a gift," Tate said, choosing his words carefully as he looked directly at her. "It's... reparations."

Zeke snorted from the sofa, trying to hide a grin. "Smooth, bro. Real smooth."

Tate kept his eyes fixed on Lela. "I know, right? Her favorite saying after all is 'real apologies come with reparations'," he shot Zeke an affectionate, knowing look, a small, conspiratorial wink that was entirely out of place in their current conversation, another glimpse into their brotherly dynamic. It also told Lela he'd been paying attention, really listening to her.

Lela threw her hands up in exasperation. "I'm not taking your money, McTeague! Especially not under that ridiculous guise. End of discussion."

"Then take my time," Tate insisted, stepping a little closer, his gaze unwavering. "I'll help you find a replacement. You choose the truck--any make, any model, within reason," he amended quickly, acknowledging the scope of the offer, "and I'll pay for it. No strings attached. You have my word." His voice was low and serious.

Zeke raised his hand weakly from the couch, like a witness in court. "Weirdly, I think he's actually being honest here, Lela. This is... new territory for him."

Tate shot him a look that seemed to be a complex mixture of exasperation, fondness, and a silent threat.

"Even if I were to let you help," Lela said, crossing her arms again, her stance tight with suspicion, "which I've absolutely not agreed to, I can't today. I've got work at the center."

Tate smirked then, that infuriatingly confident, predatory expression settling back onto his features. "Call out for one day. Tell them you have a family emergency. I'll cover your lost wages for the day."

Lela glared, the heat rising in her cheeks. "Do you ever listen to yourself? You can't just--"

"Seriously. I'll cover your shift. Consider it... operational support for the center, that you requested." He punctuated it with a slight tilt of his head, challenging her.

"You are utterly insufferable," she breathed, frustration warring with a strange, reluctant amusement.

"You keep saying that," he countered, leaning back slightly, looking way too pleased with himself, "like it's news."

Just as she was about to unleash another volley, her phone buzzed in her pocket; it was FaceTime: Dee Dee. She answered, bringing the phone up to her face.

"The boss says you should stay home," Dee announced from the screen, her voice loud and clear, probably amplified for her own amusement. "Lady Rose called him directly. She told him you had a 'traumatic incident' and are to take the day off. And wow, you look like actual shit, by the way, Lela."

"Thanks for that, Dee," Lela muttered, shooting a quick, annoyed glance at Tate, who seemed to be struggling to suppress a laugh. She could trust Lady Rose, whom she only mildly regretted texting, to directly and dramatically intervene.

"Where are you?" Dee Dee asked, peering at the phone screen. "That place looks fancy. Whose loft is that?"

Lela gave Dee the finger and quickly hung up without answering.

Tate's laughter was low and, rumbling; he was grinning, full-out grinning, looking absurdly pleased with himself. "Problem solved."

"The entire fucking universe is conspiring against me," she grumbled.

Lela shoved the phone back into her pocket and squared her shoulders. "Fine," she said, addressing him directly. "One day. One used, practical truck. If you try to get me into anything with leather seats, Bluetooth, or a subscription service for the heated steering wheel, I walk. Got it?"

Tate's grin widened, turning into something wolfishly delighted. "Deal, Hot Chocolate. Lead the way."

The elevator ride down was silent, the polished chrome walls reflecting their expressions; the air felt charged after the morning's events--Zeke, the burned truck, and the unsettling way Tate seemed to be navigating it all, shifting from enemy to protector, to something else entirely.

When the doors opened on a lower floor, Tate stepped out, his stride purposeful. Lela followed, assuming they were heading for the parking garage, but Tate turned down a different corridor, equally sleek and silent as the one to Zeke's loft, but somehow colder, more austere; it was less 'lived-in loft,' more 'minimalist fortress'.

He stopped before a door identical to Zeke's on the outside--anonymous and expensive--and fumbled with a fob, the tiny electronic click loud in the oppressive silence. "I just need to grab something," he murmured, pushing the door open.

He paused, revealing a glimpse of the space beyond. A vast, sun-drenched living area stretched out, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing a breathtaking, dizzying view of the city skyline Tate owned pieces of. The air inside was cool, silent, and filtered; the furniture was sparse, architectural, clearly expensive but chosen for form over comfort, abstract art hung on the walls. It seemed like a space designed for looking out at the world, not living in it.

He glanced at Lela, who seemed rooted in the hallway; her worn leather jacket and the soft afro were a welcome bit of warmth in the cold hallway. He held the door, a casual invitation.

"Do you want to come? Inside for a minute, Lela?" he asked. he asked, his voice low, conversational, but there was an edge to the quiet question.

Lela froze. Alarm flared in her gut; he was Hadrian's son. Her gaze swept past him into the apartment, taking in the height, the view, the sheer, effortless expanse of it all. His territory. Every instinct screamed at her to stay put in the solid, safe reality of the hallway.

She said nothing, just stood her ground, her shoulders back, her stance firm. Her nostrils flared slightly, a small, involuntary reaction to the sudden prickle of... something. Was it distrust, intimidation, or an unwise curiosity?

Tate watched her, his expression blank for a moment, then a slow, private smile spread across his face. He chuckled lowly, the sound entirely out of place in the sterile hallway.

"You scared?", he murmured, his voice dropping lower.

Her nostrils flared again, visibly this time. She did not dignify the question with a response; her silence was a deliberate refusal to be baited, her body rigid in fierce denial. She met his gaze and obstinately held it.

Tate's smile faded, replaced by a heated look he swept over her, lingering on her eyes, her mouth, her stubborn posture. His expression was compelling, wicked. The air between them shimmered hotly as threat battled attraction.

"You should be," he growled lowly. It was a warning, a confession, a promise. He stepped inside his apartment, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click, leaving her alone in the silent hallway as the echo of his words hung in the air.

He reappeared moments later, the same fob in hand, locking the door with another soft click. His gaze fixed on Lela. He still had that look, banked lower now, but still there.

"You ready?" he asked, turning towards the elevators, his voice once again controlled, as if the exchange hadn't happened, as if he'd not just issued a  sensual threat.

Lela nodded, unable to speak, her throat tight. The polished hallway felt colder, longer, as she walked beside him on autopilot towards the elevator, the chilling heat in his eyes minutes ago seared into her mind.

The tension of the hallway lingered in the car as Tate pulled away from the curb. The heavy silence was broken only by the soft rumble of the BMW's engine. Then, a deep, soulful house track began to pulse from the speakers. The music wrapped around her, its hypnotic beats and soothing vocals slowly unwinding the knots of tension in her chest.

Surprised by the shift in her mood, Lela reached out and touched his arm lightly.   Her touch, just this little bit of intimacy, made ever hair on his arm stand at attention. When was the last time he'd been touched? "What is this?" she whispered.

Tate glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "It's 'I'm Fallin'' by Black Coffee," he replied evenly.

"Oh my god, I think I love this," Lela breathed. "Turn it up, McTeague. Seriously."

Tate glanced at her in surprise, that knowing smile touched his lips again; he reached over and turned the volume dial, the bass deepening, vibrating subtly through the expensive car's frame.

Lela closed her eyes, a small  smile on her lips as she danced a little in her seat, letting the music wash over her. She listened for a few more minutes, appreciating the DJ's distinct style, the careful layering of tracks, and the subtle shifts in beat. "Whoever this is... they're good."

Tate's smile widened, a flash of something like boyish pride in his eyes. "I did overhear someone say the DJ was worth the cover charge."

Lela's head snapped towards him, her eyes wide. Had he heard her? How? Had he been that close and she missed it? "Yeah, I said it and I meant it. Is this your mix? Was that really all you at the club, all that electronic music?"

He nodded with genuine pride. "I used to spin back in college. I was damned good   too, or so the people said."

"That set was fire," she admitted, a genuinely unrestrained grin on her face. "Honestly, I didn't expect... that... from you."

"What exactly did you expect, Lela?" He probed gently.

She confessed, surprisingly at ease talking about something so simple. "I expected classical... maybe? Yacht rock? Something... beige." She paused, listening to the music again, her head nodding to a track that dropped into a familiar, complex drumming. "But this? This is... This has soul."

He laughed then, a rumbling, warm sound that filled the car. "Lela. Please tell me you're not doing that."

Lela's brow furrowed slightly, the ease dissipating a little, replaced by caution. "Doing what?"

"Making assumptions," he said, his voice losing its amusement, becoming serious, even a little frustrated, though not unkind. "What? I can't have soul? I can't be chill?" He shook his head, running a hand through   already disheveled hair. "Just stop already. Not all white people lack rhythm, and not all Black people have rhythm. Cultural appropriation happens, yes, but music should be about connection, not color." His voice had risen slightly, edged with exasperation.

Lela was stunned silent; she felt a hot flush creep up her neck as shame warred with indignation. He was right; she'd been making assumptions, categorizing him, boxing him in based on his name, his world, and his appearance. "Damn," she murmured, the word a quiet, contrite, reluctant admission.

Tate sighed his frustration visibly easing, replaced by a weary understanding. He glanced at her, an apologetic look in his eyes. "I can't believe I just lectured you. I guess it was only a matter of time before I completely lost my mind around you."

He paused, the music playing softly in the background, filling the silence. "My dad... used to say, if it weren't for the fact I look exactly like our esteemed ancestor Ezekiel, he'd have been convinced I wasn't his. He said I moved too well for a white man from our world." Dark amusement curved his lips. "But the paternity test proved everything, unfortunately for him. Plus... I'll say it with no modesty whatsoever, Lela. I was one funky white kid."

He laughed again, a short, self-deprecating sound that made her smile. "Seriously. There's a video somewhere... I was maybe ten years old, at a grownup party in a ridiculous little suit. And I was doing it, man,   dancing around my mom. She was eating it up, God rest her." He paused, a wistful look on his face as he spoke of his mother. "Where do you think Zeke gets those moves? I taught him everything he knows. So... when you're ready to dance with a man who actually knows what he's doing..." He paused, looking at her then, his gaze heating, a deliberately salacious glint in those teal eyes. "I got some moves for you too, little girl."

Lela huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Old man at the club moves."

He chuckled, letting it go. Lela, feeling bolder, reached out and grabbed his phone from the center console. "Let's see that playlist, McTeague."

Quickly pulling the car over, he unlocked it without hesitation, a small smile playing on his lips, and traded phones with her. Lela scrolled through his music library, her eyebrows rising higher with each artist she recognized as her initial surprise deepened: The O'Jays, A Tribe Called Quest, James Brown, Toni! Toni! Toné!, De La Soul, and Brick -- it was old school soul and R&B, Hip Hop pioneers, and Funk legends. Her shock must have been visible on her face.

"Nuh-unh," she murmured, scrolling further, finding another unexpected layer. "Okay, McTeague. Who raised you? You need to fess up."

Tate chuckled again, a warm sound that resonated in the close confines of the car; he looked at her with an openness of expression that disarmed. "My mom liked the oldies, yeah; soul and funk, that was her thing. That's why she chose Miss Odette. When I was born, mom had no idea as to how to care for a newborn, so that's when Ms. Odette came and she taught her how to care for me. So basically I had two mothers for about twelve years. After mom passed, Miss Odette as good as raised me. Of course, she was everything my family wasn't; she taught me a lot more than my tutors did about life, about character, and about good music." He looked away for a moment, his gaze distant, the memory clearly a private and precious thing. "We're still close. We talk every week. You'll meet her one day, I think."

Lela softened, understanding washing over her; Miss Odette, that explained so much. It explained the way he walked like there was a quiet rhythm beneath his brutal yet polished, surface.

"Yeah," she said softly, handing his phone back and taking hers, the earlier prickliness gone. "I think I'd like that,   meeting Miss Odette."

The silence that settled between them now was different -- it was comfortable, charged with a new understanding, and the promise of connections yet to be explored; the world inside the car felt a little less divided, their shared love of music a welcome surprise.

At the first dealership he took her to, Lela took one look around the gleaming, manicured lot and stopped cold, her eyes narrowed.

"This is a luxury lot." The air smelled of money and polish.

"They have trucks," he said, gesturing vaguely towards a line of massive, sparkling pickups that looked like they'd never seen a dirt road in their lives.

"Pavement princesses, McTeague," she stated flatly, walking amongst them and running a hand over impossibly smooth paint. "I need something I can actually beat the hell out of, something that can haul paint cans and lumber and scaffolding, and occasionally," she stopped, turning to size him up, measuring him with her hands, "hmmm, like 6'3" or so of tarp covered body, hypothetically speaking, of course; and also carry supplies for community center renovations and haul donated furniture to people who need it. You know, real-life stuff."

"Charming," he deadpanned. He paused, his expression becoming serious. "Wait. Are you renovating the center... by yourself?"

"Pretty much," she said, shrugging. "Someone has to. Not all of us can just throw money at contractors." It was a gentle jab, but the truth of it stung.

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze resting on her. "Okay," he said, conceding. "Where would you go if I weren't driving?"

