Chapter 11: The Ultimatum
The silence after Conrad left was a physical thing, a dense fog that filled the sleek apartment. Matthew moved through it like a ghost, rinsing the wine glasses, straightening a cushion. His phone, face-down on the counter, was a landmine. Arturo’s last texts glared in his memory: We aren’t done yet.
He didn’t have to wait long. The buzzer from the building’s lobby sounded at exactly eight the next evening, a sharp, electronic violation of the quiet. Matthew’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t expected Arturo to come so quickly, or so directly. He pressed the intercom. “Yes?”
“It’s me.” Arturo’s voice was flat, stripped of its usual melodic charm.
Matthew released the door. He stood in the center of the living room, arms crossed, as if preparing for an audit. The elevator chimed, footsteps approached, and then Arturo was there, in his doorway. He wasn’t in his usual embassy attire. He wore dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt, a leather jacket slung over one arm. He looked like a man off-duty, which somehow felt more dangerous.
“You didn’t have to come up,” Matthew said, not moving from his spot.
“You said we needed to talk.” Arturo stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft, definitive click. He didn’t wait for an invitation; he walked past Matthew, his eyes scanning the apartment. They lingered on the bedroom door, which was ajar. “Where is he? Hiding in the closet?”
“He left this morning. Back to Buenos Aires.”
“Ah.” Arturo moved to the window, his back to Matthew, looking out at the glittering Polanco skyline. “So the farewell tour is over. And now you summon me for the post-performance notes. To let me down gently. To say, ‘It was fun, but my ex is back, so adiós.’”
Matthew’s prepared speech—a careful blend of professionalism and regret—crumbled in his throat. “It’s not that simple.”
“It’s exactly that simple.” Arturo turned. The city lights framed him, casting his face in shadow. “You had a nostalgic week. He made promises. He marked his territory in front of me, in front of the brooding DEA man. And now you feel obligated to make a clean cut. To be a good boy and follow the old, familiar path.” He took a step closer. “You’re making a mistake, Matthew. You’re running backward into a museum because you’re afraid of the messy, living street outside.”
“You don’t know anything about Conrad and me,” Matthew shot back, heat rising to his face.
“I know he left. I know you’re here. I know the way he touched you at the museum was a performance for me, not a comfort for you.” Arturo’s voice dropped, becoming intimate, analytical. “You think choosing him is choosing safety. A known quantity. But you’re just choosing a different kind of chaos, one you’ve already catalogued. It’s lazy.”
“This isn’t about laziness. It’s about… history. About fixing something I broke.”
“You didn’t break it alone.” Arturo was in front of him now, close enough for Matthew to smell the faint scent of his soap, something clean and woody. “And some things aren’t meant to be fixed. They’re meant to be left in the past, where they belong.” He reached out, not touching Matthew, but his hand hovered near his jaw. “You are here. Now. With me. This city, this job, this… possibility. It’s real. It’s present tense. And it terrifies you.”
Matthew’s breath hitched. The truth of it was a sucker punch. The present was terrifying. It was a tangled knot of professional risk and a man who saw right through him. The past with Conrad was a painful but familiar script. “I made a promise to him,” Matthew said, but his voice lacked conviction.
“You made a promise to yourself first. To start over. Remember?” Arturo’s thumb finally made contact, a slow stroke along Matthew’s cheekbone. “You’re breaking that one instead.”
The touch was electric. It bypassed all logic, all the careful arguments he’d rehearsed. It spoke to the raw, bruised part of him that had thrived in the dark with this man, the part that felt seen in a way Conrad had never managed. Matthew shut his eyes. “This is an HR nightmare.”
“So is the look on your face right now,” Arturo murmured, his lips now close to Matthew’s ear. “So is the fact that you called me here, to the scene of the crime, knowing exactly what would happen. You didn’t want a conversation. You wanted a collision.”
He was right. The shameful, liberating truth of it coursed through Matthew. He had wanted to be stopped. He had wanted his noble resolution to be burned away by something he couldn’t control.
