“Honest,” Faulker states.
The car slows as they pull up to The Bridgeview, lights warm through the windows. Noise already spilling out.
Marshall straightens, rolling his shoulders. “Alright. Fake family dinner. I can do this.”
Faulker smiles. “It’s not fake. It’s found. Some of us prefer this. Others,” he lifts a shoulder. “Lucky.”
I open the door and slide out. “We eat. Be decent. Don’t ask too many questions.”
Marshall grins. “So basically, Thanksgiving.”
“If you say so.”
As we walk to the entrance together, it’s not lost on me that we have three very different histories, four with Moretti’s family in the States, from Italy— all of us eating at the same table. In comparison to what’s happening globally, in a way, we should all be very thankful.
“Well, shit,” Marshall whispers when we walk into the private dining room at The Bridgeview.
High ceilings. Linen so crisp it makes you feel underdressed even in a sport coat that costs more than most people’s rent. Soft lighting that doesn’t flatter so much as it’s meant to soften to make it feel more intimate. This isn’t a room you eat in by accident. It’s a room you book when you want to be taken seriously.
Marshall exhales again, quieter. “This is a message.”
I chuckle under my breath. “Welcome to the pros, kid.”
He shoots me a look. “You say that like this is normal.”
“It becomes normal,” I assure him. “Once you stop noticing how ridiculous it is.”
Faulker steps past us, scanning the room. “You’ll get used to it, or you won’t. Either way, the rooms don’t change.”
Marshall blinks. “This is… insane.”
Faulker glances back, eyebrow lifting a fraction. “Insanity only sets in if you think this is the norm.”
I shake my head, “And that, somehow, makes it worse because this is the norm for him.”
“I heard that,” he calls back.
“Wasn’t a lie,” I call back.
Marshall lets out a short laugh, half disbelief, half nerves.
“Bar?” I ask heading that way.
“Absolutely.”
As we head that way, Moretti stops us and introduces us to his parents. They seem kind.
When we finally step away, I see Claudia with Savannah against her chest, her mother’s —for a lack of any label, which I love that they are not needed amongst this group— fussing over the child. Sofie Fairfax is right there too, wine in hand, posture immaculate. She’s talking with Claudia, voice light, public-facing. The kind of tone people use when they know they’re being seen.
I try to steer Faulker and Marshall in a different direction, but am unable without making the avoidance look obvious, and with her cohorts off to the side, catching everything on video, I decide not to make it so.
I hate that she’s under my skin, that I fucked my fist to her last night… and again this morning. That she’s not my type at all, I like women thicker than she is, broader, more meat on their bones. But fuck if I can’t admire her beauty. She’s wearing a dark gray silk dress, mid-length, not short and sexy. It moves when she does, catches the light just enough to remind you it’s expensive without begging for attention. Long sleeves, high neckline. Her heels are pointed, practical in the way rich women pretend to be practical. Her jewelry is minimal. A thin gold chain at her throat, small hoops. Nothing that clinks or flashes. Her hair is down, shoulder-length in loose waves, and tucked behind one ear. Her makeup isn’t her Icehouse look either. It’s understated, precise. Skin perfect. Eyes sharp. Mouth neutral for now… until she decides otherwise.
I’ve seen this before. Moscow rooms where women dressed to disappear and dominate at the same time. Sofie isn’t trying to impress anyone at the table. She’s dressed to withstand them.
When she smiles, it’s measured. When she laughs, it’s quiet. She’s always aware of where she is in the room, who’s watching, and who might be. I clock the tension in her shoulders, the way it never entirely leaves. Something more hits, her dress isn’t soft because she needs comfort. It’s structured because she needs certainty. Armor polished until it looks effortless.
I respect that, and I hate that I do.