Lela didn't hesitate. "Gee's, on Chamberlayne."

Tate groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The place with the giant inflatable Godzilla on the roof?"

"Yep," she confirmed, a small smile touching her lips.

"Do they even run background checks... on those cars?" His tone was deeply suspicious.

"Probably not," she said, walking past him. "But Gee's honest, and he doesn't sell lemons."

Tate sighed, resigned. "Fine. Let's go meet Godzilla."

Gee's lot was pure chaos; it had faded, hand-painted signs, suspicious puddles, weird smells that defied categorization, and one very stressed-looking salesman trying to juggle a lit cigar, a clipboard, and a ringing flip phone. Lela was instantly in her element, the grit of it familiar and comforting, while Tate stood slightly apart, in all his tailored angsty glory amidst the beat-up vehicles.

"Maybe you should just... wait in the car?" Lela suggested, not unkindly, as she recognized his palpable discomfort.

He shook his head, his jaw set stubbornly. "No way. I'm buying the truck, I'm here." But he sounded like a man being tortured.

Hard, on edge, in an unfamiliar place with this obliviously sexy little woman, who was,   between that ass of hers and her still braless state garnering some very appreciative looks, was proving to be stressful. He was warm. Her bottom swayed with every step and it was such a temptation. "I need a drink," he wanted to put his arm around her waist, some possessive gesture that showed that she was off limits.

Watching Tate try to negotiate with Gee's various employees was like watching a wolf try to reason with a pack of highly distractible raccoons; he was out of his depth, his usual corporate tactics failing spectacularly. Meanwhile, Lela was nimbly crawling under chassis, shining a flashlight on engine blocks, checking fluids, and smearing grease on her jeans without a second thought.

Tate looked baffled, watching her emerge from under a truck and wiping her hands on her thighs. "Do you know how to... actually work on cars?"

"Yeah," she said, pushing a stray braid out of her face with the back of a dirty hand. "First thing I ever fixed was a Bentley, at Harrington Manor."

He blinked, genuinely taken aback. "Seriously? A Bentley?"

"No Uber service at the ready out there. Sink or swim." She didn't elaborate.

Eventually, they found it: a dusty but solid Toyota Tacoma, five years old, built like a tank, its faded blue paint proclaiming its utilitarian purpose. Lela popped the hood and listened to the engine purr when she turned the key -- it was a low, healthy rumble that promised dependability, and it only had 60,000 miles or so on it--this was it.

Tate looked distinctly wary, eying the scratches and the general lack of polish, while Lela, conversely, looked smug, a triumphant grin spreading across her face.

The haggling process with one of Gee's salesmen was less a negotiation and more  like a street-fight, with Lela leading the charge, utterly in her element; she loved every second of it, pressing, cajoling, feigning disinterest, and citing obscure data. Tate stood back, observing. His expression was one of fascinated admiration. He tried to step in once, suggesting a price, but Lela waved him off, clearly having the upper hand and enjoying it immensely.

"You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?" Tate said, sounding slightly put out as he watched her expertly work the salesman.

"Immensely," Lela replied, without taking her eyes off the target, a grin tugging at her lips; this was power she understood, power she knew how to wield.

The deal was finally struck; signed papers were slapped onto a greasy counter, and keys jingled. The Tacoma was hers.

"I still think we should've looked at newer models," Tate groused as they finalized the paperwork, clearly not thrilled by the worn edges of the purchase.

"This one's got character," Lela said, patting the solid hood of the truck, feeling a surge of affection for the vehicle already.

"Character," he repeated dryly, "another word for 'future expensive repairs.'"

"It's un-flashy, reliable and dependable;   just needs a little work now and then," Lela shot back, leaning against the fender, suddenly serious. "Kinda like me."

He didn't say anything for a long moment; he just watched her. Then he stepped close, lowering his voice. "Nothing about you is 'not flashy,' Lela Wells. You shine, and you know it."

Lela's breath caught in her throat; she felt a sudden bloom of heat in her cheeks, and goose-bumps prickled her skin. The unexpected compliment, delivered with such quiet intensity, landed with more force than she was prepared for. She cleared her throat, looking anywhere but at him. "Well. Thanks for... getting me the truck, reparations or not."

Tate's smile was slower this time. "You're welcome, Lela."

They stood by the curb outside Gee's, the noisy lot fading into the background; the truck was legally hers, the keys warm in her hand, and they were momentarily out of things to say.

"So," Tate said, his hands casually in his pockets. "You're all set. You have wheels again."

"Looks like." Lela jingled the new keys.

"I should get back." The words were polite, automatic, but there was a strange reluctance to his posture.

"Right. Tell Zeke again I said to stay out of trouble, and to keep that bandage clean."

"I will." Tate hesitated for a beat too long. "Lela. About the orphanage--"

"Don't," she cut him off, holding up a hand as she stepped towards the driver's side of her new truck; the mood was good, and she wouldn't let him ruin it with their conflict. "Don't ruin today by bringing up business."

"But I--"

"Later, T. Seriously. Today you were almost tolerable, remarkably so, in fact. Let's leave it at that before the universe rights itself and you turn back into Prince Jackass."

"Almost tolerable. I'll take it."

Lela climbed into her new truck, settling into the slightly worn seat and testing the solid feel of the steering wheel; it wasn't like her old one, but it had character and it felt right. It would do. She lowered the window. "Thank you for the truck, Tate. Truly."

"You're welcome." Tate was rooted to the spot as he watched her. "Drive safe."

Lela started the engine, enjoying its healthy rumble. "Always do." She put the truck in gear but paused, leaning her arm on the window frame. "Hey, Tate?"

"Yes?" He stepped to the window.

She grinned, a flash of dazzling little white teeth. "I'd love to see those hip-hop photos sometime."

His face was all surprise but before he could respond, she pulled away, watching his startled expression shrink in the rearview mirror. As she turned onto the main road, the city opening up before her, Lela realized she was smiling--a wide, unrestrained grin--and couldn't remember the last time that had happened around Tate McTeague.

Her phone, resting on the passenger seat, buzzed with an incoming text from an unknown number.

Unknown Number: Dinner tomorrow? Cloth napkins. Wine list. I promise to be only 40% less insufferable. --T.

Lela laughed loudly, the sound startling a pedestrian at the stoplight. She wouldn't answer right away, she decided, turning the corner; let him sweat a little. For now, she had a new truck to break in and a strong craving for a bag of churros calling her name. Somehow, against all odds, she'd had an almost perfect day with the man she was supposed to hate, the man who, irritatingly, kept showing her unexpected sides of himself.

CHAPTER 14: Not a Date. Absolutely Not. (Probably.)

The Riverside Diner squatted beneath the bruised twilight sky like a forgotten relic, its brick worn, its flickering neon sign pulsing. Tate McTeague sat in his BMW, watching the parade of ordinary people through the smudged glass; they moved with a grounded reality. Mostly, they looked... fine, happy, even. It was a world away from his.

He checked his reflection: rolled sleeves on a dark button-down, jeans -- an attempt at blending that felt like a costume. The armor of his tailored suit was gone, but the stillness in his eyes, the one some had called a serial killer gaze, remained, a quiet, constant assessment of the world.

Zeke's text lit the screen: Kissed her yet? Does her ass feel as amazing as it looks?

Tate's jaw tightened as he typed back: She's not here. It's NOT a date.

Bullshit The reply was immediate. Lame. Too young for her myself, but if I wasn't... anyway, don't fuck this up. She's way too cool for you.

Facts. Tate pocketed the phone, a sliver of dark amusement touching his lips. He stepped out; humid Richmond air hit him, thick and close. He hesitated a beat, then crossed the street, the invisible line between his world and hers. The bell above the diner door jangled like an alarm, and heads turned. They saw him; the suit might be off, but the aura of quiet power, of otherness, was still there.

Lela was already in the back booth, tucked into a shadowed corner as if she'd claimed it. Her faded Richmond Kickers t-shirt looked like it belonged to her, comfortable and real. Her hair today... was not braids; it was a massive, wild afro of tight curls that caught the dim light, soft yet defiant, it left her neck beautifully exposed. He saw a tattoo he'd missed before -- three small, white dots forming a triangle just behind her ear, another piece of the puzzle.

Her big amber eyes scanned him head to toe before they found his as he approached, and they gleamed with... interest?

"Look at you," she said, her voice low, just for him. "Trying to pass for human."

"Is it working?" He slid into the booth opposite her; the vinyl was worn thin from many years.

"Nah. You still reek of privilege." She shook her head. "You can't help it."

"You are just determined to hate me." He matched her tone.

She sipped her coffee, slowly, a measured movement. "My mother brought me here on Sundays, after church." Simple facts, offered quietly. "Before the cancer."

He took it in, filed it away. "I've driven past it countless times."

"But you never deigned to enter," she finished his thought, her gaze steady.

"We McTeague's prefer wood-paneled rooms," he said, the words surprising even himself with their self-deprecating edge, "with old men plotting world domination over expensive whiskey, behind heavy doors."

"That sounds suffocating."

"It is." It was a simple, unvarnished truth.

Gloria came over then, her hands weathered, her kind eyes seeing everything, missing nothing. "What'll you have, handsome?"

"Black coffee, no sugar, no cream."

Her gaze bounced between them, from Lela to him, and her lips curved into a knowing smile. "You two on a date?"

"No." Their voices were sharp, immediate, and in perfect unison; they exchanged a quick, surprised look.

Gloria's laugh was rich with disbelief as she shook her head slightly. "If you say so, baby. I'll be right back with that coffee."

As Gloria walked away, Lela shook her head, a genuine, albeit wry, smile finally gracing her lips. "Gloria... she knew me in afro puffs. She's Richmond's most determined matchmaker, and a wicked gossip queen."

"I assume I'm to be added to your extensive list of public sins, then."

"By tomorrow morning, the whole neighborhood will have me walking down the aisle with a white man. My street cred: zero. All my years of dedicated violent intimidation: utterly useless."

"Would it be so wrong? Me. You." The question slipped out before he could catch it.

Her wide amber eyes snapped to his, locking on. He held her gaze, letting her see the question was real, not a game. After a beat, she retreated, her gaze dropping, hiding behind her coffee cup. "How's your brother?" she deflected.

He allowed the deflection, for now. "Fine, thanks to you." The weight of that gratitude, of Zeke's safety, settled between them.

Gloria brought his coffee, placing it carefully before him with another knowing smile. The silence stretched again, charged, the weight of their opposition still an invisible wall despite the surprising ease of their conversation.

Tate set his cup down with deliberate care, the porcelain making a soft sound on the saucer. "Down to business."

Lela stiffened instantly, her eyes narrowing. "Fuckery. I knew it. Let's hear it, McTeague."

"No fuckery," he said sharply, cutting her off as he leaned forward. "Just hear me out. Then we can go back to our... non-date like normal people."

She crossed her arms over her chest, fortifying herself, her expression daring him to try something. "Fine. Say it."

"I'm pulling out of the St. Sofia orphanage project, personally."

Lela went perfectly still; every muscle in her body froze. Her eyes, wide with surprise, locked onto his, searching. "Excuse me? What'd you just say?"

"Not the company," he clarified, the distinction important. "I'm sure they'll continue, as I don't have the authority to stop them. But me, personally... I'm extracting myself from the development. I won't be involved in its acquisition or demolition."

Suspicion, deep and instantaneous, darkened her gaze again. "What's the catch, McTeague? What are you playing at now?"

"No catch." He met her gaze steadily for a moment, then his eyes dropped to his coffee cup. "My perspective's changed... on demolishing places that serve a purpose, that house people."

"That's..." She searched for words, her usual eloquence deserting her. "That's surprising."

"Trust me," he said, looking up to meet her gaze. "I'm just as surprised as you are." He paused, needing to be brutally honest about the limitations of his position. "It doesn't change the facts, Lela. McTeague Group... still plans to bulldoze that place. My father is more determined than ever, especially after your recent... stunts."

"Not stunts, McTeague," she scowled, recovering her voice. "I have three hundred and fifty-two community signatures. The Historical Society is backing us. And--"

"I know," he raised a hand, to stop her from continuing a list he already had memorized. "I know. I've read everything you've published, twice, actually, if not more."

Her head tilted, studying him with a new, probing intensity. "Why bother reading my work, McTeague, if you were just going to bulldoze us anyway?"

Their food arrived then, delivered by Gloria with another knowing smile, saving him from answering immediately; the truth--his growing, consuming obsession with her words, her passion, everything about her, every facet of her defiance--wasn't something he could articulate yet.

"This is divine, Gloria," he said, forcing lightness into his voice; his bright smile earned him a conspiratorial wink from the older woman.

Lela didn't let it go, however; she waited until Gloria was out of earshot, then fixed him with that probing gaze. "Why read it? Really. If you're gone from the project."

Tate took a slow, deliberate bite of his turkey club, savoring the pause, letting the mundane act ground him. "You write well," he truthfully admitted, swallowing; the admission felt strangely vulnerable. "It's persuasive, passionate. It's... compelling."

