He turns in his chair and picks up the paper, giving it a once over.
“What would you recommend?” he asks, his voice nonchalant.
“For the gala?”
He nods. “I mean these properties are good. Trendy. They would certainly create buzz.”
“But…”
“Would you attend an event at…” He peeks at the paper. “The Jetta Club?”
I purse my lips.
“It’s not about what I would do, Sir.” I avert his gaze.
Be demure. Be shy. Be the man who needs his direction.
“Humor me," he says, setting the paper down. “Tell me, if you could pick anywhere in this fucking city to throw a party, Oliver… where would you go?”
I think about his question. Or how I should answer it.
“Do not tell me what you think I want to hear," he says, his voice solid, direct. “Tell me the truth.”
I look at him, the words on the tip of my tongue.
Oh, Sloane… you can never know the truth. I can’t tell you the fucking truth…
So I settle onmytruth.
“I have always been a fan of the SAM," I say with a shrug.
“The art museum?” He raises an eyebrow at me.
“Yes, Sir.”
I watch as he crosses his arms.
“Seems an odd place for a tech gala.”
“The ceilings are quite beautiful. Open and bright… not all that dissimilar from your infinite glass.”
His gaze settles on me. “Go on.”
“The artwork is spectacular, but there is a lot of open space. For people to mingle. But there are also exhibits and spaces that are much more… intimate in nature. And at night…”
I let my mind wander back to my youth. To all the nights spent running through the museum when my father was forced to take me to work due to my mother’s late nights.
I’d loved it there. Reading my books amidst the art. It was so peaceful, so serene. The smile that forms on my face is hard to refute.
“Well, it’s quite lovely.”
“Then that is where we shall have it," he says pointedly.
“What?”
I blink, processing his words. He slides the paper to me.
“You didn’t even look—”