His resolve shattered. He grabbed the front of Arturo’s t-shirt, a desperate, clumsy motion, and pulled him into a kiss. It wasn’t like the kisses with Conrad—exploratory, laden with history. This was pure conquest. Arturo made a low sound against his mouth, a vibration of triumph and hunger, and then he was everywhere.
The careful, minimalist apartment became a battleground. They didn’t make it to the bedroom. Arturo pushed him back against the cold glass of the window, the vast city sprawling behind them, a witness to the surrender. Clothing was wrenched away, not unfolded. A lamp was knocked over, casting a crazy diagonal shadow across the floor. There was nothing gentle about it. It was a physical argument, a desperate trying to prove dominance, to erase the ghost of the other man, to imprint a new reality onto skin and muscle and bone.
Arturo’s mouth was hot on his neck, his hands possessive and sure. When he spoke, his words were gasped against Matthew’s skin. “Tell me you’re here.”
Matthew could only moan, his fingers digging into Arturo’s shoulders.
“Say it.” A sharp, delicious bite on his shoulder. “Say ‘I am here.’”
“I’m here,” Matthew choked out, the words torn from him.
“And he is gone.”
The statement hung in the air. Matthew didn’t confirm it. He couldn’t. Instead, he flipped them, pressing Arturo down into the deep cushions of the sofa, swallowing his sharp laugh with another kiss. He was trying to regain some control, some fragment of the plan he’d had just hours ago. But Arturo just pulled him closer, arching against him, his dark eyes wide and fearless behind smudged glasses. “You don’t get to hide from this,” Arturo whispered. “Not anymore.”
It was frantic, and brilliant, and profoundly stupid. The climax, when it came, was less a release than a demolition—a wave that shattered every carefully laid brick of his future with Conrad, leaving only wreckage and blinding sensation.
Afterward, they lay tangled on the floor, the rug rough against Matthew’s back. The only light came from the neon sign of a distant hotel, painting Arturo’s skin in intermittent pulses of blue. Arturo traced idle patterns on Matthew’s chest. The silence now was different, saturated and heavy.
“So,” Arturo said, his voice a dry rasp. “Your clean break.”
Matthew stared at the ceiling. A profound numbness was setting in, the adrenaline receding to reveal the deep, structural damage beneath. He had promised Conrad. He had given his word. And within twenty-four hours, he had not only broken it, he had incinerated it with spectacular, passionate hypocrisy.
“He’ll call tomorrow,” Matthew said, to the dark.
“I know.”
“I’ll have to lie.”
“You will.” Arturo propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at him. There was no smugness in his face now, just a calm, unsettling certainty. “Or you’ll tell him the truth. Either way, you’ve already chosen. You just did.”
Matthew turned his head away, looking toward the fallen lamp. The plan wasn’t just difficult. It was already a corpse. The ghost of Conrad wasn’t in Buenos Aires; it was here in this room, watching him, and it had just seen everything.
The ghost of Conrad wasn’t in Buenos Aires; it was here in this room, watching him, and it had just seen everything. Arturo left before dawn, his departure as silent and final as a verdict. The click of the door latch echoed in the hollow apartment. Matthew lay awake until sunlight bled around the edges of his blackout blinds, painting stripes of accusation across the rumpled sheets.
He dressed with mechanical precision, choosing a crisply ironed shirt and a tie of sober blue. The mirror showed a familiar diplomat, but the eyes were haunted. The shower had not washed away the scent of Arturo’s skin, a phantom presence clinging to his own. He drank coffee that tasted of ash.
The embassy’s chilled, filtered air felt like a quarantine zone. He kept his head down, marching past the marine security guard with a terse nod. His office was a sanctuary of paperwork and routine. He buried himself in a cable draft, the clinical State Department jargon a welcome anesthetic. The knock on his doorframe was soft.
Arturo stood there, holding a file folder. He wore a light gray suit, his glasses spotless. “Good morning, Matthew. I have the updated political assessments for the DCM’s briefing book.” His voice was perfectly modulated, pleasant, and utterly empty of the previous night’s heat.