"But not persuasive enough to stop the demolition," she countered, picking up her grilled cheese.

He sighed deeply, setting down his sandwich and shaking his head. "My father's will is a stone-carved thing, Lela. Once he decides something, the world either bends or breaks around it. He doesn't change course."

Lela studied him over her grilled cheese, taking a slow, deliberate bite, watching him. "What about you, McTeague? Are you cut from the same cloth? Are you ruthless?"

"I'm a different kind of ruthless," he said, a faint smile touching his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes; another truth.

"Hmm." She finished her bite, chewing thoughtfully, watching him. "What exactly does 'extracting yourself' mean for you, personally? Your name is still on the letterhead. You still profit."

"Not for much longer." The admission escaped before he could reconsider, before the instinct for self-preservation could clamp down on the unexpected honesty; it was a huge revelation, one he hadn't planned to share.

Her sandwich froze midway to her mouth, her eyes widening again, the cynicism momentarily replaced by genuine shock. "Meaning?"

Tate hesitated, the noise of the diner fading around them, the air thick with the weight of his confession. He hadn't voiced these plans to anyone--not even Zeke, not even his lawyers in explicit terms, but here, in close quarters, under Lela's demanding gaze, the truth felt necessary.

"I'm leaving the company," he said, the words strange, unfamiliar. "I'm breaking financial, operational, and administrative ties with the family business, completely."

"Bullshit," she declared again, the word flat, incredulous, falling between them like a gauntlet thrown down.

"Nope. No bullshit," he insisted. "It's been in motion for a few years now. The paperwork is almost complete."

"But... why?" Genuine confusion replaced her hostility. "Why walk away from... from all of that?" She gestured vaguely towards the window, towards the city skyline, towards the invisible McTeague empire.

He pushed his plate away, the food suddenly unappetizing. "As a child, I wanted to be an architect, a real one, not a developer who just buys and sells land and calls it progress--I wanted to create spaces that enhanced communities, that added value beyond the purely monetary, rather than exploiting them."

Lela's expression shifted subtly again, with something akin to understanding, or maybe just reluctant curiosity. "I can hardly imagine you as a child, McTeague. Honestly... the closest I get to it is envisioning you in a tiny little suit, clutching a tiny little stock portfolio and a tiny stack of eviction notices."

Her image of him startled a genuine, loud laugh from him, a sound that drew a quick glance from a nearby table. "Not quite," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Close though. I actually have two years of architecture school under my belt. I loved it, but my father said we could always hire architects; the dynasty needed me, needed me to step in, expand, and secure the future."

"So you just... surrendered your dream? Just like that?" Her voice was quiet, but the question held a surprising depth of disappointment, as if she felt the loss personally.

"That's the family way," he said flatly, the humor gone, the old weight settling back onto his shoulders. "Individual desires, personal dreams... they're sacrificed on the altar of the McTeague legacy. There is only the family."

"That sounds..." She paused again, choosing her words carefully, looking at him with a troubled expression he hadn't seen before. "That sounds shitty and profoundly sad, Tate."

The simple statement struck him with unexpected force; profoundly sad. It was exactly the right phrase. Tate stared at his half-eaten sandwich, the reality of years of suppressed ambition suddenly stark and painful. "It is."

A different kind of silence settled between them then--not hostile, but weighted with a shared understanding, a fragile bridge built across the chasm of their conflict.

"What will you do?" Lela finally asked, breaking the silence, her voice soft. "If... if you actually walk away from all of it?"

"I've got my own investments, separate holdings," he said, restlessly tracing a pattern in the condensation on his water glass. "Assets they don't control. I'm contemplating new, smaller-scale sustainable adaptive reuse projects that build something real, something lasting."

"Growing a conscience, McTeague? How very retro chic of you." Lela was sarcastic, but her usual bite was missing its venom.

"Don't sound so shocked, Wells. Not every developer dreams of bulldozing orphanages and community centers while cackling maniacally and wearing a tiny top hat."

"Just most of them, then." But a reluctant smile played at her lips, a softening around the edges he found infinitely captivating.

"Most," he conceded, matching her faint smile.

The tension between them eased, and they finished their meal in a surprisingly comfortable silence; the weight of their opposition felt, for a moment, temporarily lifted.

"When's the last time you were actually  inside St. Sofia?" Lela asked finally, as Gloria approached with the check. "Not as part of an assessment, just... seen it? Really looked at it?"

He shook his head. "Only once, years ago. now it's all on paper, in reports and satellite images."

"It's beautiful," Lela said, her voice soft. "It's gaudy or overly ornate, it's got lovely bones and great light, with tall windows that stare out." Her eyes took on a distant quality, as if she were actually seeing it. "Wide hallways, built for children to run and play." A sad smile touched her lips. "That building is holding its breath, Tate, waiting for life to return."

"Like you?" The question came softly, intuitively.

Her head cocked, her gaze sharpening, a hint of challenge. "What do you think you know about me, McTeague? Hmmm?"

"Only what Lady Rose told me," he admitted. "That St. Sofia meant something to you, personally."

Her shoulders relaxed fractionally, the guardedness easing slightly. "I grew up there for a small while, after my mom... and after I bounced around the system." She shrugged, trying to make it seem less significant, but the raw emotion was just beneath the surface. "It wasn't terrible. But then Lady Rose arrived and started running the place, and she adopted Dee Dee and me. She made this place... feel like home." Her voice grew fiercer again, her passion rekindled. "The state forced it closed a few years ago because taxes and maintenance became impossible. Rose wanted to sell land from the Harrington estate to save it, but it's all tied up in trusts." Her eyes met his, the old accusation familiar. "And then your family decided to obliterate it for luxury condos. No one who lives near there could ever afford one. You want to erase its purpose, its history, just for profit."

He winced internally, the brutal truth of her words undeniable. "When you put it like that..."

"There is no other way to put it, Tate," Lela said, but somehow, her usual venom seemed absent now, replaced by a quiet, profound sadness. "That building serves people with genuine needs. Your condos would serve only those who already have more than enough."

He couldn't, and wouldn't, dispute her assessment; it mirrored his own dawning realization. "What if," he said slowly, leaning forward again, his mind already racing, sketching out possibilities, the dormant architect within him stirring, "What if there were another way? A different plan entirely?"

"What do you mean?" Her eyes narrowed, intrigued despite herself.

"A compromise," he said, thinking out loud, the words tumbling out, fueled by a sudden surge of purpose. "Something that would preserve the orphanage building itself, its core purpose, as well as expand the community center programs it houses, but still allow for responsible development of the surrounding land." He leaned back, gesturing with his hands, visualizing the property. "The main buildings and the existing community wing only take up about a quarter of the acreage. The rest is just grounds, parking, and the old caretaker's cottage... where you go to paint alone," he paused, his voice rising slightly, becoming stern, chastising. "Which, by the way, needs to stop. It's not safe."

She bristled instantly at his tone and the unexpected look of authority, but her look of intrigue regarding his proposal remained on her face. "Your father would never agree to that."

"Indeed not," Tate agreed, his voice calm again. "But I wasn't considering asking his permission."

"What exactly are you suggesting, McTeague?"

He leaned forward again, his voice dropping despite the diner's ambient noise, creating an intimacy between them. "What if I acquired the property myself? All of it. Separate from McTeague Group, not under their umbrella, not part of their portfolio."

Lela nearly choked on her water, her jaw dropping slightly. "Acquired it yourself? With what, Tate? Magic beans? That land alone, not to mention the buildings and historical significance, is worth tens of millions."

"I personally own the two immediately adjacent lots," he said casually, the plan rapidly solidifying in his mind. "They're smaller parcels I acquired years ago, and they'd integrate perfectly. As I said, Lela, I have resources beyond the family coffers. Acquiring the St. Sofia property would be challenging, immensely complex, and it would require navigating family trusts and likely facing significant opposition... but it's not impossible." He added silently to himself: Just like you, Lela.

"And do what with it?" She asked, her voice skeptical but tinged with hope. "Because if it's just another developer coming in, just a different name on the deed, we've gained nothing."

"It would be a mixed-use development," he said, the idea coming together as he spoke, fueled by her questions and his own long-hidden dreams. "We'd keep the orphanage for its original purpose and expand the community center programs. We'd renovate, not demolish. We'd add affordable rental housing on the rest of the land, building and managing responsibly, maybe renting out small business spaces at lower rates to create local jobs. All the rental income and business rents would go back into supporting St. Sofia and its programs. The goal is to make the orphanage and community center self-sustaining, untouchable by people like my father; it would support itself while also benefiting the local economy." He leaned forward, his voice growing stronger with excitement. "It needs to be financially sound, sure--something that offers long-term benefits to the community--but not built on exploiting people or chasing profit at any cost."

Her jaw had dropped again, visibly this time; she stared at him, speechless for a moment. "Daaaamn, McTeague! All that?"

"All that, Lela. It's a framework, a possibility." He saw the gears turning in her mind, the skepticism battling against the undeniable appeal of the vision. "I've heard the 'how' from you. I'm admittedly awed by your tenacity, your resistance. Now, you need the 'why' from me. Convince me this isn't just another angle."

"Fair enough." His smile was brief, rueful. "How about this: I'm having a full-blown existential crisis at thirty-seven, disillusioned with the path I'm on, and desperately need to prove to myself, and maybe to one very particular woman, that I'm more than some soulless corporate automaton following my father's destructive footsteps?"

"Okay," she said slowly, gesturing with her fork, a flicker of reluctant belief in her eyes. "That... that I might actually believe. It fits the general air of privileged torment you carry." She paused. "But it doesn't entirely explain why this particular project would be your chosen vehicle for... redemption. Why St. Sofia?"

Tate hesitated; the truth was complicated, layered--intertwined with his growing  feelings for the woman sitting across from him, and the dawning realization that he'd spent years seeking approval from people who valued nothing beyond wealth and power.

"Maybe I'm tired of being the villain in everyone's story, including my own," he said finally, his voice quiet but steady. "Maybe I want to discover if I can actually build something instead of just tearing shit down. Maybe I want to discover if I can be something else entirely."

"And what would your father the great Hadrian McTeague do," she asked softly, clearly understanding the danger involved, "if his golden son and heir suddenly snagged  prime property from under the family company's nose and used it to support the very people fighting him?"

"Disown me, probably," Tate said, smiling grimly despite the mild dread that coiled in his gut at the thought of his father's brutal reaction; Hadrian wasn't a gracious loser, and betrayal was unforgivable in his world. "Given my other plans to break free anyway, it seems increasingly inevitable."

"You'd risk that?" she whispered, her eyes wide again. "Your inheritance? Your place? Your family? For a building you've never even really seen?"

"It's a matter of principle, Lela," Tate corrected, his voice firm. "It's for the chance to do something that feels... right. If he reacts as I predict, what am I losing?" He held her gaze, letting her see the conviction there. After a beat, the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. "Besides... I'd have the opportunity to collaborate with someone who actually gives a damn, someone who fights like hell for what she believes in, and who, I suspect, knows more about building community than I ever will. It'd be a welcome change of pace from plotting with predatory old men."

Their eyes met across the table, and for a long look of understanding passed between them, acknowledging the complexities, the dangers, and the unexpected potential of an alliance.

Lela broke the connection first, looking down at her plate again, her expression thoughtful. "I can't unilaterally agree to work with a McTeague--even a supposedly reformed one." Her lips quirked, a flicker of that earlier amusement returned. "Decisions regarding St. Sofia are made collectively, with the board, the community organizers, and the families we serve."

"Of course," Tate nodded, unable to fully mask his disappointment, but respecting her stance.

"But..." she continued, her eyes rising to meet his again, holding his gaze, "I could show you the building. Really show it to you. Let you truly see it, Tate, look at it beyond its market value. Let you feel the history in its walls, the lives that've been lived there. Then... maybe you'd understand why we're fighting with everything we have, and why this isn't just about a building."

"I'd like that, Lela. Very much."

Gloria appeared, clearing their plates with a practiced efficiency and offering dessert menus; Lela ordered chocolate pie without hesitation. Tate asked for the same.

"You two still claiming this ain't a date?" Gloria asked, not bothering to hide her amusement.

"Still not a date, Gloria," Lela confirmed, but her tone now had a lightness that hadn't been there at the start of the meal.

As Gloria walked away, Tate found himself asking, the question echoing the one he'd asked earlier, pushing the boundary again, "What if it were?"

Lela's head snapped up, her eyes wide. "What?"

"A date," he clarified, leaning forward slightly. "What if this was a date, Lela? Right here, you and me. Would that be so... wrong?"

"Absolutely," she said reflexively, the word automatic. Then, more slowly, her eyes searching his, looking for game, the angle, finding only a disarming intensity, "Probably. Yes. It would be. I... I don't know."

"That's not a no, Lela."

"It's not a yes either, McTeague." Lela leaned back, her arms crossing defensively over her chest. "You're still a McTeague. I'm still fighting to stop your people from destroying everything I care about."

