“You’ve got jokes,” he says.
“And you’ve got insecurities.”
I’m hiding my own cracks in my composure, sure. But they’re just reminders.
Change is about to happen.
Thatcher’s office is an open view of the city—quiet dominance with grey tones, minimalist furniture, and abstract art that’s more like a psychological test than décor.
He sits behind his desk, a portfolio open in front of him where he’s scribbling notes. His salt and pepper hair is neatly parted, not a strand out of place, and his navy suit looks like it was sewn onto him by a tailor with a god complex. His dark eyes are unblinking. They miss nothing.
“Rhodes,” he greets, gesturing for me to sit. “Rough night?”
I wonder, for a split second, if he knows. If he’s already heard what his nephew did. If this is his way of testing me—watching for fractures, waiting for me to flinch. But his face gives nothing away. As always.
“Just a late one,” I reply, sinking into the seat.
He studies me for a beat before sliding a black envelope across the desk.
“What’s this?”
“VIP tickets to the Crossfire event this weekend.”
My gut tightens. I hate celebrity events. All flash. An endless parade of fake laughter, and ego disguised as charm. But they matter. Networking is currency, and these parties are where deals start—even if they end in headaches and hangovers.
“Asher Cross is shopping agencies. I want you there.”
I nod. “Understood.”
“Take Jackson with you.”
The silence stretches for a beat as that sinks in, then it screams.
“I know he’s your nephew, but... you want him in the room for something that big?”
“He’s green. Needs guidance. And you’re the man for the job.”
I grip the envelope. Jackson accompanied me to a sales pitch a few months in from starting at Big Stream and he managed to single-handedly tank the entire meeting. We were in a boardroom with one of the biggest investors we’d ever landed, and Jackson, well, he decided toimprovise.
Instead of sticking to the script, he went on a twenty-minute tangent about why luxury branding is a scam, complete with a slide he pulled up from some conspiracy subreddit about subliminal messaging, a pyramid scheme theory, and, I kid you not, lizard people running the market.
I wanted to die.
By the time I wrestled control back, the investor was already checking her watch, and Jackson was helping himself to the catered lunch like he hadn’t just cost us a multi-million-dollar deal.
So, yeah. Thatcher may love his nephew, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us should have to suffer. Especially after what I walked into last night.
“No offense, but I’m not a babysitter.”
Thatcher smiles. Not kindly.
He continues, voice sharp as a knife. “This is your proving ground, Rhodes. You guide him, you close the deal, and we talk partnership.”
The words burrow deep into my skin.
“You win. You rise. Jackson’s new to the game,” Thatcher continues, leaning back in his chair like the world bends to him. And most of the time, it does. If we’re being honest. “He needs someone to show him how it’s done.”
“Thatcher—”
