and a dubious grin sitting on his mouth?—
the same backhanded smile he wears
while slipping the leash back around my neck.
His white shirt’s pressed, sleeves stiff,
a navy blazer slung over the back of his chair.
He’s dressed to either clean up blood
or beg for money.
Today looks like both.
“‘Bout time you showed.
“Place was startin’ to run itself without ya.”
He leans back in his chair,
leather sighing under him.
I drop the folder on his desk,
and it lands with a slap against the glass.
“Why are there artists still waiting to be paid?”
He ignores the folder.
“You don’t just snap your fingers and make shit happen.”
His eyes dip into a pool warm enough to drown in, if I was stupid enough to forget he poisoned the water.
“Takes time,” he adds. “Thought you’d picked up a thing or two by now.”
He rocks back, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, his silver watch catching light under fluorescent. Every beat of his drumming fingers climb my spine.
“You’re not just holding back money. You’re holding back rent, fuckin' medical bills, groceries, real shit people need to stayalive,” I snap, brows raised. “Trash Romance. Holly Riot. Sierra. All of ‘em bleeding out while you sit in this glass tower jerkin’ off to the sound of your own name.”
A sigh spills out of him.
He follows it with a head shake
as if I’m boring him.
I narrow my eyes, hoping he sees the disgust in them. “How’s it feel knowing your paycheck’s funded by the people you’re starving?”
He throws his head back with a laugh. “You sittin’ in a Fifth Ave penthouse, talkin’ to me about struggle?”
“Kills you, doesn’t it?” I say. “I’msittin’ pretty in a Fifth Ave penthouseI bought with money I earned. So you wanna stand up and tell me which one of us built success on the bones of someone else’s?” My brows jump. “Nah?—
“Then shut the fuck up.”
It hits him.
For half a second,