"But if all that wasn't an issue?" he persisted gently, pushing at the edges of her resistance. "If we had no conflict? If I wasn't who I am, and you weren't who you are?"

Lela studied him for a long moment, her amber eyes inscrutable as she weighed the hypothetical, letting her imagination entertain the impossible. "In some completely insane, parallel universe where you're not you, and I'm not me, and none of this exists?"

"Exactly."

A slow, reluctant smile tugged at her lips, a beautiful, rare thing he felt privileged to witness. "In that universe, McTeague," she said, her voice soft, a hint of playful challenge in it, "you might... stand a chance. A small one. Maybe. If you worked really, really hard at not being entirely insufferable."

"I'll take those odds," Tate said, a genuine, wide smile spreading across his face, the first one he'd truly felt in days, maybe weeks. "In this reality, though, can we at least consider ourselves... allies? A tentative truce? If friendship is too ambitious a leap just yet?"

"Humph. Allies? How wildly optimistic of you," Lela said. "Let's say... non-hostile possible future acquaintances, McTeague, with potential for an upgrade depending on your reaction to the orphanage tour tomorrow and your ability to not be completely insufferable about it. And maybe... maybe depending on what happens next."

"I can work with that, Wells."

Their pie arrived, fragrant with chocolate and the comforting scent of nostalgia; they ate in a surprisingly comfortable, almost companionable silence that would have seemed utterly impossible just hours earlier. Tate found himself watching Lela as she took the first bite, closing her eyes briefly, savoring the simple pleasure. He felt something twist in his chest--desire, yes, but also a pang of envy for someone who could find such unadulterated joy in uncomplicated things.

"The tattoo," he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence, nodding towards the three small dots behind her ear. "The triangle. What does it mean?"

Lela's fingers went to it automatically, a fleeting, unconscious touch; she hesitated, weighing how much to reveal. "It's Orion's Belt," she said finally, her voice quiet. "Three stars. It's the smallest constellation, but instantly recognizable, anywhere in the world, in any sky."

"Why that particular one?" he asked, leaning forward, intrigued.

She paused again, looking down at her pie, tracing a pattern in the crumbs. "My mother used to point it out when I was small. We didn't have much, but we had the sky. She told me that wherever life took me, no matter how lost or alone I felt, I could always look up at those three stars and know that she was seeing them too; it was our connection, across the distance." Her voice grew softer. "After she died, after I was... bouncing around before Lady Rose found me... it became my anchor, my connection to her, to her memory. On my eighteenth birthday, the first thing I did, before I was technically even allowed, was get these three dots tattooed. Three stars, simple but eternal. A promise."

"It suits you, Lela," Tate said softly, genuinely touched by this unexpected glimpse behind her carefully constructed walls. "It's beautiful."

"Your turn, McTeague," she challenged gently, looking up, her expression open now in a way that made his breath catch. "Tell me something real about Tate McTeague, something not in the corporate biography, not about the family name, not about the money."

Tate considered what piece of himself he could offer in return; he couldn't give her the full scope of his nightmares, not yet, but he could give her a fragment of the truth. "I have a recurring dream about falling," he said, his voice low. "It's not the startling kind where you jerk awake right as you hit the ground--it's the endless kind where you just keep plummeting through darkness, never knowing what awaits at the bottom. Just... falling."

"I hate falling dreams," Lela murmured, a small shudder running through her. "They make my heart race like I'm on the verge of a heart attack for hours. But the thought of never landing... that sounds truly horrific, a different kind of free-fall."

"It used to terrify me," he confessed, "the lack of control, the unknown impact. Now... now it's almost... peaceful." His finger traced the rim of his coffee mug again, a nervous habit. "In the dream, I'm the only one who knows I'm falling; everyone else around me believes I'm still standing exactly where I've always been, on solid ground."

Lela studied him with an unexpected intensity that felt like a physical touch, her amber eyes searching his face, seeing past the practiced control. "And what's your amateur psychological interpretation of that, Dr. McTeague?"

"That I've been living someone else's version of my life for a very long time," he said, the honesty of his answer surprising even him. "And some part of me has always recognized the deception." He met her gaze.

When the check arrived, Tate reached for it instinctively.

"Not a date, McTeague," Lela said, "I can pay for my own dinner."

"I know. Never doubted that for a second. But I extended the invitation."

"I dictated the location and the terms," she countered, not backing down, her hand hovering near the check.

"The original idea was mine," Tate easily held the check beyond her reach. "If it troubles your fierce independence you can get the next one."

Lela's eyebrows arched sharply, a spark of fire returning to her eyes. "The next one, McTeague? Awfully presumptuous, aren't we? Assuming there even is a next one."

"Not presumptuous," Tate replied, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Just hopeful."

They emerged from the diner. Lela's truck parked not too far from Tate's sleek BMW--the stark contrast between the vehicles a perfect, metaphor for the distinctly different worlds they inhabited and the distance still between them.

"Tomorrow at ten?" Tate confirmed as they walked towards their vehicles, the silence between them now comfortable, charged. "For the orphanage tour?"

"Don't be late, McTeague." Lela's tone was a challenge, suggesting she fully expected him to be.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

They reached her truck first. She unlocked it, the mechanism clicking loudly in the quiet street, and turned to face him, her hands shoved into the back pockets of her jeans--a strangely vulnerable gesture coming from someone so self-possessed.

"This was..." she searched for the right word, her eyes meeting his, "... not entirely excruciating, McTeague."

"Such effusive praise," he teased, stepping a little closer, drawn in by the faint smile playing on her lips.

"Don't push it." But the threat lacked its usual heat.

Tate smiled, feeling a lightness he hadn't felt in years. "Thank you for dinner, Lela, for agreeing to show me the orphanage, for... for talking to me like I'm a person."

"Reserve your gratitude," she warned, though her voice was soft. "You might hate it--find it decrepit and worthless compared to the potential profit margin. You might decide it's not worth the fight, not worth risking your family's wrath."

"I won't."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because it matters to you," Tate said simply, his voice low and serious, letting her see the depth of his unexpected conviction. "And I'm beginning to think your judgment is impeccable, Sam--except perhaps in your choice of dinner companions."

The unexpected compliment, delivered with such quiet sincerity, startled a genuine laugh from her--a sound that made something in Tate's chest expand, a warm, unfamiliar ache. Before rational thought could intervene, before the ingrained caution could stop him, he leaned down, drew in a quick, shaky breath that smelled of her, and brushed his lips against her cheek, his touch deliberately light, nearly imperceptible against her warm, smooth skin.

"Goodnight, Lela," he murmured, already retreating, pulling back before she could fully react.

Her hand flew to the spot on her cheek, her eyes widening in surprise, following his movement. "What... what was that for?"

"For saving my brother," he said, listing the reasons, letting the truth, or at least some of it, spill out, "for granting me a chance despite everything I represent, for showing me something real, for making me want to be a better version of myself." He shrugged, as if the admission cost him nothing, though it felt monumental. "Take your pick."

Complex emotions warred across Lela's face--wariness battling against surprise, suspicion battling against something softer that she quickly suppressed, her expression shuttered again. "Goodnight, Tate," she said finally, his name on her lips.

Tate watched her drive away, the taillights disappearing into the night. He waited until they were out of sight before sliding into the cool, leather-scented interior of his BMW. His phone lit up with Zeke's impatient message: Well??? Spill it bro. Details.

A slow, private smile played at his lips as he typed:   Mind your own business.

Then, after a moment's hesitation, he added: But it went well. I think.

When Tate returned to his sterile high-rise condo overlooking the river, the city lights glittering below like scattered jewels, he didn't pour himself a drink or check his emails. He went directly to his desk and extracted a large, flat portfolio he hadn't touched in years, not since his father had crushed his architectural aspirations. Inside lay his old college architectural drawings--beautifully rendered plans for buildings designed not merely for profit but for human experience, for community, for spaces intended to elevate rather than merely contain.

He spread them across his vast, empty dining table, the paper yellowed, the ink faded, feeling something long dormant stir within him--a sense of purpose, anticipation, and possibility. Perhaps, just perhaps, with Lela's fiery guidance, with the unexpected challenge of saving St. Sofia, he might finally reconcile the warring fragments of himself and build something meaningful without completely severing ties to his family legacy; he could use their own rules, their own system, against them.

But as he caught his reflection in the dark glass of the window--ghostlike against the glittering cityscape below--Tate recognized the self-deception; this wasn't solely about buildings or redemption or fighting his father. This was about a fierce-eyed woman with uncompromising convictions, a woman who'd saved his brother and who might, if he were lucky, help his own soul.

He had the falling dream that night, as expected. But this time, as he plummeted through the familiar darkness, Tate glimpsed something below--not the crushing impact he'd always dreaded, not the endless void, but something luminous and warm, like three distant stars in a dark sky, something that made the surrender to gravity feel less like defeat and more like liberation.

Lela drove home in a state of quiet, confusing turmoil; one hand repeatedly drifted to the spot on her cheek where Tate's lips had touched her, the phantom warmth lingering. The gesture had been so unexpected, so gentle, so opposite the calculating, often terrifying businessman she'd constructed in her mind, that she struggled to reconcile it with everything she'd believed about him.

"Get your shit together, Wells," she muttered, gripping the steering wheel tighter, cranking the radio to drown her thoughts; it didn't work.

Pulling into a parking space on her quiet street in the Fan, Lela couldn't banish the image of Tate describing his abandoned architectural dreams, the look in his eyes when he'd confessed to feeling trapped in his predetermined life, like he was constantly falling. For years, she'd viewed him as the perfect, ruthless embodiment of everything corrupt.

Now insidious doubt crept in. Seeing glimpses of the man beneath the armor felt dangerous, terrifying.

Inside her apartment, Mocha greeted her with an accusatory meow, rubbing against her legs, clearly unimpressed by her tardiness and her distracted state. Lela scratched the cat absently while checking her phone; she had three missed calls from Dee Dee and a text message that blared: DETAILS NOW. Don't make me come over there. Did McTeague try anything sleazy? Do I need to key that ridiculously overpriced car of his?

Lela smiled despite herself, a genuine, weary smile, as she typed back:   automotive vandalism not required - this time. Will tell all tomorrow. Maybe.

She deliberately omitted the almost-kiss, the charged tension, and the way her pulse had quickened when Tate had casually, hopefully, referenced "the next one"; she wasn't prepared to examine those reactions herself, let alone articulate them to her closest confidante.

As she went through her nightly routine, preparing for bed, Lela found herself anxiously wondering how Tate would respond to St. Sofia tomorrow. Would he recognize the beauty she perceived, the potential? Would the architect in him truly see the structure's soul? Or would the businessman, the McTeague heir, calculate only square footage and property values, seeing merely what could be demolished and replaced for maximum profit?

The answer, she realized as she finally settled down to sleep, mattered more than it should, which terrified her more than any wrecking ball ever could.

Chapter 15 - FOUNDATIONS

Tate arrived at St. Sofia twenty minutes early; a habit ingrained from years of his father's lectures on power dynamics. "Make them wait, Tate. Never wait for them," Hadrian McTeague would say, swirling bourbon in a crystal glass, the amber liquid the color of old money and dark secrets. For once, Tate ignored the spirit of that teaching, opting instead for quiet anticipation.

He parked his BMW beside the wrought-iron fence surrounding the property, and stepped out into the crisp morning air. The orphanage loomed before him--a three-story Georgian structure of weathered red brick and a pitched slate roof, its tall, arched windows staring out like watchful, benevolent eyes across the overgrown grounds; it possessed a dignified, historical presence that even neglect couldn't entirely erase.

Tate approached the fence, a coffee in each hand--one for himself, blessedly black, and another, for Lela. It was a peace offering, perhaps, after the charged, complicated night, or maybe just an excuse to see those amazing eyes flash with surprise again when he did something unexpected. He'd spent half the night thinking about her: the slight tremble in her voice when she spoke of the stars her mother had shown her, the fierce, defiant tilt of her chin when she challenged him, and the unexpected, intoxicating heat of kissing her cheek, a memory that replayed with vivid intensity.

"Didn't expect you to beat me here, McTeague."

He turned, a small smile touching his lips, as he watched her approach, her hands tucked into the pockets of a worn leather jacket that looked as old as the orphanage itself. Her hair was loose today, not in braids or a puff, but a magnificent, soft halo of tiny spirals and curls, framing her face and catching the morning sun.

"I never like to be predictable," he said, offering her the second coffee. "Black, no sugar, right?"

Lela's eyebrows lifted as she accepted the cup, her fingers brushing his, a brief, charged contact that sent a jolt through him. "Studying my coffee habits now, McTeague?"

"I notice details," he said, allowing himself a slight, knowing smile. "Occupational hazard." He didn't add that of late, he noticed every detail about her: her compact, voluptuous frame, small and petite, how even in heels she only came up to his shoulder, making him feel large and unexpectedly protective, a sensation that was both novel and dangerous. The precise way her jeans hugged the curve of her beautiful ass was a thing he'd mentally cataloged with illicit precision; he'd committed every expression, every gesture to memory since that first explosive town hall meeting months ago.

