But if I did that—if I didn’t get us to the exit—we’d die. I’d never see Sloane again, and I’d be responsible for yet more death.

I couldn’t let that happen.

Through sheer force of will, I dragged us inch by inch across the floor. I wasn’t breathing so much as gasping now, and bursts of darkness peppered my vision.

But somehow, I did it.

I didn’t know how. Maybe it was the same superhuman strength that allowed mothers to lift entire cars off their children, or maybe it was my body’s last rallying cry before it collapsed.

Whatever it was, it pulled us through the vault exit and toward the stairwell. The door flung open, and suddenly black and yellow streamed past my vision.

I glimpsed the letters FDNY before someone pulled Vuk off me, and someone else grabbed hold of me, and we were moving, ducking, hurrying up the stairs while other crew members battled the encroaching fire.

I let them guide me, too dazed and disoriented to do more than follow, but I looked back once—just long enough to see the vault, my dream, and everything that came with it burn.

CHAPTER 38

Xavier

It’d been the wiring.

After the smoke cleared and the first responders’ questions were answered, I sat in the back of an ambulance, watching the activity around me with dull eyes.

The cause of the fire wouldn’t be official until the city and insurance company investigated it, but I’d overheard snippets from the firefighters.

Electrical fire. Outdated wiring—the same wiring I’d told the electrician to keep a mere two days ago.

A small, logical part of me said it wasn’t my fault and the fire would’ve happened anyway because he wouldn’t have finished the rewiring even if I’d given him the go-ahead. A larger, more insidious part asked why I hadn’t taken the proper safety measures before I’d opened the vault to dozens of contractors and put them in harm’s way.

I should’ve made sure everything was up to code before I rushed into construction, but I hadn’t because I’d been so fucking focused on meeting the deadline.

One mistake, and people had gotten hurt.

The lingering burn in my throat reignited. The immediate symptoms of my smoke inhalation had cleared after the medics had treated it with high-flow oxygen, but I still felt raw and bruised, like someone had turned me inside out and kicked me till I bled.

Luckily, no one had died, but two of the construction workers had been transported to the hospital with severe burns. The remaining worker made it out with some bruises and a broken hand after something fell on it. I hadn’t seen Vuk since the firefighters rescued us, but I had seen Willow waiting outside, her face the color of snow. By the time I finished answering the medics’ questions, Vuk and Willow were gone.

I was lucky there hadn’t been more people inside and that the fire hadn’t spread to other floors or damaged the structural integrity of the building. I was even luckier the fire hadn’t happened after the club opened and was packed with people.

But I didn’t feel lucky; I felt like I was drowning.

My fault.

This was all my fucking fault again.

I scavenged for a scrap of emotion—anger, sadness, shame— and found nothing but a terrible, all-encompassing numbness. Even my guilt was hollow, like the fire had sucked the essence out of it and scattered its ashes throughout my body. It no longer manifested as sharp knives piercing my conscience; it was just there, pervasive and intangible.

Why had I thought I could do this? Opening a nightclub in six months was madness, and I should’ve never tried. I should’ve known rushing things would lead to disaster, but I’d been too blinded by pride and ego.

“It should’ve been you.” My father glared at me, his eyes bloodshot from grief and alcohol. “You should’ve died, not your mother. This is your fault.”

He’d been right. He’d always—

“Xavier.” A new voice penetrated my fog of memories. It sounded far-off, like something out of a dream.

Cool, smooth, feminine.

I liked that voice. I had a sense that it’d brought me great comfort in the past, but it wasn’t enough to rouse me from my stupor.

“Xavier, are you all right?” Ripples of concern disrupted the smoothness. “What happened?”

Pale blond hair and blue eyes filled my vision, blocking my view of the skyscraper, medics, and curious passersby.

Sloane.

One out of a thousand knots loosened, but that was enough.

The world snapped back into crystal clarity. Car horns blared from the street, first responders wrapped up their work, and the ugly phantom of smoke snaked through my lungs.

It was a crisp December day, but the acrid fumes clung to me like Saran Wrap, sinking into my skin and suffocating me from the inside out.

“Xavier.” Warm hands framed my face. “Look at me.” I did, if only because I didn’t have the strength to argue.

Worry etched across Sloane’s features. Her gaze roved over me frantically, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer than I’d ever heard it. “Are you okay?” she repeated.

She was bundled up in a cashmere turtleneck, coat, and pants. It was an odd thing to notice given the circumstances, but it reminded me we were supposed to go ice-skating today. At this very moment, we were supposed to be at Rockefeller Center, people watching over hot chocolate.

It was funny how days, plans, lives could change just like that.

One blink, and everything was different.

“I’m fine,” I said. My voice sounded as hollow as my guilt.

That was the thing. I was always fine, and it was always the people around me who suffered.

I lived; my mom died. I came out of the vault without a scratch while two men had to be treated for third-degree burns.

“What happened?” Sloane asked, her voice still soft. “How did…?”

“It was an electrical fire,” I said flatly. I laid it all out for her—the wiring, the electrician’s warning, my decision to push off the update and, most importantly, my lack of foresight in taking care of these things before construction had started.

“This wasn’t your doing.” Sloane had always possessed an uncanny ability to read my mind. “The electrician himself said the wiring wasn’t an emergency. You—”

“Maybe not, but it was my job to think about things like that.” I set my jaw. “I can’t cut corners like that. Imagine if this happened after the club opened. It would’ve been another Cocoanut Grove.” The 1942 fire at Boston’s Cocoanut Grove was the deadliest nightclub fire in history.

“But it didn’t.” Sloane stood firm. “I talked to one of the responders. No one died, and the physical damage isn’t as bad as you think. The vault has a lot of fireproof elements. It’ll be tight, even tighter than before, but with the right crew, you can rewire the club, fix the fire damage, and open in time. Maybe it won’t be—” “What?” I stared at her, trying to process her words. They made sense individually, but together they formed a jumbled mess.