Chapter 69 – Pleasing the Boss

Hoping that’s good enough, and that we can save any further discussion aka lecturing for later, I turn toward the room I’ve been using as mine.

“No, hold on.” Elvis stops me before I can get very far. He waits until I pivot back to face him. “Is our”—he pauses, searching—“arrangement not working for you anymore?”

Oh my God, I want to scream. It never worked for me. Is this not something he already understood?

At the same time, I perk up. Even though I couldn’t care less, at the moment, who he’s f**king. Habit, perhaps. “You’d be willing to go closed marriage?”

He shrugs one shoulder, as if he wasn’t once adamant that he’d only get married if we kept it open. “If it bothers you that much…we should definitely revisit.”

Irony is fun, isn’t it?

I’ve waited my whole marriage for this. Fantasized since we first got together that one day he’d say, Brystin, you are enough. I don’t need anyone but you. I should be doing f**king cartwheels.

But I’m not dumb. I’m a fool, but not dumb. This isn’t about me. It’s about him. He hated waiting for me. Hated the thought of me with Hadrian. That’s what’s bringing on this sudden change of heart.

It’s a nice twist of karma that I might relish when I’m feeling less wr*pped up in another man. But unfortunately, I’m still the same fool I was when I married him. Just a fool for another man.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “This is done.”

“What do you mean, this is done?”

“This. Me, coming in at five in the morning. Leaving parties without a word. All of it.” I don’t say Hadrian’s name, but he’s still very present in the subtext. “We have our show, and it’s a hit. The rest of it is done.”

“Okay,” he says. “If that’s what you want, sweet girl.”

As if any of it has ever been up to me.

As if what I want has ever mattered to anyone.

Brystin POV

I step in the elevator after Elvis, and fidget with my necklace while he pushes the b**ton for the penthouse. “Why are we supposed to go to this dinner again?”

It’s the billionth time I’ve asked, and I already know the answer, but I’m trying to focus on something other than the fact that I’m about to see Hadrian for the first time since he stuck his dick in me. Multiple times. Eleven and a half days with no contact, knowing he was in the same building as I was, wondering if the memory of my scent haunted him the way the memory of his has haunted me.

“I know you hate getting into it with the politicians,” Elvis explains, patiently, “but if you want the work you do to affect real change, then the big ones should know the face that goes with the name. Not only will the governor be here, but at least one of our senators, and several statesmen.”

He leaves out that this was Hadrian’s idea, which has been the norm this week. We’ve both stayed away from his name, like…well, the way we would have if our show had been picked up the way shows typically do. We would barely mention the CEO of the company. He’s too high above us. He has several people under him that deal with the day-to-day programming so that Elvis and I rarely have to deal with Hadrian face-to-face.

Elvis reaches out to grab my hand, something he’s done a lot more since he suggested we reevaluate our arrangement, though he’s never brought it up again. “Don’t be nervous. You’ve got this.”

These are the kinds of moments with him that swept me away in the first place. I try hard to remember what that used to feel like, and can almost feel the beginning of a spark in the center of my ch*st.

“You look incredible, by the way, if I haven’t told you yet. This dress new?”

Just like that, the spark turns into a flame, but it’s not burning for Elvis. My mind goes back to yesterday in my dressing room, when André arrived with the box from Bergdorf Goodman. I opened it to find a chic black dress with large cutouts on either side. Sexy, but sophisticated. Completely my brand.

Along with it came a handwritten note that I’ve read an embarrassing amount of times. Wear this on Saturday. – H

“He gets you,” Shiloh had said. Which led to a maelstrom of emotions because if he gets me, why can’t I “get” him? Why is it always these men wanting to dress me up and build up my confidence then get me on my knees and praise me for my commitment to them, all while telling me I’ll never own their hearts?

I almost hadn’t worn the dress, out of spite.

But here I am. Fool of the century. “Bergdorf Goodman.” I answer Elvis, omitting that it was from Hadrian.

And then I don’t have to say any more because the elevator is opening into the foyer of Arthur Seymour’s penthouse.

We’re greeted first by a waiter who hands us each a champagne glass and encourages us forward where we’re then met by a woman maybe twenty years my senior, with brown eyes and dark blonde hair that might have been a light shade of auburn naturally.

“Welcome to my home.” She shakes Elvis’s hand first. “I’m Arthur’s wife, Evangeline, and I’m delighted to have you.”

Elvis tells her his name and then turns to introduce me, but Evangeline cuts him off. “Oh, I know who this is. Our Nation Now has become a nighttime staple.” She leans forward, lowering her voice. “Which is saying something, because Arthur rarely watches anything on SNC, please do not quote me on that.”

Back at her original volume, she continues to compliment me for several minutes, despite the elevator door opening at least twice behind us to deposit more guests in her foyer. “I know I should let you go mingle.” She likely feels the p**ssure of neglecting her latest arrivals. “But Arthur’s really going to want to meet you.”

She turns to scan the room, and naturally, I scan it with her. The penthouse occupies several floors—I count three different landings on the staircase—but the main room is open concept with ceilings that extend to the very top. White linen-clothed table rounds have been placed strategically so that there is plenty of walking room around them. I can only imagine what the space normally looks like with furniture in place, or where the furniture is being stored for this occasion, but from the antique frames and gilded details on the remaining décor, I’m guessing the place is spectacularly traditional in style.

Having arrived fashionably late, many guests are already here, socializing in various bunches of three or four. A hundred people total, says a quick eyeball estimate. I can’t fathom the cost of an apartment in the city that can accommodate this many people, but I guess that’s why this night is being hosted by one of the Seymour billionaires.

Speaking of which…

“There he is,” Evangeline says, locating her husband. Vaguely, I register her saying something about having to meet him later because he seems to be immersed in a conversation with the mayor, and then something that makes Elvis laugh and then there is another couple standing with us and more introductions happening.

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