"Thanks." She took a sip, eyeing him over the rim of the cup. "So. Ready?"

"Ready," he said, his voice more serious than he intended, as he followed her while she unlocked the ornate wrought-iron gate with a heavy, antique key and led him up the cracked stone path towards the imposing entrance.

Lela unlocked the heavy wooden doors, the sound echoing in the quiet morning, and they creaked open to reveal a grand foyer with a sweeping curved staircase; dust motes danced in the thick shafts of light pouring through the tall, arched windows, giving the space an ethereal, almost magical quality.

"The community center operates only in the east wing now," Lela explained, her voice taking on a hushed quality. "It seems like a completely separate building from here, from the outside, but they are in fact connected internally. Budget cuts over the years... they've had to consolidate and close off sections. But the staff, the volunteers... they've managed, somehow, to keep the core place from falling apart completely."

Tate stepped inside, his footsteps echoing on the polished, worn wooden floors. He was instantly struck by the sense of space--high ceilings, wide corridors, rooms clearly designed to accommodate children's energy and movement. Architectural details caught his eye--intricate, hand-carved moldings along the ceiling, solid oak banisters worn smooth by the passage of thousands of small hands over decades, and leaded glass transoms above doorways that cast colorful, jewel-toned patterns on the wooden floors and walls.

"The acoustics in here must be incredible," he murmured, his voice carrying down the long, empty hallway; he could almost hear the echoes of past laughter, footsteps, and shouts.

Lela nodded, a faint smile touching her lips, seeing the space through his eyes, or perhaps remembering it through her own. "They are. We used to scream just for the sound of it, bouncing off the walls, filling the space. All kids do when they first arrive, testing the boundaries, finding their voice. Hell, I'm tempted to do it now, just to feel the space." Her gaze drifted up the staircase. "The younger children used to sing Christmas carols, or just practice scales, right there on that landing. The sound would fill the entire building, sounding like angels, even when we were little devils." Her hand trailed along the banister, feeling the smooth, worn wood. "

"You lived here," Tate stated quietly, not a question, but an acknowledgement, connecting the building to her story, to the vulnerability she'd shared last night at the diner.

"For a little while, after my mom died," she confirmed, her voice softer now. She shrugged, trying, as always, to make it seem less significant than it was, a brief blip. "It wasn't so bad, not really; it was safe, mostly. But then Lady Rose arrived, and she started running the place, and she adopted Dee Dee and me. That's when this place," she gestured around the grand foyer, "really started to feel like home, like family."

Tate followed her through the main corridor. He took in details his father's reports had never mentioned, and would never have noticed--initials carved deep into a wooden doorframe; a worn spot on the floor near a window where generations of children had clearly played the same games, perhaps watching the world outside; and the small, smudged handprints pressed into a concrete patch near a doorway, preserved in time.

"The architect who designed this place," Tate observed, his professional eye finding something to respect beyond market value, "understood children. These spaces... were built to accommodate noise, movement, chaos, life. It's not just a building; it's a vessel for experiences."

"I didn't expect you'd see past the peeling paint."

"Like I said, I wanted to be an architect," he said, running his hand along a wall, feeling the solid construction beneath the layers of old paint and plaster, feeling a strange sense of recognition. "This building... whoever designed it understood that a building should serve its inhabitants, its purpose, not the other way around. That's what architecture is supposed to be about."

Lela led him up the grand staircase to the second floor, the wood creaking softly underfoot; dormitory-style rooms branched off from a central corridor, long and lined with doors. "Girls were on this floor, and boys were on the third," she explained. "Each room housed about six or eight kids, depending on the year."

One room's door stood ajar, and Tate stepped inside, pausing in the doorway; iron bed-frames, stripped of mattresses and bedding, still lined the walls, stark and empty. But someone, years ago, perhaps Lela herself, had painted the ceiling with glowing gold stars, a sprawling constellation map spanning the entire room, a silent promise of dreams.

"Your mother's stars," he said quietly, looking up at the faded constellations, remembering her story from the night before, the tattoo behind her ear; the connection felt sharp, poignant.

Lela was startled by how quickly he'd made the connection. "Lady Rose... she let me paint the ceiling," she confirmed with a hint of emotion. "She said every child deserves a sky full of stars to dream under."

Tate's chest tightened at the image of a young Lela, painting stars for other orphaned children to dream under, finding solace and purpose in a difficult world; it spoke volumes about her resilience, her compassion, the core of who she was. "Show me the rest," he said, his voice rougher than he'd intended, needing to see it all, to understand the full scope of what was at stake.

They continued through the building--the old dining hall with its long, empty tables where countless meals had been shared, the library with dusty, empty shelves waiting to be filled again with stories, and the small infirmary where countless childhood scrapes and fevers had been tended to; each space told a story, each room vibrated with memory, with the echoes of past lives.

"The community center uses the east wing now," Lela explained as they descended back to the first floor and walked the long, windowed corridor that connected the main building to a smaller annex. "They have after-school programs, ESL classes for immigrants, free health screenings, and a small food pantry. They make do with what little funding they have, patching things together with volunteers and donations."

She pushed open a door at the end of the corridor to reveal a large room filled with mismatched furniture, stacks of art supplies, and worn books; construction paper decorations, bright spots of color against the peeling paint, hung from the ceiling, and the air smelled faintly of paint and well-used crayons.

"This is where the kids come after school now," Lela said, pride evident in her voice as she gestured around the room. "We have volunteers who help with homework, serve snacks, and just give them a safe, warm place to be until their parents get home from work, somewhere they're not alone."

"We?" Tate asked, his gaze drawn to a wall covered with children's drawings--bright, chaotic, and full of uninhibited energy.

"I volunteer when I can; I help organize things and teach some of the art classes." She nodded toward the wall. "Those kids are talented, genuinely talented. They just need someone to give a damn, someone to give them a chance."

Tate studied the artwork--crayon houses with smiling stick figures that defied perspective, vibrant watercolor landscapes, and carefully drawn superheroes in capes with impossible muscles. One drawing, larger and more detailed than the others, caught his eye--a sketch of the orphanage itself, recognizable in its proportions, with the words "SAVE St. Sofia" written across the top in careful, determined letters.

"Those kids," Lela said quietly, her voice tight with emotion as she followed his gaze, "they understand what's at stake. They know this place might disappear."

He silently took it all in; the cold analytical mindset he'd been trained to apply in business clashed with the raw reality of human lives at stake, with laughter and tears, with the desperate hope etched into a child's drawing. For the first time, standing in this space, he understood what would be lost if the McTeague Group proceeded with their plans; he'd been a fucking monster, abstracting this place, these lives, into lines on a spreadsheet. No wonder she'd used all her might to attack him, to stop him.

"Caretaker's cottage?" he asked finally, the question feeling like a necessary next step, as he needed to see the place she retreated to.

"This way."

She led him out a side door near the back of the main building and across the overgrown grounds to a small brick building partially hidden by overgrown shrubs and low-hanging branches; it was charming in its dilapidation--a steep, sagging roof, mullioned windows obscured by dust and cobwebs, and a small porch with a swing that looked like it had seen better days.

"Lady Rose lived here briefly when she first took over running the orphanage," Lela explained, unlocking the door with another antique key. "It was... less than ideal, but it kept her on site. Now it's just storage, mostly. I've been trying to clear it out, fixing it up slowly, thinking maybe someday it could be a small counseling center or extra classroom space, something useful."

Inside was a chaos of drop cloths draped over unseen objects, paint cans stacked precariously, bags of renovation supplies, and tools scattered across the floor; one wall had been recently painted a warm, cheerful yellow, while the others remained in various stages of repair, revealing layers of peeling wallpaper and crumbling plaster. A rickety wooden ladder, looking entirely unsafe, stood propped against one wall, reaching towards the sagging ceiling.

"You're doing this alone?" Tate asked, surveying the enormous project she'd taken on, the sheer scale of the renovation compared to the limited resources available; it was madness, and it was also incredibly admirable.

"Yeah. Mostly," she said, shrugging as she brushed dust off her jeans. "No one else has the time or the... inclination, I guess. It needs to be done if this space is ever going to be useful."

"You could have fallen off that ladder," he said, the words coming out sharper than he'd intended, the image of her alone here, injured, was unimaginable. "No one would know for days, Lela!"

Lela crossed her arms defensively, her eyes flashing. "I can take care of myself, McTeague. I've been doing it all my life."

Tate stepped closer, deliberately using his height to tower over her, though she didn't back down an inch, holding his gaze. "Being capable doesn't mean being reckless. This whole cottage is a safety hazard you shouldn't be working in alone." He stood there with his hands on his hips, shaking his head at her infuriating stubbornness.

Lela was sorely tempted to laugh at him, at the absurdity of him standing here, lecturing her on safety in his expensive casual clothes, in a building his family planned to destroy. "Since when do you care about my safety, Tate? Since when is that a priority for you?" she challenged, her eyes flashing.

They were close now, close enough that he could see the faint starburst of gold and faint brown flecks in the depths of her amber eyes, smell the clean, tropical-flower scent of her hair, and feel the heat radiating from her small, strong body; the calm that had settled between them at the diner evaporated, the tension coalescing entirely into some new undeniable thing.

"This cottage is a safety hazard," he repeated, his voice lowering. "The wiring looks original, that support beam is definitely compromised, and that ladder wouldn't pass any modern safety standard or inspection."

"Well, if not for your family deliberately blocking Lady Rose's access to the funds tied up specifically for the maintenance of this property for years," she fired back, matching his lowered voice, not giving an inch despite their proximity, "it wouldn't be in this condition in the first place, McTeague. So you don't get to lecture me about it."

"My family," Tate said deliberately, his gaze locked on hers, the words a quiet but forceful assertion, "is not me, Lela. Not anymore. I told you last night."

"So you say." Her eyes challenged him. "You're standing here in your fancy clothes, making judgments about my methods and the safety of my workplace while your company prepares to bulldoze everything I'm trying to save."

"I'm standing here, Lela," he said, moving closer still, inexorably, until she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact, her back hitting the wall of the cottage, though she hadn't been aware she was retreating until she stopped. His hands came up, placing them flat against the rough plaster wall on either side of her shoulders, caging her in without physically touching her, a provocative gesture. "Because I want to understand what matters to you. Because I'm seriously considering spending millions of my own money, risking my entire future, to save it. Because despite your absolute, understandable determination to see me as the villain... I'm trying to be something else entirely. For you."

Her breath caught audibly, a soft sound in the quiet cottage; her eyes, wide and dark now, searched his face. "And what exactly are you trying to be, Tate?" The soft sound of his name on her lips set him off, a spark igniting a wildfire he'd been suppressing for months.

"That," he said, leaning closer still, his face inches from hers, his voice a low rumble that vibrated between them, "depends entirely on what you want me to be, Lela  Wells."

Her eyes darkened further, her pupils dilating, her lips slightly parted; anger or attraction--perhaps both--warred in her expression, raw and exposed. "I... I don't want you to be anything, Tate."

"Liar." The word was soft, almost tender, a quiet challenge to her denial.

Her eyes flashed, but the anger was mixed with something else, something hot and undeniable. "You think just because you bought me a truck and made some vague, dramatic promises about saving this place, I'm going to... to just fall at your feet? Forget everything your family has done?"

"No," he said, leaning closer still until his breath mingled with hers; his gaze dropped to her lips. "I think you're too smart, too proud, and too rightfully suspicious to fall for anything, Lela. You don't fall. You fight. And that," he added, his eyes meeting hers again, demanding, "that's what makes this so damn interesting."

"This?" Her voice had dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the pounding of his own blood in his ears.

"Whatever's happening between us, Lela." His gaze dropped to her lips again, lingered there. "The fact that you hate everything I represent, everything I come from... but you can't quite bring yourself to hate me."

"Don't be so sure, McTeague," she breathed, her husky voice lacking conviction.

"Then stop me," Tate challenged, his voice a low, rough murmur, as he leaned in closer, closer, until the distance was almost nonexistent. "Push me away, Lela. Tell me you don't feel this too, this pull, this... impossible thing... and I'll walk out that door right now. I'll stick to business. I'll find another project. I'll leave you and St. Sofia alone."

Lela's hands came up, rising slowly from her sides, reaching for his chest--to push him away, he thought, bracing for rejection--but they simply rested there, flat against his shirt, feeling the racing beat of his heart beneath her fingertips. Her eyes searched his face, looking for signs of deceit.

Finding none, she made small, frustrated sounds deep in her throat--a groan, a sigh. "This is... this is a terrible idea, Tate," she whispered, the words laced with resignation and undeniable desire.

"Probably the worst idea I've ever had," he agreed, his voice rough, one hand leaving the wall, reaching out, framing her face, his thumb brushing softly, tentatively, against her lower lip. "Tell me to stop, Lela. Tell me you don't want this."

