“Glad I can weaponize my charm.”
“Mm. Just don’t stab anyone with your cheekbones. They’re a liability in certain lighting.”
I almost don’t leave.
Something about the way she looks so soft and unguarded, her hair creating a golden halo against the white pillows—makes me want to say fuck it to the whole performance. To climb into the bed and find out if she still makes those little sounds when someone traces patterns on her spine.
But she waves me off with a lazy flick of her wrist and mumbles something about needing a nap and a snack. Or maybe a nap as a snack. Who knows with her. Her relationship with consciousness has always been negotiable.
Either way, I leave her.
Even though, given the choice, I’d take a weekend alone with Waffles, a one-eyed criminal with a taste for floor pillows, over sitting through an hour of cigar-thick ego and inherited smugness.
But this is what the game requires.
So, I play it.
I button my cuffs until they’re military-precise, straighten my tie, and walk into the lion’s den with the same bored expression I wear in class.
The cigar room smells exactly as expected with leather, smoke, and arrogance that’s been tax-sheltered for three generations. Dark wood paneling, dim lighting and, oversized leather chairs are arranged for the men who mistake intimidation for influence and their trust funds for talent.
And they’re all watching me.
Deciding if I belong here or if I’ll sell my soul fast enough to make them comfortable.
“King,” Masden greets me first, lifting a glass of scotch in mock salute. His cigar rests on a crystal tray, smoke curling upward. “Glad to see you survived the water. Your girlfriend’s quite the swimmer.”
The emphasis on girlfriend is subtle but intentional. Testing to see if I’ll correct him.
“You don’t strike me as the boating type,” Harris adds, his thin smile suggesting he already doesn’t like me. “Or the retreat type, for that matter.”
I slide into the open seat at the edge of their circle, just close enough to be remembered and just far enough to be underestimated.
“Not much for trust falls,” I admit. “But I make do.”
Camden snorts into his cognac. “That must’ve been some fall.”
I accept the glass someone hands me, noting the amber color that screams expensive and unnecessary. “You know how I feel about mandatory group bonding.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Masden takes a long drag from his cigar, smoke curling between us. “Which is too bad, really. You’re one of the stronger candidates we’ve seen this year. Wouldn’t hurt for you to play the game with a little more... enthusiasm.”
“I prefer to win without the theatrics,” I say smoothly, taking a measured sip.
Brooks raises an eyebrow from his position at the circle’s apex. “Winning and likability don’t have to be mutually exclusive, you know.”
“No,” I agree. “But they often are.”
That gets a few dry chuckles—enough to prove I’m still playing nice while keeping my edge. We settle into the expected rhythm of litigation strategy and cost-control models, with Hale steering us toward precedent manipulation and juryconditioning, as if law is just chess with higher stakes and better suits. I hold my own, quoting the right studies, landing a few calculated jabs about defense loopholes that make Harris nod appreciatively. They’re eating it up because I’m serving it exactly how they prefer: intelligent but not threatening, sharp but still appropriately deferential.
Then the tone shifts, the way it always does when powerful men get comfortable enough to show their teeth.
“Your date’s certainly a surprise,” Harris says, swirling his drink with studied casualness. “Not exactly what we expected from you.”
I don’t flinch. “She’s not here to meet your expectations.”
Harris grins, and there’s something predatory in it. “Well, she doesn’t have to try very hard, does she? Natural performer, that one.”
Masden hums his agreement, tapping ash into a crystal tray. “Sharp wit on her. The crowd loved her.”
