The poker game was supposed to be a distraction.
A night to remind Cole of who he used to be, the golden boy, the heir apparent, the one with everything.
Instead, it felt like a wake.
He sat in the corner of the exclusive lounge, his whiskey glass untouched on the table in front of him. The amber liquid shimmered beneath the dim light, perfectly still, unlike the conversation that buzzed, louder with every pour. Cigars burned lazily between manicured fingers. A haze of smoke curled in the air like ghosts refusing to be forgotten.
His colleagues laughed with the ease of men too rich to care and too drunk to be subtle.
These were the same men who had toasted his engagement. The ones who slapped his back at the wedding and said, "You've locked down the prettiest woman in the city."
Now, they were dissecting her memory like it was a dirty joke.
"She was the only reason I even tolerated your family dinners," one of them snorted, adjusting his cufflinks. "God, Jade in that red dress? Like watching a forbidden movie on mute."
A round of chuckles rippled through the table.
"Remember that gala?" another chimed in, elbowing Cole like they were frat boys again. "She came down the stairs and—hell, every married man in that room forgot his wife's name for a second. Maybe more than a second."
Cole's knuckles curled slightly around the base of the glass.
"Too bad she didn't know how to shut her mouth," a third added, lips curled into a smirk as he reached for his scotch. "Pretty doll, though. Wasted on a man like you."
The laughter that followed was sharp. Derisive.
Like hyenas fighting over a carcass they thought no one would claim.
Cole's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Not yet.
Because all he could hear was Jade's voice.
Soft. Steady.
Telling him once, "They don't have to like me. I wasn't made to be small enough for their approval."
She had always been more than they could see.
And yet, even now, they still didn't see her.
They never saw the quiet strength in her silences.
The way she endured subtle jabs with a smile that never wavered.
The way she'd walk into a room and light it up without ever asking to be noticed.
"She didn't need to talk to leave an impression," Cole said suddenly, his voice like ice cracking across the table.
The men paused—mid-laugh, mid-drink.
"You don't get to talk about her like that," he added, tone clipped. Controlled. But underneath—something lethal simmered.
One of the men scoffed. "Relax, man. We're just reminiscing. You've moved on, haven't you? Vivien's a hell of an upgrade. Smart, sexy… doesn't stir the water too much."
Another laughed behind his glass. "Knows how to keep you in line too, huh?"
Cole rose from his seat.
The legs of his chair scraped sharply against the polished marble floor, slicing through their laughter like a blade. He picked up his glass—not to drink, but to ground himself.
And then, without looking at any of them directly, he spoke.
"She was pregnant."
Silence.
Thick. Immediate. Suffocating.
"What?" one of them finally asked, uncertain now.
Cole stared into the untouched whiskey.
"She was four months along," he said quietly. "With my child. When she died."
A hush fell over the table like a shroud.
Someone muttered a curse under their breath. Another shifted uncomfortably in his seat. A third looked down at his cards like they might save him from the guilt curling around his throat.
No one laughed anymore.
Cole set the glass back down—untouched—and left without another word.
The heavy doors swung shut behind him, muting the room.
But not the regret.
Never the regret.