But instead of pushing him away, instead of delivering the expected rejection, her fingers curled, subtly, into the fabric of his shirt, gripping the material, pulling him closer with a quiet strength that surprised and thrilled him; her eyes were half-lidded with arousal, tamping down some of her usual defiance. "Just so we're perfectly clear, McTeague," she whispered against his mouth, her breath warm and sweet, "this doesn't change a damn thing. I still don't trust you, and I barely even like you."

"Noted, Wells." And then her mouth was his.

His world screamed to a halt; the humming silence of the cottage, the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, everything dissolved as their lips touched. She was soft, so incredibly soft and warm, yielding against him in a way that shattered him. He lifted her slightly, and she pressed into him, molding her small, perfect body against his larger, harder frame. Like a miracle, her hand squeezed at the back of his neck, strong fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the angle of the kiss. He sucked in a ragged breath, inhaling the scent of her, and then pressed his mouth hungrily into hers, seeking, demanding. She parted for him instantly, a soft moan escaping her lips against his, and his cock surged, hard and insistent against the front of his jeans, a sudden, violent anticipation flooding him. He plundered her mouth, tasting coffee and something uniquely her, a flavor he wanted to devour, to own. He growled slightly, a low sound deep in his chest, as his kiss turned savage, sensual; he bit gently, then harder, at her lower lip, tasting the coppery tang of her blood, clutching her so tight against him he felt the breath leave her lungs, needing her that close. And she arched in his embrace, her body curving into his, flinging her arms around his neck, matching his hunger, kiss for kiss.

He tasted the hidden sweetness of her and was instantly, irrevocably addicted. When her teeth caught his lower lip in a gentle, reciprocal bite, an insane thought came to him as he devoured her mouth, pulling her impossibly tight against him: She is mine.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips along her jaw, down the column of her throat, finding the pulse point there, feeling her heart race wildly beneath his mouth, mirroring his own frantic beat. Lela's head fell back against the cold plaster wall, a soft, breathless sound escaping her that shot straight through him.

"Still hate me, Lela?" he murmured against her warm skin.

"Working on it, McTeague," she gasped, her hands still fisted in his shirt, then, with a groan of frustration and need, she pulled his mouth back to hers, demanding more.

This time, the kiss deepened, becoming a desperate exploration, tongues sliding against each other in a silent battle neither was willing to concede, tangled and hungry. His hand slid under the hem of her t-shirt, fingers finding the soft cotton of her bra, tracing the curve of her nipple, feeling her shiver and arch into his touch. Her hands weren't idle either, moving across his shoulders, down his back, learning the contours of him through his shirt, pulling him closer.

Outside the cottage, the sound of a car door slamming, surprisingly close, shattered the spell. Lela pushed against his chest, a sudden jolt of panic in her eyes, and Tate immediately, reluctantly put her down, forcing himself to step back and give her space even as every instinct urged him to pull her back into his arms and hide her away.

"That's... that's probably Gloria," Lela said breathlessly, as she straightened her t-shirt, trying to regain some semblance of composure while avoiding his eyes. "She brings supplies for the after-school program on Saturdays, early."

Tate ran a shaky hand through his disheveled hair, trying to smooth it down, trying to get his own breathing under control, trying to look like a respectable developer on a site visit and not a man who had just lost himself in a kiss. "Does Gloria have a key to the cottage?"

"No, just to the main building." Lela was still avoiding his eyes, her fingers pressing against lips that were slightly swollen from his kisses. "We should... we should go, before she comes looking for me."

"Lela." He caught her wrist gently as she went to pass him, stopping her, forcing her to look at him. "Look at me."

Reluctantly, slowly, she met his gaze; her expression was a complicated mix of wary lingering desire and something that looked suspiciously like dawning panic.

"I'm not sorry, Lela," he said deliberately, letting the words hang in the air between them, refusing to pretend it hadn't happened. "And I don't think you are either."

A spark of her usual fire, her quick defiance, returned, a defensive reflex. "Don't presume, McTeague."

"Are we back to last names?" He smiled, a slow, knowing smile, as he ran his thumb over the rapid pulse point at her wrist. "After what just happened?"

"What just happened," she said, tilting her chin up stubbornly, before pulling her hand free from his gentle grasp, "was a momentary lapse in judgment, a temporary insanity brought on by lack of sleep and... and stress. It doesn't change a thing."

"It changes everything, Lela," Tate countered quietly, with absolute certainty. "Or at least, it could--if you'd let it."

Lela turned abruptly and opened the cottage door, letting in bright morning sunlight to break the spell. "I showed you the orphanage so you'd understand why it needs to be saved, so you'd see that it's worth fighting for, not so you could... distract me, McTeague."

"Is that what I'm doing, Lela? Distracting you?" He followed her outside, closing the door behind them. "Because from where I'm standing, Wells, you seemed quite focused a moment ago, intensely so, in fact."

She huffed, turning back to face him, her hands going back to her hips, her attitude returning in full force, though her lips still looked soft, kiss-swollen. "You... you really are the most unbelievably cocky, arrogant, insufferable jackass I have ever had the misfortune to meet."

"And yet you kissed me back," he said, satisfaction in his voice, letting his gaze drop to her mouth again. "Enthusiastically, I might add, more than enthusiastically."

Lela turned fully to face him then, her expression serious again, the heat and embarrassment receding, replaced by the formidable strength he knew so well. "Look, don't get it twisted. Whatever that was in there--attraction, curiosity, temporary insanity--it doesn't change facts. Your father is still planning to destroy this place, and these children still need somewhere safe to go after school."

"And I'm still offering to help, Lela," he reminded her. "After seeing this place, after feeling it... I see it deserves to be saved, that it's worth fighting for, seriously."

"Why should I believe you, Tate?" she asked doubtfully. "Because you're a good kisser? Because you say the right words? People disappoint, Tate. People break promises all the time, especially people from your world."

Again with the doubt; his jaw tightened, but he kept his voice level. "I am a good kisser, Lela," he said. "And there's more where that came from, if you want it." He held her gaze, raw desire clear, but tempered with something else. "And as for my offer to help... I don't make promises I can't keep, not to you."

Before she could respond, before the moment could deepen further, a voice called out loud and clear. "Lela Wells, is that you hiding out in the bushes again?" Gloria emerged from around the corner of the main building, pushing a cart laden with boxes of what appeared to be art supplies and snacks; her eyes widened slightly when she spotted Tate standing beside Lela, a knowing smile spreading across her face like warm butter. "And with company, no less! Well, now."

Lela's expression transformed instantly, a warm, genuine smile replacing her troubled frown. "Hey, Gloria! No hiding, just... showing Mr. McTeague the cottage." She hurried toward the older woman, taking one of the lighter boxes from the cart, grateful for the interruption.

"Mr. McTeague was just getting a tour of the property," Lela explained, her tone suddenly professional, projecting an air of business. "He was seeing what his family plans to tear down."

Gloria's eyes narrowed slightly as she assessed Tate, her smile not disappearing, but becoming more discerning. "Is that so, young man? The McTeague boy, here to see what his daddy wants to flatten. And what's the verdict?"

She had both hands planted on her hips, her stance defiant, and she was giving him a look that demanded an honest answer. Tate cautiously approached, extending his hand. "It's nice to see you again, ma'am. We met briefly the other night."

Gloria ignored his outstretched hand, looking at him  over the rim of her glasses as she tilted her head down skeptically, her look sharp and knowing.

A faint smile touched Tate's lips. "Ma'am., if I have anything to say about it, St. Sofia will remain standing, all of it, renovated and thriving."

"Does your daddy know about this sudden change of heart?" Gloria asked, cutting straight to the point.

"Not yet." Tate lowered his hand, unfazed by the rejection. "But he will."

"Mmm Hmm." Gloria looked between them again, her gaze lingering on Lela's slightly disheveled appearance--the mussed hair, the guilty look--and Tate's own mussed hair, the faint smudge of dust on his shoulder. That knowing smile spread across her face again, wider this time. "Still not a date, huh?"

"It's business, Gloria," Lela insisted quickly. "Strictly professional."

"If you say so, baby." Gloria chuckled, a warm, rich sound, and winked conspiratorially at Tate. "There's coffee and my homemade blueberry muffins inside if you two are... hungry. For breakfast, of course."

The innuendo wasn't subtle. Lela groaned softly, burying her face in her hands for a second. "Gloria, please!"

"What, honey?" Gloria chuckled again, pushing her cart forward. "I'm just being hospitable, offering food and drink, like we do here." The older woman turned to head back toward the main building, the wheels of the cart rumbling slightly on the path. "Don't take too long out here now. The rest of the volunteers will be arriving soon, and we need hands."

As Gloria walked away, her knowing laughter trailing behind her, Lela faced Tate, becoming practical. "You should go. I have work to do, I don't have time to... for... whatever that was."

"Let me help," he offered immediately. "With the cottage; that support beam does need to be replaced, and that wiring looks dangerous. I actually know a thing or two about construction, believe it or not."

Lela looked at him, utterly, comically skeptical. "You? Tate McTeague? Manual labor? Swinging a hammer?"

"I worked construction summers during college," he explained, stepping closer, closing the small distance she'd put between them. "I know how to read plans and swing a hammer. I know how to replace a compromised support beam."

She hesitated, torn between pride and practicality. "That support beam... it really does need to be replaced."

"And that's a two-person job, minimum, a skilled two-person job," Tate pressed his gently, his gaze steady, letting her see he was serious. "Let me help, Lela. Just for today."

"Please," he insisted. "Just let me be here, let me help you. It's nothing more complicated than that." For now.

Lela weighed his offer, the risk; she saw sincerity, and the ever-simmering desire just beneath the surface, but also an unexpected patience. She sighed in a theatrical show of defeat, though he suspected a part of her was relieved. "Fine," she said, her voice laced with resignation and a hint of amusement. "I can tell you're in great shape under that starched shirt, which is good, because you'll need all those muscles."

"Great shape, eh?" he teased, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Lela cringed, closing her eyes in embarrassment at the accidental admission. "Shut up, McTeague."

"Hey," he said softly, his voice low, drawing her attention, making her open her eyes.

She bravely opened them, meeting his gaze.

"I like your shape too, Lela."

Those eyes flashed at him again, a mixture of embarrassment and surprise, but this time, a small, genuine smile finally curved her lips, a hesitant, beautiful thing that made his gut clench.

"You'll need different clothes," she said, the professional tone returning as she tried to regain control of the situation. "You'll ruin those fancy things."

"I have work clothes in my car," he said easily. "Force of habit from years of site visits."

"Of course you do, McTeague." Lela sighed again and shook her head, but there was distinct amusement in her eyes now. "Fine. Go change, then meet me back here at the cottage in ten minutes. And be prepared to work, McTeague, not just stand around looking expensive and supervising."

"Yes, ma'am." He gave her a mock salute, a gesture that earned him another reluctant smile, widening this time into something truly beautiful.

As Lela turned and walked toward the main building, balancing Gloria's box of supplies, Tate called after her, "For the record, Sam--what happened in there? In the cottage?"

She paused, turning her head slightly, but didn't stop walking. "Yeah?"

"That," he said, letting the words hang in the air, drawing a line under the moment, "that wasn't business."

She stopped, considering for a moment, her shoulders subtly relaxing. Then, without turning back, she called out, her voice clear, a hint of laughter in it now, "Ten minutes, McTeague! Move your ass!"

He watched her walk away, the confident sway of her hips in those jeans tightening something low in his belly. This volatile, complicated attraction, this shared purpose--had been building since the first moment she'd challenged him, refusing to be bought or intimidated. Whatever generations-long game his father thought they were playing, Tate himself was now playing for entirely different stakes, which involved the terrifying possibility of building something real with that infuriating little brown woman who drew him in like no one else ever had.

And he had no intention of losing.

CHAPTER 16 - Unsettled

Her hand, so small, so soft, so perfect on his raging hard-on. Holding her palm there as he moved it up and down his pulsing erection was perfectly natural, a dizzying heat pooling in his gut. Her fingers stroked him with an intuitive rhythm, it was perfect, unbearable. He saw her in flashes: deep brown skin, small round breasts, aching to be held, explored with his tongue and teeth; her plump mouth, her licking her lips, anticipating; her hand, moving with a twisting motion from the base to the head of his thick, insistent nine-inch monster, treating it like a prize. He thought about ramming his cock into her, burying himself in that tight, unyielding body. She was so small, maybe 115 lbs soaking wet, nowhere to hide his 'fuck stick,' as his baser mind supplied. He wanted to embed himself in her pussy so completely he fantasized he'd be able to see an outline of his cock bulging in her tight, hard belly once he was buried to the hilt. The thought of splitting little Lela with his thick, hard cock, violating the enemy with savage, dominant force, really turned him on. His enemy, the sexiest, most infuriating woman he'd ever seen, and her hand was making him melt, bringing him to the edge, he was about to burst. His balls were overflowing, drawn up tight, aching. His thighs shook as her hand pumped furiously and he made a sound like a hungry wolf as he let go, a strangled cry ripped from his chest. Torrents coated her tiny hand and forearm. She dripped with his milk. There was even more on her luscious breasts and trailing down her neck, a sticky map of his desperate release. Tate had even shot some of his load on her face, warm, creamy rivulets of his semen running down her smooth, brown skin.

