Chapter four
Arthur
ERS's office is designed for people who don't like admitting they need help.
Everything is quiet, controlled, deliberately understated. No excess. No warmth that feels manipulative. The reception area features clean lines and muted colors—gray, charcoal, cream—punctuated by a single piece of abstract art that probably cost more than most people's cars but doesn't announce itself.
It reminds me uncomfortably of my own spaces.
Places designed after I learned what happens when you let warmth in.
Which I take as proof that this place understands its clientele.
The receptionist barely glances up when I arrive. Just a polite nod, a gesture toward the hallway. No clipboard. No paperwork in sight. Whatever intake process exists here, it's already happened invisibly, efficiently, without requiring me to perform gratitude or explanation.
Just the way I prefer it.
Evelyn Sterling's office continues the aesthetic with minimal furniture, strategic lighting, and windows that overlook the city.
She rises when I enter, extends a hand, and gestures to the chair across from her desk.
No small talk. No pleasantries about traffic or weather or how my day is going.
She offers a seat.
I take it.
"Mr. Dupree." Her voice is calm, professional. Not cold, but not performing warmth either. "Thank you for coming."
I nod once, then get straight to the point, because anything else feels like posturing.
"I'm here because I need stability. Not professionally. Personally."
Evelyn settles back in her chair, hands folded loosely in her lap. She doesn't interrupt. Doesn't rush to fill the silence with reassurance or sales language.
She waits.
The silence is deliberate.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to continue.
"I'm a single father," I say. "I run a high-exposure company. My personal life is—" I pause. "Insufficient."
The word tastes wrong, but it's accurate.
“Structure alone isn’t working anymore.”
Evelyn's gaze sharpens—not surprised, but attentive. Like I've confirmed something she already suspected.
"You're not asking for romance," she says.
It's not a question.
"No," I reply immediately. "I'm asking for partnership."
Romance implies volatility, unpredictability, emotional exposure I have no interest in navigating ever again. Partnership implies function. Mutual benefit. Clear terms and containment.
Evelyn nods once, absorbing this.
