People keep saying I’ve stepped down.
They don’t understand.
I’ve stepped closer.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Yeah?”
Martin, the club’s press officer, leans in. Calm. Efficient.
“They’re starting to arrive.”
No surprise there. The circus is punctual.
“You ready?” he asks.
I stand, automatically adjusting my cuffs.
“Always.”
He gives me a look that suggests he knows that isn’t entirely true but appreciates the effort.
“They’ll want the usual,” he says. “Why Carlisle. Long-term vision. Building something. All that.”
“No surprise there.”
I already know what I’ll say.
Project.
Challenge.
Right club at the right time.
All true.
Just not the real truth.
“And probably something about… lifestyle choices.”
That’s his polite way of saying women.
“Let them,” I say.
It’s useful. Always has been. Speculation about my personal life keeps attention exactly where I want it. Away from Alfie.
“Anything off limits?” Martin asks.
“Family.”
He nods. No follow-up questions. Good man.
When he leaves I move to the small mirror by the door. Habit, not vanity.
Public Jack looks different.
Shoulders back. Expression neutral. No trace of the man discussing dinosaur brains five minutes ago.
