I smile the same smile I use on lenders who hope to see me bloody. “You know Dante Masters and who he works for, I believe?”
That lands. His eyes twitch, and his demeanor loses the previous confidence.
“Three women, seven years, two NDAs, and a club camera you forgot existed. We can argue consent in the court of public opinion all you want. You’ll still be a headline with a face people spit at.”
He goes for bluster. “You assault me, King, and I’ll?—”
I hit him once, and it’s surgical. Knuckles to his nose, which collapses with a dull crunch and he yelps, staggering back into the locker with a metallic wail. Blood blossoms, bright and righteous, calming the rage inside me a little.
The room holds its breath. A towel hits the tile near my shoe, and I don’t step back.
I breathe once. Twice. I want to do more damage, but Beatrice wouldn’t want it. She’s kind and loyal and supportive. I will be better for her. I can’t walk back to violence.
“Security,” he bleats again with a hand pressed to his nose as blood seeps through his fingers. “Assault—he assaulted me?—”
“Correction,” I say evenly. “I stopped you from doing more damage to yourself, didn’t I?” So many semantics.
Two khaki-clad clubhouse guards appear in the doorway, unsure if their polo shirts include hazard pay when their eyes flit my way. Larry points at me and coughs blood onto his own loafers.
“He slipped,” I tell them calmly, nodding at the floor that is very much not wet. “Get him some ice. Then get him a phone. He has three calls to make.”
“Sir, we should—uh—” one guard starts.
I take my wallet out slowly and slide my business card across the bench with the kind of smile that makes banks surrender entire floors—I learned that from Ezra. “Call if anyone gives you grief about the mess.”
Larry’s eyes are water-bright with humiliation and rage. “You’re finished,” he spits.
“That the line you practice in the mirror?” I ask. “Here are your three calls. One—to your PR firm. Effective noon, you’re suspending all exploratory activity to ‘focus on personal matters.’ Two—to the Newside project. You’re wiring a seven-figure donation by the end of the business day with no speech. Three—to Masters. You’ll tell him you’re very sorry for wasting his time and will be a very quiet citizen from now on.”
He tries to laugh and it comes out wet. “You can’t force me?—”
“I can’t?” I say, and my calm scares him more than my fist. “Just like you can’t force women? Make the calls. Or I make one of my own.”
The security guards hover like nervous flamingos. Larry’s phone trembles in his bloody hand. He dials. He stammers. He says the words I tell him to say, and he says them fast because he can smell the end of my patience.
When the third call ends, he slumps onto the bench and glares at me through swollen eyes.
“If you come near her again,” I say, very slowly and very quietly, “if you come near her family whatever that might be, if you even breathe on a guest list with her name on it, I will stop asking nicely.” I tilt my head. “Blink if you understand.”
He blinks. Twice. Good man.
I leave him there covered in blood and surrounded by wide-eyed security and step back into the lemon-polished hallway. My phone buzzes before I hit the door.
Masters:
He’ll pull out from the campaign. PR already drafting. Donation paperwork incoming. You still owe me shells and a kitchen my wife can dance in naked.
I’ll build her a ballroom that will make angels weep.
I want tears and cove lighting.
I grinwithout humor and push outside. The air is crisp and bright. I make one more call because I’m greedy for violence today.
“Mrs. Wrong,” I say when her assistant puts me through. My pleasant voice sends even me into a sugar coma. “How are you this morning?”
I can hear ice clink in a glass before she answers.“Noah King. To what do I owe this surprise?”
“For a correction,” I say, still smooth. “I heard you placed a call to your daughter Maeve. Golf thing. ‘United front.’ You also requested Beatrice’s attendance. For Larry.” I can’t keep it up; my voice drops to a dangerous octave at the mention of his name.
