I don’t make a habit of manipulating people’s emotions to get what I want—but I was right to assume the only way to reach Tate was through Molly. Molly’s taken to her. And I don’t have time to hire someone new. I know full well that if it weren’t for Molly, Tate wouldn’t have agreed to come back at all.
When I finally got her on the phone, she didn’t ask for more money—like I would have. She just demanded I treat her with respect if she returned.
I wish she’d asked for the money. That would’ve been easier than knowing how deeply she’s come to care for my daughter—and how much Molly clearly cares for her in return.
That realization hit me like a giant neon sign.
But I’ll unpack that shit later.
Right now, I need her. So she’s about to find out just how respectful I can be.
The car pulls over and I climb out as Cliff does the same, opening Tate’s door for her. I’m waiting at her door, hand outstretched, ready to help her climb out.
She stares at my hand for a beat like it’s the jaws of an alligator, before she slides her fingers over my palm. I assist her out of the car.
“Do you like music?”
Her pupils dilate and she sucks in a quick breath. “Music?”
“Piano, specifically.”
“Y-yes.” Her eyes dart to the building behind me and her brow wrinkles.
“Good.” I nod at Cliff, dismissing him. He’ll come back later when I call.
I slide my hand to Tate’s lower back and lead her toward the entrance. “This is my father’s club. It’s just reopened following an arson attack. You’re one of the first people to see the new décor.”
The doorman opens the large gold-handled door for us, and I sweep Tate inside the low-lit hallway. Another doorman opens a door at the end for us, and we enter the main bar.
“Holy cow.” She gasps.
My fingers flex against her lower back and I can’t stop my lips twitching at her reaction. It warrants it. The design company who headed up the re-model has done an outstanding job.
The sultry room—with a glamorous thirties era feel to it—is like stepping onto a movie set. A long bar with a smoky glass wall behind it runs along the length of one wall, and intimate tables with plush velvet seating are placed strategically around the room with enough space between them that conversations remain private.
Privacy is paramount in Seasons. Presidents drink here. Royalty drinks here. The top people in their fields all drink here. My father created a safe haven for those plagued by having their every move watched and scrutinized. Here, they’re free of all constraints.
Here, they can lose themselves in the music and justbe.
I lead Tate toward a table tucked away in a candlelit corner near the stage. Her head swivels as she admires the chandeliershanging overhead, but it’s the grand piano on stage that stops her in her tracks.
She stands, enthralled, in the center of the seating area, her eyes transfixed on Vincent as he plays a Debussy piece with skilled ease.
“He’s amazing,” she breathes.
“He’s our resident pianist. He studied at Julliard.”
We stand, watching. Tate seems to be in a trance, and it’s only after Vincent plays the final notes that she allows me to lead her the remainder of the way to our table.
“It’s really beautiful in here. It’s like a dream,” she says, looking around as I pull her seat out for her.
“It was my father’s vision. I’ll tell him you said so, he’ll be pleased.”
We order drinks, and I don’t engage with Tate until the server returns with them. She’s too lost in her own world, listening to Vincent play another song. Something about the way her breath hitches along with the crescendos of the music and her eyes mist like it’s speaking directly to her soul has me spellbound.
I’m accustomed to seeing women’s faces when they’re experiencing pleasure.
But Tate is a different vision entirely.
