“We never discussed you picking me up.” I keep my voice professional. Neutral. “I told you I’d meet you here.”
His jaw tightens. His hand presses harder against my lower back.
“I thought it was implied.”
“I needed to prepare. Review my firm’s current city business before networking.” I try to sound steady. Reasonable. “Dom mentioned?—”
“Dom.” Marcus cuts me off. Something flickers in his eyes. “You talked to Dom about tonight?”
“He’s my boss. Of course I?—”
“I’m your date.” His voice drops. Harder now. “I should have picked you up. That’s how this works.”
That’s how this works. Like there are rules. Like I agreed to them.
The song ends. Thank god. But Marcus doesn’t release me. Just steers me off the dance floor toward a cluster of men by the windows.
Union leaders. IBEW Local 98 pins. Loud laughs and hands that carve the air when they talk.
“Gentlemen,” Marcus announces. All charm again, like the edge was never there. “This is Dylan Wells. She’s been handling the City Controller transition. Brilliant legal mind.”
Brilliant legal mind. The words should feel good. They don’t.
“Ms. Wells,” one of them says. Barrel chest, silver hair, grip that could crush concrete. “Union leadership’s been concerned about the new oversight protocols. What’s your take on?—”
“Dylan’s specialty is compliance,” Marcus cuts in smoothly. His hand tightening on my waist like a leash being pulled. “She makes sure everything runs clean. Right, Dylan?”
The union leader’s eyes flick to me. Just for a second. He saw.
And then he looks back at Marcus and nods along like nothing happened.
Because nothing did happen. Not in this room. Not in this world. A man talked over a woman. A tale as old as Philadelphia politics. Why would anyone notice? Why would anyone care?
I’m watching them all choose not to see it. Watching them smile and shake hands and pretend this is normal. And maybe for them it is. Maybe they’ve watched Marcus do this with a dozen women. A hundred.
Maybe they’ve done it themselves.
“The protocols are—” I start.
“Complicated,” Marcus finishes. “But we’re streamlining the process. Making it easier for everyone. That’s what good government looks like, right?” He’s already turning us away. “Excuse us, gentlemen. So many people to see.”
We’re walking before I can finish. Before I can say anything real.
My chest tightens.
He does it again with the next group. Comcast executives near the central tables. Expensive suits, calculating eyes. One of them has brought his wife—blonde, botoxed, diamonds at her throat that cost more than my apartment.
“Dylan Wells, Draven & Associates,” Marcus introduces. “She’s been my right hand this month.”
Right hand. Not colleague. Not legal counsel. His.
Notice the theme? Everything’s his except the actual person.
“Ms. Wells,” one of them—slicked-back hair, Rolex catching chandelier light—extends his hand. I shake it. “Marcus mentioned you went to Temple Law. My daughter’s considering their program. What would you say about?—”
“Dylan’s modest,” Marcus interrupts. Squeezes my waist. “Top of her class. Brilliant researcher. She’ll pass the bar this summer, won’t you?”
Oh, will I?Thanks for letting me know my own plans.
