"It is ridiculous." He stood up, and suddenly the room felt smaller. April tracked the way he moved. His suit fit too well not to notice the shoulders, the way the fabric stretched when he gestured. "It's also the most refreshing thing I've heard all week."
He moved toward her, and April became acutely aware that she was in a small room with seven very large men who looked like they could break her in half without trying.
He stopped close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at him, a design flaw in the universe that gave tall men an unfair advantage in intimidation. She could smell him now, expensive cedar cologne that made her want to lean closer and also preserve her remaining brain cells.
"What would you do for this?"
"This?" It came out somewhere between a question and a statement. The correction was right there. No, sorry, what I meant was— She closed her mouth.For better or worse.
"My office," he said, gesturing toward the glass-walled alcove behind them.
April nodded once, like she was agreeing to a meeting invite and not… whatever this was.
Don Dante
PEOPLE DIDN'T WANDER into this room by accident. If they did, they corrected themselves quickly. Apologies first. Retreat second.
The woman at the door did neither.
She paused on the threshold like she had time. Like she was deciding whether the mistake was hers or the building's. Her eyes moved once across the room. Cards. Chips. Exits. Faces. Then to him.
Most people advertised themselves, looked too hard or not enough. She simply stood there, as if she expected to be addressed.
Dante let the silence sit. Watched what she did with it. Nothing. No apology queued. No nervous laugh. No reflexive smile to soften the space.
Which meant she was either very good at hiding things or she had no idea where she was. Both possibilities required attention.
He offered an exit. She didn't take it. She asked for a favor instead. Spoke quickly, controlled. Ex-boyfriend. Velvet rope consequences that weren't enough.
She didn't ask for sympathy. She asked for a specific discomfort to be applied to a specific man. And she put boundaries on it before he had to.
Harmless humiliation. Fear as theater. A lesson without damage.
He watched the impulse toward sanity fight the decision to stay petty.
He liked the decision.
He moved closer. Stopped at a distance that tested instinct. She didn't step back.
Dante felt interest settle into place.
The kind that made him want a table and terms and time.
He had planned for a quiet night. Cards. Cigars. No interruptions.
Instead, a woman had walked into his space and offered him an undefined thing with her chin up and her anger disciplined.
He gestured toward the glass-walled alcove. Because whatever this was, it deserved formality.
And because he wanted to see what she did once she realized she was being taken seriously.
April
"I DON'T KNOW YOUR NAME," April said.
"Don Dante." He said it like it was a title, not just a name. "And you are?"
"April Fueller."
