After Tommy bought drinks for literally everyone in the club—his grand "I've made it" flex that had the whole place cheering—and Reyna covered our last round of whiskeys with that knowing smile that said she knew exactly what kind of night this had been, he finally called it.

"I'm done," he announced, swaying so hard he had to grip the bar like it was the last solid thing on Earth. "If I stay any longer, I'm gonna promise the whole world to this club. Gonna buy everyone cars. Gonna adopt the DJ. Gonna—" He blinked at his empty glass like it had stolen the rest of his sentence. "What was I saying?"

"You're done," I said, standing and catching him before he went face-first into the counter. "Come on. Time to go home."

"Home. Yes. Good idea. Great idea. Best idea you've ever had." He tried to walk and immediately proved that his legs had resigned mid-shift. "Why's the floor moving?"

"It's not. You're just drunk."

"Impossibly drunk," he corrected, proud of it. "Legendarily drunk. The kind of drunk they write songs about."

I half-carried, half-dragged him toward the exit—and of course that's when Reyna appeared, materializing with the kind of perfect timing that never happens by accident.

"Leaving already?" Her smile was professional, but there was something softer behind it. "The hero doesn't even stay for the victory lap?"

"The hero's gotta get his drunk friend home before he buys the place out of guilt and tequila."

She laughed—a real one this time—and pulled a small card from her pocket. Plain white, just a phone number in clean handwriting. No name. No message. Just ten digits.

"For you." She pressed it into my palm. Her fingers lingered a heartbeat longer than they needed to. Warm. Intentional. "I'm too smart to try anything here. You'd say no. But later—when you're not playing babysitter to Mr. Billionaire Hangover—you'll think about it. And if you do…" she nodded at the card. "You've got the number."

I looked at it. Heavy cardstock. Expensive. The kind of detail that said she planned this. "You planned this," I said out loud.

"I plan everything." Her smile tilted, sharp and playful. "It's the job—reading people, anticipating what they'll do, positioning yourself for the right moment. You're interesting, Peter Carter. I want to know more about the guy who drives a Rolls-Royce, tips like money doesn't matter, and knocks out seven guys without breaking a sweat."

"Maybe I'm boring once you get to know me."

"Maybe," she said. "But I doubt it."

Then she stepped back—professional again, distance restored. "Drive safe. Get your friend home. And think about calling me when you're ready for a conversation that doesn't involve bar fights and hero speeches."

I pocketed the card, still feeling the warmth of her touch against my palm, and helped Tommy outside. Her gaze followed us all the way to the door.

The LA night hit like a wall—hot, heavy, that kind of heat that clings even after the sun's long gone. Tommy inhaled like he was tasting the smog. Then he looked like he regretted being alive.

"Fresh air is overrated," he muttered.

"Don't throw up on my car."

"No promises."

The Phantom sat where I'd left it, glowing under the streetlights like a shrine to bad financial decisions. The valet looked relieved to see me—probably spent the night praying no one keyed a four-hundred-thousand-dollar Rolls.

I got Tommy into the passenger seat. He melted into the leather like a man meeting God. I slid into the driver's seat, hit the ignition, and that V12 engine purred awake like a wild animal that knew its worth.

Then my watch buzzed.

ARIA: Reminder set—Call Reyna within 48 hours. I've analyzed her behavioral cues and she's genuinely interested, not just networking. Also, her number's been active for six years. Statistically stable. Green flag.

I stared at the message, then at the card still in my hand. Reyna had planned her moment perfectly.And somehow, I already knew I'd call.

I glanced at the watch display—sleek, minimal, showing the reminder with timestamp and ARIA's analysis that always went way beyond what I'd asked for.

"ARIA, I didn't ask for a psychological profile."

"You didn't ask me not to provide one either. I'm being helpful. You're welcome."

"You set a reminder on my watch."

"Because you'd forget otherwise. You're terrible at following up on romantic opportunities when distracted by… other things. Like, for example, your current preoccupation with getting your drunk friend home safely."

She wasn't wrong.

I pulled the card out again, staring at Reyna's neat handwriting, ten digits that meant possibility, and tucked it into the center console where it wouldn't vanish into the abyss of my life. Maybe I'd call. Maybe I wouldn't. But ARIA was right—Reyna had been smart. No pressure. No expectation. Just here's my number if you want it.

The Phantom sliced into LA traffic. Tommy immediately passed out, head leaning against the window, soft snoring filling the cabin. He looked peaceful in that way drunk people do when they finally surrender to gravity.

The drive gave me time to think.

Lincoln Club. The celebration. The confrontation with Jack that had ended with seven guys learning precisely how much I'd changed. Tommy's loyalty, his friendship, and his ridiculous drunk philosophies about remembering who you were.

The streets blurred past—familiar now, from Lincoln Heights into neighborhoods where wealth bent rules and expectation. I passed my mom's mansion, glancing at the lit windows, wondering if she'd returned from her shift. I didn't stop.

Tommy's new place was only a few blocks ahead—close enough to visit, far enough to feel like his own domain. The neighborhood was a curated vision of wealth: clean, modern architecture, houses that belonged in design magazines, streets that smelled faintly of ambition.

I pulled up to the gate—matte black metal, automated, the kind of security that costs more than a normal human earns in a lifetime—and pressed the call button.

"Hello?" Mia's voice, slightly staticky through the intercom.

"It's Peter. I've got your boyfriend. He's very drunk and very unconscious."

"Oh god." Not annoyed. Not scolding. Just resigned affection. "Gate's opening. Pull around to the front."

The gate slid open, precise as a luxury watch. I guided the Phantom up the curved driveway. And holy fuck… Tommy had done well.

Three stories of aggressive modern architecture—all sharp angles, clean lines, matte black exterior like someone carved a building from shadow and polished it. Floor-to-ceiling windows glowed with warm interior light. Bold. Deliberate. Unapologetic. Yes, I have money. Yes, I want you to know it.

Landscaping mirrored the aesthetic: minimal, sculptural, strategic lighting, perfectly manicured patches of grass, carefully placed trees. Nothing accidental. Everything staged.

I eased the Phantom to the front door—massive, black, haloed in soft light, a portal to somewhere more interesting—and killed the engine.

The door opened before I even reached it. Mia appeared.

Holy hell, Mia.

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