The restaurant smells of truffle oil and aged wine. This is where desperate men in thousand-dollar suits make deals over forty-dollar steaks. Crystal chandeliers cast shadows that don’t quite reach our corner booth, the one Gregory always requests because it offers privacy and the appearance of power.
He swallows and opens his eyes.
“You’ll attend with Evangeline, Ashford’s daughter. Smile for the cameras. Show the public you’re not the liability the tabloids are painting you as.”
I set down my fork, appetite gone. “I’m not interested in being your puppet.”
“You’re interested in keeping your career.” He doesn’t look up from his plate, steely gray eyes fixed on the bleeding meat. “Or have you forgotten the morality clauses in your contract? The ones that give me considerable leverage over your public image?”
“Attending a gala with a senator’s daughter isn’t going to change anything.”
“It changes the narrative.” He finally meets my gaze with a cold, calculating expression. “Right now, you’re the playboy who parties too hard and cares too little. Evangeline Ashford makes you look stable and responsible, worthy of the endorsement deals I’m negotiating.”
“I don’t need you to negotiate anything.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You were nineteen when I found you, Declan. Desperately trying to juggle your career with raising two teenagers. Who got you the sponsorships and investments? Who got you the life you live now? Remember that not all your teammates are as rich as you.”
A familiar guilt settles in my chest. He’s right. Gregory threw me a lifeline in my most difficult moment. Yes, the lifeline came with strings attached, strings I later found out were chains.
But that doesn’t change history.
“One appearance,” I concede. “That’s it.”
“One appearance that’s properly executed. After that, we’ll revisit the conversation.” He returns to his steak for a few minutes. “The gala is on Saturday. Wear the Tom Ford tux. Evangeline will meet you there at seven.”
I should tell him to go to hell and find another client to manipulate. But I nod and finish my meal in silence. Each bite sets concrete in my stomach.
By the time I leave the restaurant, the sun has set, the city lights blurring together.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ivy.
Ivy:
Random thought: Do you think people are born knowing who they are? Or do we spend our whole lives trying to figure it out?
The question hits differently after dinner with Gregory. After being reminded that I have to become what he wants me to be. Not who I actually am.
I reply.
King:
I think we’re possibilities. Life shapes us into actualities. But it’s not always the one we’d choose.
Ivy:
What’s wrong? Did anything go wrong?
Sighing, I get into my car.
King:
I had dinner with someone who enjoys forcing unnecessary obligations on me.
Ivy:
Sounds terrible. Want to talk about it?
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over it. I could tell her about Gregory, the gala. About feeling like a marionette whose strings are pulled by my contracts with him.