“Thanks. Just put them on the desk.” Matthew didn’t look up from his screen.
Arturo did so, his movements efficient. He paused for a fraction of a second, his gaze resting on the back of Matthew’s head. “The DCM’s pre-brief is at ten. I’ll have the talking points ready.”
“Great.” Matthew finally glanced at him. Arturo’s expression was one of polite professional interest. It was a stunning performance. “Appreciate it.”
“Of course.” Arturo offered a small, meaningless smile and left. The charade was seamless, and its success felt like a new kind of failure.
At ten-fifteen, Matthew escaped to the embassy cafeteria. Laura was already at a corner table, dissecting a limp salad. She took one look at him and pushed a cup of black coffee across the Formica. “You look like you fought a war and the war won.”
“Feel like it.” He slid into the chair, the plastic squeaking in protest.
“Conrad get off okay?” She asked, spearing a tomato.
“Yeah. Early flight.” He stirred the coffee, watching the vortex. “We… we decided to give it another shot. Officially back together.”
Laura stopped chewing. She put her fork down slowly. “Officially.”
“That’s what I said.”
“And what does ‘officially’ mean when you’re in different hemispheres?” Her tone wasn’t judgmental, just profoundly weary. “Matt. Come on. The guy wrecked you in London. What’s different now?”
“We’re different. Older. Clearer about what we want.”
“And what you want is a long-distance relationship with your emotionally withholding ex while you’re sitting in one of the most chaotic, beautiful cities on earth?” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “This has Arturo Ramirez written all over it. This is a panic move. You’re using Conrad as a human shield.”
Matthew’s face grew warm. “Arturo has nothing to do with this.”
“Bullshit.” She sat back, her eyes sharp. “I saw the way that man looked at you at the Jardín Botánico. It was like he was reading your DNA. And you looked terrified. This,” she gestured at him, “this decision feels like running from that.”
He had no defense. He took a long gulp of bitter coffee.
The Counter-Narcotics Working Group meeting was held in the windowless, secure conference room on the third floor. The air was stale, recycled. Matthew took a seat midway down the long table, nodding at the familiar faces from DEA, Homeland Security, and the Mexican federal police liaisons. Brandon Weber was already there, seated across the room. He gave Matthew a tight, brief nod, his jaw set, eyes fixed on his notepad.
The Deputy Chief of Mission ran the meeting with weary efficiency. They droned through updates on cartel movements, interdiction stats, policy alignment. Matthew fought to concentrate. Then the DCM cleared his throat. “One final item. The regional conference in Panama City next month. We need strong representation. Hayes, you’ll go from the political section. Weber, DEA wants you there for the operational track.”
Matthew’s pencil stilled. Panama. A hotel room. Brandon.
“Coordinate your travel with exec assistants,” the DCM continued, already gathering his papers. “It’s a good opportunity. Don’t embarrass us.”
The meeting broke up. Chairs scraped, conversations bubbled. Matthew slowly collected his things. He looked up and found Brandon standing across the table from him, his posture rigid.
“Looks like we’re traveling together,” Brandon said. His voice was low, gravelly.
“Looks like it,” Matthew replied, forcing a neutral tone.
“I’ll send you the flight info I get from admin.” Brandon’s eyes flickered over Matthew’s face, then away, toward the door. Something unreadable passed through his expression—a flicker of that same haunted tension Matthew had seen in the cinema darkness. “Should be… informative.”
Brandon turned and walked out, his broad shoulders barely clearing the doorway. Matthew stood alone in the emptying room. The minefield with Conrad was active. The one with Arturo was a confusing, electrifying maze. And now he was being sent to a foreign city with Brandon Weber, a man who held himself like a locked safe containing something dangerous. The air in the room felt suddenly thin, charged with the static of impending chaos.
The air in the room felt suddenly thin, charged with the static of impending chaos. Matthew gathered his notebook with fingers that felt clumsy, the DCM’s directive looping in his head. Panama. With Brandon. He walked back to his office on autopilot, the embassy’s neutral carpet swallowing the sound of his steps.
