Perfect.
If someone were watching me, it might appear as if I’m admiring myself, staring too long at my reflection, but I’m not. I’m perfecting. I flick the stray hair back into place, adjust the chains resting against my chest, and square my shoulders. Every detail is deliberate. Every thread, a barrier.
No one looks too close when you shine so bright.
Everything from the Cifonelli tailored button-down shirt to the custom Tom Ford shoes is a way for me to hold the entire world at arm’s length. You can look, but you can’t touch. Some may call me austere and standoffish, and honestly, I take pride in that.
As it so happens, that’s exactly the effect I’m going for.
Lost in the reflection, I jolt with a yelp as the piano in the corner of my apartment clangs loudly. Spinning around, I glare daggers at Onyx as she heedlessly traipses over the keys.
“You scared the shit out of me!”
She responds with an unapologetic meow, continuing her way up to a high C-sharp before jumping to the floor. With a roll of my eyes, I snatch my keys from the bowl on the table and shove them into my pocket.
“Fucking cat,” I grumble under my breath. “I should have left you freezing in the snow where I found you.”
She yowls again in response while I grab my coat from the hook and march out the door, jabbing a finger on the elevator button. When I reach the ground floor, the hired car is waiting as I step out in the frigid Parisian January air. Climbing in, I mutter a greeting to my driver.
“Salut, Lucien. Toujours en forme?”
He glances back at me through the rearview mirror. Lucien has been my family’s driver since I was three. He has picked me up drunk from nearly every bar or club in this town, and he once parked the car in a garage and stood outside while I lost my virginity to a girl in my class. Lucien is the best.
“Toujours, Monsieur Julian. Et vous?”
I give him a shrug. Am I going strong? Not quite, but I don’t want to get into the specifics with him right now.
“To the club, sir?” he asks in English.
“Yes, please.”
He doesn’t make small talk on our drives, which I appreciate. With Amelia or my parents, it’s different. They love to passthe time talking to Lucien about his family or the weather or whatever event is taking place in our city at the time.
As for me, I like the quiet. My eyes don’t stray from my phone, except for when we turn at the Arc de Triomphe. Staring out the window, I watch as tourists gather beneath the arch for photos, smiling together while the madness of Paris’s traffic winds erratically around them.
When we reach the club a few moments later, I voice a quick goodbye to Lucien before climbing out and unlocking the front door of the building with my key. It’s still hours before the doors will open for the public, but I have work to attend to before the festivities begin.
Weston is already behind the bar doing inventory as I walk in. Forgoing a greeting to him, I climb up the stairs toward the hall of offices on the next floor up. Jack’s voice echoes through the narrow space when I pass his open door. He doesn’t wave exactly. It’s more of a nonchalant head tilt, acknowledging my presence.
After making it through the first year of owning it together, as my father initially requested, Jack and I can at least stand each other now. Part of that is due to the fact that we figured out how to put our differences aside and actually listen to each other.
And the other part is due to the cute French girl who came into his life as his nanny and made him a nice, tolerable person again. Now, he treats me like a real partner, and sometimes—sometimes—I actually enjoy working with him.
When I reach my office, I close the door. There’s a cheap coffee maker in the corner that everyone gives me hell about. It’s a crime against coffee, especially in Paris, and the little silver pods have to be special ordered, but it’s the only coffee I like. Clicking it on, I wait for the machine to warm up as I pull off my coat and drape it on the hook. When my coffee is done, I pour copious amounts of sugar in, only making the travesty worse, and take it over to my computer.
As I open my desk drawer to pull out a pen, the orangeLexapro prescription bottle rolls into view, and I start to reach for it but hesitate. When was the last time I took them? A week? Two?
And look at me, I’m fine.
Besides, this new project requires my attention, and I don’t need the meds flattening my brain out so I can’t think.
After snatching the pen, I slam the drawer shut.
I’ve been working all month on some new ideas for the club. Specifically, I’m trying to implement a system of wristbands for our patrons to wear, signifying what sorts of activities they would or would not be open to. Jack was excited about the idea—honestly, I think he was excited that I had an idea at all—but my only hurdle right now is trying to make the wristbands sleek and classy enough. I’m not handing out cheap acrylic junk in our highly exclusive club.
There’s an email from the manufacturer with a proof that I’m still not happy with. So I waste another two hours working on a new design as well as a few other ideas for the club, including collaboration with the city’s Pride fest, theme nights, and a tech-driven VR experience. Jack’s less keen on that concept, but only because he’s old and I haven’t fully wowed him with the vision yet.
Around seven, I hear the bass thump through the floor from the club downstairs. I haven’t even felt the last three hours pass by. I lost count of how many coffees I’ve had, and it registers that I should probably eat.
