Steel & Silk

"They said home is where the heart is. But what if you left your heart behind in a place you never wanted to return to?"

It's been three goddamn years.

Three years since I left this city behind. And now, the stale, humid air of JFK International hits me like a slap. I take a deep breath, but the scent isn't nostalgia. It's New York. Cold concrete, ambition, deceit, and the stench of expectation. I hated this place. Always did.

Stepping through the arrivals gate, I scanned the crowd lazily. It was still the same, business suits rushing past, lovers awkwardly reuniting, tourists lost in signs. I felt nothing. Not a single flicker of emotion. Except maybe irritation. My jaw flexed. I ran a hand through my hair, slightly damp from the heat. It always did that curled and rebelled, just like the rest of me.

A low hum caught my ear before I saw him, Hunter Raw, leaning against a sleek black Ferrari SF90, sunglasses perched on his forehead, grinning like the bastard he is.

I couldn't help the crooked smirk that touched my lips.

"Still driving midlife crises at thirty-five?" I called out, dragging my luggage with one hand.

Hunter barked a laugh. "Says the man with enough sins on him to write a trilogy. Get in, Steel."

I dropped my bag into the passenger seat and slid into the car, the leather hugging me like it remembered who I was. We high-fived like teenagers, like nothing had changed. It was both comforting and disorienting. That was the thing about old friendships; time didn't erode them. If anything, it made them sharper.

The engine purred, and Hunter pulled out of the terminal like he owned the road. "Welcome back to the gods-forsaken hellhole," he said.

I scoffed. "I didn't miss it."

"You here for the circus?"

"The engagement?" I asked flatly. "If that's what you're calling it now."

He glanced at me, one brow raised. "What would you call it?"

'A transaction. A forced merger. A penalty for not pulling out in time."

Hunter burst out laughing. "Still ruthless. I missed you, man."

I didn't respond. I watched the skyline in silence, the high-rises like teeth biting into the sky. I used to rule this place. At least, I was meant to. But obligation had claws, and mine were born in a house full of disappointment and fake smiles.

"Your brother really knocked her up, huh?" Hunter asked, his tone more curious than judgmental.

"Apparently with twins," I replied. "She timed it well. He proposed like a trained dog. I told him to get a damn paternity test. He didn't listen."

Hunter whistled. "You think she's playing him?"

"I don't think. I know."

The car sped past Fifth Avenue, cutting through traffic with arrogance only a Ferrari and a trust fund could afford. I leaned back, unbuttoned the top two buttons of my black linen shirt, and lit a cigarette. It hung from my lips like punctuation; the smoke curling around my jaw as I exhaled slowly.

"Still smoking those?" Hunter asked, grinning.

I gave him a side glance. "Still chasing women you can't afford emotionally?"

"Touché."

The city blurred by in flashes of motion and sound. People still moved like ants here, ambitious, desperate ants. I hated the noise. The need. The pretense. Chicago had been better. Simpler. My kind of brutal honesty. New York wore a mask. I tore mine off years ago.

Hunter pulled up outside a building that looked like a monument to arrogance. My building. I stepped out as the valet opened the door. The doorman greeted me like I was royalty, and in some ways, I guess I was. Money does that. Fear helps.

The penthouse was at the top, of course. Where else would I be?

Hunter didn't follow me up.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he said, saluting with two fingers.

"Bring a better car," I muttered, and walked inside.

The elevator was mirrored, all chrome and silence. I stared at myself, studying what had become of me. Tall. Lean. Toned in a way that spoke of power, not vanity. My body was built through punishment, not aesthetics. My shirt clung to my torso, the lines of my muscles etched like sculpture. I had three piercings in my left ear, two studs, one small black cuff at the top. They caught the light like steel against skin.

My hair was a mess of dark waves, always falling over my eyes. I didn't bother fixing it. I liked the wildness. Controlled chaos. That's what I was.

And my eyes, hazel, sharp, unreadable.

Women used to call them dangerous.

They weren't wrong.

When the elevator opened, I stepped into the penthouse like I'd never left. It was cold. Sleek. A reflection of the man who owned it. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the main living space, offering a view of a city I didn't trust. The furniture was black and gray with no color, no emotion. Just steel, glass, and silence. Just the way I liked it.

I dropped my bag and lit another cigarette, walking barefoot across the hardwood floor. Every step was deliberate, calculated. I enjoyed knowing the world couldn't read me. I liked it even more when they tried.

My life wasn't lonely. It was clean.

I had money. I had power. I had women when I wanted them. What I didn't have was attachment. It was a dirty thing. It changed people. Made them weak.

They called me a lot of things, ruthless, cold, arrogant. I didn't argue. I knew what I was.

Jordan Steel.

The man who walked away from a legacy only to build a bigger one from scratch. The man who didn't play nice. The man who knew how to destroy anything he touched if it meant survival.

And now I was back. Not because I missed anyone. Not because I wanted to be.

But because my brother. My poor, foolish brother was walking straight into the mouth of a woman who'd played her hand too well. And someone had to remind the family who the actual king was.

I threw my cigarette into the marble tray, watching the ember burn out.

Let the city remember who the fuck I am.