He woke with a gasp, heart hammering against his ribs, the taste of her skin phantom-real on his tongue. He bolted out of bed, his body still vibrating from the imaginary climax, panting as if he'd just run miles. Sweat slicked his skin. Jesus, fuck, what was happening? He was lightheaded and sat back down on the mattress, shaking from the exertion. He groaned, disgusted with himself, running a hand through his damp hair. He'd just had a sex dream. About her..

And fuck, it had been hot. Disturbingly, violently hot. He rarely had dreams anymore, especially not vivid ones like that, not good ones. His hand wandered down the front of his body and noticed that his boxers were damp with sweat. When he got to his crotch, it was much, much more than damp.

He'd cum in his sleep. A full-blown, adolescent wet dream, something he'd not done since puberty, since the chaotic surge of teenage hormones had first assaulted him. And the fact that he still wasn't sure that the little woman-girl who'd brought that out in him wanted anything to do with him, only twisted the knife.

Tate groaned again, burying his face in his hands, telling himself to snap out of it. He laid there for a long moment, afraid to go back to sleep, afraid of where his subconscious would take him again. It was almost five AM. He dimly realized he was lying in the sticky puddle he'd made. The thought sparked another image: the puddle they'd make if Lela were here, in this bed. A puddle of her deliciousness mixed with his, the two of them sated and glowing in the aftermath, sticky and intertwined, kissing. Kissing. The very thought made his jaw clench. He forced himself up, muscles protesting, he stripped  the sheets, gathering the damp, tangled mess, stuffing them into the laundry machine with unnecessary force.

Later that morning, sitting in his office at the top of the glass tower, the Richmond skyline spread out below him, a concrete manifestation of his family's power, Tate stared out the window. His fingers tapped a measured, restless beat on the polished desk, but his mind was anything but calm. The phone buzzed on the desk, and he glanced at it. Another email from his father, laying out plans for the orphanage demolition, detailing legal strategies, timelines, contingencies for 'undesirable elements'--code for Lela and her community.

Tate leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face, feeling the grit of exhaustion and something else. Another reminder of all the messy, complicated things he had to juggle--work, family, reputation, along with everything Lela Wells embodied, everything she'd introduced into his perfectly ordered world.

The upcoming battle didn't trouble him as much as it should. Not the city council fights or the legal gymnastics required for permits. No. What consumed him, what had him staring blankly out the window, was her.

He ran a hand through his hair again, the blonde strands already disheveled. Frustration, thick and heavy, bubbled up. "I'll be bald in a month at this rate," he muttered, a dark, humorless laugh escaping him. The last few days had been very full,   and he couldn't stop mulling and obsessing  over every bit of it - their impromptu truck-shopping trip--her driving away in that beaten-up truck, leaving him standing on the curb, feeling adrift. Him manically  checking his phone for a reply to his dinner invite. Hearing her laugh in his head every time he remembered his mortifying hip-hop-phase confession, or the sweet way she'd grinned over those damn churros. It felt like a small victory--Tate McTeague, the man known for his thousand yard stare while making deals, had made Lela Wells smile and laugh, repeatedly.

He grabbed his phone and typed a quick message to his assistant: Hold all my calls for the next hour. No interruptions.

Standing, he began pacing the length of his opulent office, the expensive rug soft under foot, trying to clear his head, trying to understand the seismic shift that had occurred inside him. Her truck was out there somewhere in the city. Practical, reliable, un-flashy but still capable, sporty. Just like her. He couldn't keep pretending she was just an irritating problem to be solved and that he didn't care.

"I care for her?" He stopped pacing abruptly, the thought hitting him with unexpected force, knocking the air from his lungs. The admission felt strangely liberating.

But had it really started there? At the truck? At Gee's? He thought back further, back to the night at the club, the skull-thudding bass, the sudden, violent eruption of chaos, and Lela's fierce, unflinching reaction. He saw her leap to protect Zeke, saw the fire in her eyes as she stood up to a hulking aggressor, punching him in the throat as if it was the most natural, obvious thing in the world. Unflinching. No hesitation. Determination radiating off her small, powerful form. That image was burned into his mind, intertwined with the disturbing heat of his dream.

She'd become inescapable. Her petitions, her press conferences, those accusatory, intelligent eyes always seeking him out across crowded rooms, damning him, haunting him. A constant reminder that his internal makeup didn't reconcile with his family's worldview, with the casual cruelty of their empire. This wasn't what he had planned. He'd merely intended to see the project through--another addition to the McTeague portfolio, another thing to distract his father while he worked behind the scenes to get away from him, to dismantle his own ties. Yet Lela's ironclad resolve, her stubborn integrity, had begun eroding his certainty in ways he never anticipated, showing him a different kind of strength and  power.

The attraction. God, the attraction. It had caught him completely off guard, blindsided him. It didn't make any logical sense. She had always been an irritant, a sharp, clever adversary poking holes in his perfectly constructed world. He'd never consciously thought of her as anything more than a relentless, irritating, strident, round-bottomed little imp who seemed to exist solely to challenge and thwart him. An obstacle, nothing more. Then he'd seen her dancing, losing herself in the music he was creating, watching her deliciously petite body writhe, noting her energy, her flexibility, her sheer unapologetic presence on that dance floor. And then, when every instinct told him to send his assistant or a driver, he'd gone to her house himself. And now having kissed her, touched her and had her touch him back he dreamed of her, a viscerally addictive fantasy.

It began in earnest that morning she'd opened her door to him. Standing in the doorway in the bright morning sunlight, beautiful and unbothered, braless in a threadbare t-shirt, her small, round breasts with their tiny, dark nipples pebbled against the thin fabric and pointing at him... and in that casual moment, seeing her messy and real, something he hadn't even known was locked away cracked wide open. The control he projected, fractured just a little.

At thirty-seven, Tate was a busy man who rarely indulged his darker appetites. He had a ravenous and particular libido, yes, one that craved control and intense sensation, but his sexual predilections took time, planning, and careful partner selection. Since their encounter in the cottage, he hadn't been able to purge his mind of images of her small, tight body, not just naked, but tightly bound, vulnerable, in various positions and stages of undress. "That mouth of hers," he muttered to himself, thinking of its sharpness, its expressiveness, the way it smiled over the churros.

He'd never been with or even seriously attracted to anyone like her--not enough to pursue it, not enough to risk the complications. He'd never dated or even hooked up with a Black woman. Never truly considered women outside his immediate social circle. No women of color whatsoever. He saw it now, the narrowness, the blind spots carved out by his privileged, segregated upbringing. So sadly provincial, so deeply rooted in the ingrained prejudices of his family, prejudices he intellectually rejected but hadn't fully recognized as shaping his own life choices.

Despite his father's constant pressure to settle down with a woman from 'their world', Tate had sworn off marriage years ago, a quiet rebellion. He didn't 'date' in the conventional sense--he'd learned that even the most beautiful, accomplished women from his circles were usually more interested in his pedigree and wealth than in him. While he appreciated women in a basic, transactional sense, none ever intrigued him enough to capture his full, undivided attention, not like this. If he found someone physically appealing and willing to engage in activities that aligned with his appetites, an NDA was signed, consent confirmed, and then they engaged in a tightly controlled, often ruthless exchange of pleasure. Usually just once. He avoided 'troublesome' women as a rule. And Lela Wells was the definition of troublesome.

His busy, controlled world was meticulously constructed. Monotone. Predictable. Safe. The social circles he navigated were homogeneous by design and default. But biology, he was learning, was a ruthless bitch who gave not one shit about societal boundaries of race or class. She had blown through his carefully built defenses like a hurricane.

He recalled watching her stalk away from him at city hall after shouting him down publicly: that crisp white blouse, the black skirt with the wicked gold zipper up the back that drew his eyes to the sway of her hips, fat little ass cheeks, the way she wore even heels with aggressive grace, her hair swept up in a massive bun that seemed to defy gravity, revealing that elegant neck, that vulnerable nape. "Vicious self-righteous little cock tease," he'd thought angrily at the time, shoving down the unwanted jolt of arousal, rationalizing it as pure annoyance. Now, he saw it differently. Not a tease. Just... unapologetically herself.

Lela was beautiful--not in some distant, academic, 'she photographs well' way, but viscerally. Her smooth, deep brown skin, those large, slanting liquor-colored eyes that seemed to see right through him, fringed with thick, dark lashes that cast shadows on her cheekbones, the plump mouth with dazzling little white teeth that could bare in a snarl or curve into a heartbreaking smile. Intimidating with that glare of hers, yet physically small--she couldn't be more than 5'2"--she had a hard little body and a breathtaking, heart-shaped, incredibly pert ass perfectly cleaved into two separate and distinct round cheeks that frankly screamed for worship, for the mark of his hand. Lela in a pair of worn jeans, the fabric straining enticingly over her curves, was even better than Lela in a power skirt. And then there was her hair, sometimes a glorious, defiant afro that seemed to absorb the light, sometimes intricately bejeweled braids that were works of art, sometimes pulled back revealing that damn neck. "How does her hair even do that?" He wondered aloud, leaning back, a phantom scent of tropical flowers teasing his memory. Fascinating. Every detail of her was a masterpiece.

He thought of his rigid, racist stepmother, Zeke's mother, the epitome of old-money prejudice, who HATED natural Black hairstyles--even going so far as to rudely tell her maid she would personally shave her head if she came to work with her natural hair, pure ignorance veiled in privilege. That Lela wore her hair with such pride, such natural magnificence, was another silent rebellion that resonated deep within him, another contrast to the stifling, homogenous world he came from.

Lela wasn't just any woman who happened to be physically attractive. She was compassionate, with deep moral fiber and a fierce social conscience. And beneath the fire, there was a deeply sweet and personal side of herself that she guarded fiercely. He'd seen security footage of Lela at the orphanage property, feeding that feral cat she'd somehow charmed, a tiny act of kindness in a harsh world. She embodied everything he'd been taught to dismiss, everything he'd been trained to acquire and dismantle.

Now everything was complicated by the fact that he found her as beautiful within as she was without. And now that he HAD truly noticed her face, really seen it, he couldn't stop thinking about it, especially the way she'd smiled over those churros at Miguel's, a rare, unguarded expression he felt privileged to witness, a sign that he hadn't completely screwed things up. But beautiful in her principles, her unwavering stance, her refusal to be bought or intimidated. Beautiful in how she'd checked the oil and crawled under the chassis on six different trucks without a second thought about dirtying her hands, her competence and independence magnetic. Beautiful in the gentle way she'd explained to him why leaving an extravagant tip would have insulted the Valencias, treating him like an unknowing child needing a small lesson in basic decency, teaching him something his Wharton MBA and years of wheeling and dealing never could. Thirty-seven years old, the golden boy of Richmond real estate, getting a masters in true humanity from Ms. Lela  Wells. The irony wasn't lost on him.

They'd been moving towards an event horizon every time they encountered each other, and had taken a giant leap forward the night she'd saved Zeke. His little brother--awkward, goofy as hell, prone to anxiety especially around girls and kids his age, but a brilliant, funny kid underneath--was viewed as a disappointment by their father, something best left undiscussed. That Lela obviously saw the real Zeke, that she encouraged his goofiness, that she simply liked him, moved Tate more than he could say, a protective gratitude warring with his usual detachment. Zeke deserved allies, another  person  who saw his worth.

Ever since she'd looked at him with those clear, damning eyes that saw everything--his privilege, his complicity, his cowardice--and walked away without condemnation or absolution, she'd become a force in his life.

Tate was in a different place altogether, a confusing, exhilarating, terrifying space,   he liked it and liked himself in it.

So, it was time. The legal paperwork was almost done. His carefully selected, fiercely independent team of lawyers--the kind his father would never hire--were almost done dismantling his financial ties to the family empire. He'd gone about doing so piece by calculated piece over the past two years, quietly, secretly. Out of outright rebellion initially, but now it was an act of self-preservation, a growing realization that the empire was a gilded cage built on rot. What had started as a quiet exit strategy had taken on new urgency, a moral imperative, after seeing the value of the orphanage, of the community it represented, through Lela's eyes.

Lela's latest press release, printed from her caffeine-fueled night, was open on his screen. He scanned the defiant text, the unflinching demands, the call to action. He laughed to himself. She was something else. Relentless didn't even begin to cover it. Despite the fact that there was clearly something brewing between them--he'd caught her checking him out on occasion; it wasn't entirely one-sided, thank God--she was still at it, determined to stay the course, complete her mission. Where most activists burned bright and fast, fueled by temporary outrage, she seemed to have an endless reservoir of both outrage and fierce optimism simultaneously. She'd be thoughtful with him one minute, insightful and disarming, and tear him a new asshole the next, cutting him down with brutal precision. The kind of woman who'd stepped up without hesitation to save the little brother of her enemy. The kind of woman who could identify a transmission problem by sound alone and haggle Mr. Gee down to a price even Tate had to admit was fair.