His computer chirped with a new calendar invitation before he’d even sat down. The subject line read: PANAMA TRAVEL – HAYES/WEBER. Arturo had scheduled it. The attached itinerary showed two business-class tickets on the same flight, hotel reservations at the same conference-designated hotel. The efficiency was brutal. His internal phone line rang.
“Yes?”
“Your travel is booked,” Arturo’s voice came through, clean and professional. “Flights, hotel, ground transport. I’ve cc’d you and Agent Weber on all confirmations.”
Matthew stared at the screen, at their two names linked together in official Times New Roman. “You didn’t have to do that. Admin would have—”
“I handle your logistics. That’s my job.” A pause, just a beat too long. “I saw the attendee list. Interesting company you’ll be keeping.”
“It’s a working conference.”
“Of course it is.” The line clicked dead.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of meaningless motion. He drafted talking points he wouldn’t remember. He nodded in meetings without hearing. The phantom sensation of Arturo’s hands against his back from the night before seemed to pulse through the starched fabric of his shirt, a distracting, shameful echo. At exactly 5:30 PM, he shut down his computer and left.
The humid Mexico City air outside the embassy gates was a relief. He loosened his tie, taking a deep breath that did nothing to settle him. His phone vibrated in his pocket before he’d hailed an Uber.
Arturo: I booked you the aisle seat. He’s in the window.
Another vibration.
Arturo: Seven hours in the air. A shared hotel. A foreign city. We both know how this ends.
Matthew’s jaw tightened. He typed a rapid response.
Matthew: You’re being absurd. It’s work.
Arturo: You fucked me on your floor 12 hours after your boyfriend left. Don’t lecture me about work.
The words were a gut punch. He stared at the screen, the traffic noise fading into a buzz. Another message appeared.
Arturo: You’ll fuck him in Panama. Or you’ll want to. It’s the same thing.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket without replying, his face hot. He rode the elevator up to his apartment in Polanco, the silence a welcome void. He poured a whiskey, neat, and stood at the window, watching the dusk settle over the rooftops. The idea of Brandon in a hotel room, away from the ingrained habits and fearful optics of Mexico City, sent a treacherous current through his gut. Arturo was right about the want. The wanting was a problem.
His tablet chimed with a FaceTime request. Conrad’s name glowed on the screen. Matthew smoothed his hair, took a bracing sip of whiskey, and accepted.
Conrad’s face materialized, handsome and slightly pixelated, in what looked like his Buenos Aires apartment. “Hey, you. Miss me yet?”
“Already planning my vacation down there,” Matthew said, forcing a smile that felt thin.
They talked about their days, the conversation skating over the surface of things. Matthew felt the weight of his phone in his pocket, heavy with Arturo’s accusations. He took another drink. “So, I found out I have to travel next month. A regional conference in Panama City. Kind of last minute.”
Conrad’s eyebrows lifted. “Panama? I’ve got that seminar in Bogotá the week before.” He scrolled through something off-screen. “Huh. It’s a short hop from Bogotá to Panama. Maybe I could… extend my travel. Meet you there afterwards. Make a weekend of it.”
The offer landed like a lifeline. A clear, sanctioned reason to not be alone in a hotel with Brandon Weber. A witness. A commitment.
“Yeah,” Matthew said, the word coming out too fast. “Yeah, that would be amazing. A proper reunion somewhere neutral. Sunny.”
“I’ll look at flights,” Conrad said, smiling a real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “We can get a better hotel. That conference shit is depressing.”
“Perfect,” Matthew said, the warmth in his voice almost convincing himself.
They said their goodbyes, blowing kisses at the screen. The call ended. Matthew drained his glass, the whiskey burning a clean path down his throat. He looked out at the city, a sprawling tapestry of lights and unseen lives. An insurance policy, he thought, the term cool and transactional in his mind. He would use Conrad’s presence as a buffer, a guarantee against the tempting, solitary darkness Brandon represented. It was logical. It was safe.
He ignored the quiet, insistent voice that whispered it was also profoundly cowardly.