Tate suspected if you looked up 'bittersweet' in the dictionary, there'd be a picture of Lela Wells: cat in one arm, handgun in the other, a determined, beautiful set to her jaw.

His father's warning echoed from their last heated call: "She's dangerous, Tate. She'll have people marching the streets of Richmond again if we're not careful. She won't back down like the others." Hadrian hadn't underestimated her. But she was more than dangerous; she was an incorruptible force of nature.

Tate rubbed his temples again. The attraction was complicated beyond measure. Physical, yes--blindingly so. Those eyes, the unapologetically confident way she moved, how she'd looked driving away in that dusty FJ Cruiser, one arm hanging out the window, a satisfied smile on her beautiful lips, free and alive. But more than that. Much, much more. She represented something he'd been starving for without even realizing it: authenticity, integrity, and Purpose. The courage to do what was right regardless of the cost, regardless of who stood in her way. She was everything his world was not.

The McTeague method had always been about the cold, calculating, yet pragmatic process of acquiring and maintaining power, regardless of who got hurt. Lela was its absolute antithesis--someone so compassionate it was terrifying. She'd rebuilt that community center with her bare hands, from what he'd gathered, from the ground up--painting, plumbing, electrical work, literally getting her hands dirty. While he'd been orchestrating its acquisition and eventual demolition from this air-conditioned tower, she'd been on her knees laying tile, scrubbing floors, determined to preserve something that mattered, something real and tangible.

And to think about how young she was. Just getting started, impossible woman.

He glanced at the clock on his desk. Noon. Lunch hour. He could go to her. Show up at her apartment again. Press the issue. "Am I trying to date her," he asked aloud, the question heavy and uncertain, "or just trying to fuck her and finally get it out of my system? Quell the goddamn obsession?" He ran a hand over his face again, scrubbing at his jaw. "Who am I even kidding?" The idea of a simple hookup with Lela felt sacrilegious, entirely missing the point of what was happening between them. And honestly? He didn't have a chance in hell of getting just a hookup from Lela Wells. She'd called him a fuckboi to his face once, and she wasn't strictly wrong about his default setting. He did not do relationships. He barely knew how to date.

What would it take? Would she laugh in his face at the suggestion?

The fundamental problem, he knew, was rooted in his very being. He came from greedy bastards, and he was, at his core, a greedy bastard himself. He wanted it all. "You cannot have it all, son. Life requires sacrifices." He could almost hear his late grandfather's gravelly voice, a voice he rarely thought of. And wasn't that exactly what he wanted? The impossible? To keep his family's warped sense of approval while winning Lela's fierce respect? To maintain his position in the world while dismantling the very system that created it? To possess her -- body, yes, but also spirit, passion -- without crushing everything that made her her?

His phone buzzed with an incoming text message, and his heart leapt into his throat before he saw it was just Zeke.

Zeke: Dad's threatening to send me to military school. Again. Mom tried to cook - nasty. The usual shit show. Why do I visit these people? Pick me up?

Tate smiled despite himself, his tension easing fractionally. He typed back: Be there in 20. We'll stop for tacos.

Tate set the phone down, a strange sense of anticipation and dread coiling in his gut. One thing was certain: He couldn't ignore her much longer. After what she'd done for Zeke, and inadvertently  him too--showing him a glimpse of what real courage and purpose actually looked like. Not after she'd made him laugh more in a span of mere days than he had all year.

His phone buzzed again, a single, incoming text notification. This time, the number was familiar.

CHAPTER 17 FALLING

Just after midnight--three sharp, insistent raps cut through the quiet hum of Lela's late-night research, and her pulse stuttered. That distinctive knock; she'd been buried in historical documents and property records, a glass of deep red wine her only companion, and the sound jarred her from her focused trance. Setting her glass down with a steady hand, she padded silently to the door, peering through the peephole.

Sure enough, Tate McTeague stood there, wild-eyed and unkempt. His shirt was untucked, sleeves rolled up to the elbows revealing strong forearms, his blonde curls  chaotic as if he'd been running his hands through it all night; he looked like a storm barely contained.

Lela hesitated, as she had a bad feeling about this. But with a steadying exhale, she opened the door just wide enough to block his easy entry. "It's midnight, McTeague. Whatever you're peddling this late can wait until--"

"They're going to destroy you if you don't back off," Tate interrupted, cutting through her protest; without waiting for an invitation, he stepped into her space.

Lela's mind whirled as she closed and locked the door behind him. Crossing her arms defensively, she tried not to let his agitation bother her. "Is that a threat, McTeague?"

"A warning," Tate shot back. "My father planted falsified documents in your preservation application, fabricated evidence. One anonymous tip to the right people and it's over. Everything you've worked for... gone."

She felt her mild sense of dread grow sharp, but she narrowed her eyes, refusing to show fear. "And you came here at midnight, looking like you wrestled a bear, to tell me this'll because...?"

Tate stopped pacing and turned to face her fully; his expression was hard, his lips pressed into a thin, frustrated line. "Because there's something buried at St. Sofia's," he said, his voice dropping to barely a whisper, the words heavy with implication, "something my family has been hiding, protecting, for generations."

"Bodies," Lela said plainly unsurprised. "And Confederate gold."

Tate froze, the color draining from his face; a slow, grim realization swept over him as he exhaled sharply. "Jesus... Christ. You know? How much do you know, Lela?"

"Enough to get why your father's so desperate to keep that land under his control." With deliberate calm, Lela moved toward her kitchen table, flipping open a leather-bound historical record. "Ezekiel McTeague, your charming ancestor, murdered enslaved people and anyone else who knew about his stolen Union gold, then buried everything -- the bodies, the gold -- on land that eventually became St. Sofia Orphanage." She lifted cool eyes to his, showing no fear, only steely resolve. "Did I miss anything?"

Tate let out a sharp, bitter laugh--a sound entirely devoid of humor. "Yeah. You missed the part where my father is willing to destroy anyone who threatens to expose it, including, it seems, his own son."

Lela's lips quirked. "You poor thing. Is Daddy threatening to cut off your trust fund?"

"My accounts are frozen, my credit lines canceled, and my board position is... under review." His voice was nonchalant though, as though the systematic destruction of his life, his future, didn't faze him in the slightest.

Lela studied him carefully. "And yet, here you are, warning me instead? Why should I believe this isn't just another elaborate scheme?"

Tate pulled out his phone, his thumb moving quickly across the screen before he slid it onto her counter. "Because I brought receipts."

Hadrian McTeague's voice filled her small apartment, cold, chillingly detailed plans for cover-ups, for planting fraudulent charges against Lela, for discrediting her work, and then, an almost offhand mention of "handling" any persistent problems, the implication clear and brutal. Lela felt ice settle deep in her veins as she listened to the words, each one rich with entitlement, arrogance, and casual cruelty.

The silence in the room was deafening when the recording ended. Lela  was first to break the silence. "That's a felony in Virginia, recording someone without their consent."

"Add it to my rapidly growing list of crimes against the empire."

Lela stepped closer, looking at him steadily, her heart pounding with quiet urgency. "Why risk it? What's your angle, McTeague? What do you want?"

"My angle?" He stepped closer, invading her personal space, close enough that she could smell the faint, lingering burn of bourbon on his breath--an intoxicating and dangerous scent. "My angle is I'm done. I'm done being a front for my father's corruption. Done pretending I don't see the shit my family does--the lives they ruin, the people they crush who get in their way." His voice dropped. "I'm done pretending I don't want you."

Lela's breath caught; her heart pounding. "You're a McTeague. I'm--"

"You're a woman who doesn't back down," he interrupted, his voice thick, his eyes blazing. "A woman who cares more about truth and justice than her own safety. A woman I can't stop thinking about... even when it's certifiable suicide to do so."

"You want to know my angle? To burn it all down: the lies, the secrets, the family legacy built on blood money and stolen lives. But  I need someone I can trust, a partner in all this."

"And you think that's me?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Tate's eyes darkened, his voice rough with rarely voiced vulnerability. "I think you're the only person in this whole fucked-up situation who gives a damn about doing what's right, no matter the cost or consequences." His eyes locked on hers. "And yes, Lela. I trust you--because I'm sure you'd happily watch my entire family empire burn to the ground and toast marshmallows over the flames."

Lela's chest tightened with a strange ache; Tate's words were a profound confession. He was giving her the one thing he hadn't allowed himself to give anyone: trust.

There was a long, heavy pause. Then Tate's expression hardened again, his jaw setting decisively. "What I'm about to tell you, Lela..." He inhaled sharply, his gaze unflinching, direct. "My father's financial threats, his attempts to cut me off? They're meaningless, utterly meaningless."

Her brows arched in surprise. "How so? Hadrian McTeague controls just about everything."

Tate gave a brief, pillager's smile. "Not quite. Ten years ago, I too found a cache of that gold myself, at our family property." His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "I was supposedly overseeing a routine maintenance project, a nothing assignment my father gave me. But I'd found some old family records, journals, things no one else had bothered to decipher properly, and I followed them."

Lela's breath caught in her throat. "How much?"

"Enough," he said casually, but there was a fierce gleam of pride in his eyes. "I converted most of it to untraceable offshore accounts and crypto before anyone in the family even knew it existed. That money's worth twenty times its original value now. My father thinks his financial leverage is his his ultimate weapon, but the truth is, Lela, I haven't needed McTeague money for years."

Lela stood there, stunned, the pieces clicking into place. "Then why stay? Why play the dutiful son all this time? Why put up with it?"

Tate shrugged. "Strategy. I needed access, position, and information. And Zeke... Zeke was a huge factor; I certainly couldn't leave him to navigate that shit show alone. I didn't give a damn about the moral implications of the family business, until recently." His expression softened then, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "Until I saw what they're willing to do to people, to good people, to protect their blood money."

Lela shook her head at the weight and sheer audacity of his long game. "So this warning... isn't about your inheritance, or your position. It's about--"

"You," Tate finished, his voice low, rough with emotion. "My father's never played fair, ever, and now he's targeting you. That's my line in the sand, Lela. He doesn't get to touch you."

Her resolve was faltering--she could feel it, the slow, deliberate unraveling of everything she thought she knew about him, about herself..."This doesn't change anything," she said, even as she leaned a fraction closer, her voice steady despite the confusion and chaos raging within her. "Your family still represents everything I stand against."

"I know," he said gruffly. "I'm not asking you to forgive them, or me, for what I've been a part of." His fingertips brushed her cheek then, just the slightest touch--tentative but deliberate, sending a jolt through her. "I'm asking you to believe that I'm not them, Lela. Not anymore."

Her heart hammered in her chest, a wild, frantic rhythm. He wasn't them, but was that enough? Could it ever be enough?

She broke the silence, her voice lower, more urgent, a demand. "Prove it."

Tate's eyes darkened, the determination in them hardening into something fierce; he took a step closer, closing the remaining distance. "Tomorrow morning," he said, his voice a low murmur, his breath warm against her ear, sending shivers down her spine, "I'm transferring full ownership of McTeague Architectural Preservation--the company I built separate from the family, my one legitimate enterprise--to you, along with all the liquid financing I've secured for it. If something happens to me, you'll have legal control of the company and the resources to fight my father--and save St. Sofia, like we talked about at the diner."

Lela blinked, stunned into silence. "That's..."

"Insurance," he interrupted, the word said definitely. "For us both. You get the leverage you need, the resources to fight, and I make sure that whatever gold is still buried at St. Sofia goes to the descendants of the people Ezekiel murdered--not back into my family's already blood-soaked coffers."

Her voice softened then, genuine concern coloring her words. "Your father will destroy you for this, Tate. He'll hunt you down."

Tate's smile turned chilling. "He can try." His hand cupped her cheek now, warm, grounding, his thumb brushing gently against her skin. "But he taught me too well, Lela. Hadrian McTeague is about to learn that I'm not just his son; I'm his fucking legacy, every bit as ruthless, every bit as cunning... just with a different moral compass now."

They locked eyes, her fingers lacing with his, a pact formed. "If this is some elaborate mind game, McTeague, so help me God..."

Tate's gaze never left hers, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he leaned in, his lips brushing hers. "It's not a game, Lela. It's a revolution."

In a fever dream, Lela closed the remaining distance, her lips finding his in an angry, desperate kiss. Briefly stooping to meet her, his arms encircled her waist, pulling her tight against him as months of fighting, of suspicion, of undeniable, simmering attraction, alchemized into something impossible to deny a second longer. He stood, lifting her effortlessly, her body molding against his. Huge hands slid under her clothes, exploring the tight, soft curves of her body hungrily--the swell of a soft breast, the indent of her waist. My god, she was made for him - an entire fat, round butt cheek fit perfectly in the palm of his large hand, a perfect, delicious handful.