Chapter 31 – Pleasing the Boss

I stare at the sign outside the gallery as we walk past. Adeline Seymour Showroom. “I didn’t realize there was a museum at the Seymour Center.”

The center is quite encompassing in both size and range of attractions. I also hadn’t realized there was a valet and parking garage until Hadrian drove through the entrance. Probably because it’s not open to the public, but still, it was a surprise.

Hadrian doesn’t address my comment, seemingly too busy guiding me past security. There’s a line for the show’s event that we pass with a nod to the woman on duty. Hadrian’s hand is on the small of my back, directing me where to go, and while there is much to process sensorily in this moment, it’s only the hot touch of his fingers on my bare skin that registers in my brain.

When we’re inside, and his hand drops, I feel instantly cold.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I take in my surroundings while Hadrian collects a brochure. The gallery is box shaped, and consists of several floors. A grand staircase, modern in design with sharp angles, is the focal point—an art piece in its own right. I glance up and count four levels. At the very top, a balcony extends, and the small group of black-tie individuals overlooking the mass below seem not unlike royalty gazing over their people.

“Ready for this year’s showcase artist?” Hadrian holds up the pamphlet to read the title out loud. “Lonely World by Anita Sendari.” He flips through the pages. “Apparently, the show is all photographic images of empty spaces. Spaces that are usually occupied. Feels unoriginal, doesn’t it?” He lets out a bored sigh and tosses the brochure in a recycling bin. “Let’s get this over with.”

Again, his hand settles on my back, and he leads me toward the nearest display. The sound of the crowd muffles around me, and again, his touch and the thud of my racing heartbeat in my ears are at the forefront of my awareness.

I force myself to find logical talking points and settle on the most obvious one. “What exactly are we doing here?”

Hadrian doesn’t answer until we’re standing in front of a large black and white photo of an empty sports arena littered with garbage and confetti and streams from pompoms. “We’re looking at images of our lonely world. Keep up, Brystin. This particular piece looks very much like my parents’ house after Adly’s high school graduation. Partied out, is what I’d call it.”

I offer a different term. “Trashed.”

“Good one.” He guides me to the next photo—a black and white of an empty playground. “Again, unoriginal.”

“Uh-huh.” A woman next to us turns her head sharply in our direction, apparently not impressed with Hadrian’s critique. I lower my voice when I rephrase my question. “But why are we here?”

“It’s my grandmother’s birthday. She’s passed, but she was an art lover so once a year, Grandpa Irving flies in from whatever retirement home he’s currently living in, to celebrate her special day with a new show by an up-and-coming female artist and a formal luncheon—which we were, unfortunately, too late to attend.” He directs me to the next piece of work—an image from an empty hospital after what seems to be a fire or bombing of some sort. “I’ll tell you what, though—Grandma Addy loved supporting women in the arts, but this is not at all the kind of display she would have been into. Too cold and dark. She preferred colorful modern pieces. Jackson Pollack and Liz Barber.”

He moves us to another image, but I’m more interested in his unusual candor and the still unanswered heart of my question than the art. “Grandma Addy’s birthday. Art show by a woman she would have disliked. But why am I here?”

“Because I asked you to be here.”

“You told me to be here, if we’re being precise. And I can’t figure out exactly why.”

His eyes still focused on the exhibition, he gives yet another sigh. “Because I’m required to be here, Brystin. As I’m required to be every year, and it’s so boring and dull that I decided it would be more entertaining to have you come along.”

This time when he tries to move me forward, I don’t budge.

“What?” he asks, his tone bordering on irritation.

“You bought me a dress and made all that fuss just so that I could come here and…what? Be your distraction?”

“That sounds like a fair summation.”

I stare hard at him for several seconds. “Do you not have any friends?”

He laughs. “Of course I don’t have friends. I’m a wealthy, powerful man from an even wealthier, more powerful family. Most everyone who wants to get close to me wants something in exchange, and quite frankly, all I really give a fuck about is work. So yes, I have to look elsewhere for entertainment.”

“And that’s what I am. Your entertainment.”

Finally, he looks directly at me. “Was that unclear in our negotiated terms?”

“Well…” I’d supposed all our interactions would be sexual, but he never actually stated as such. He’d specifically said he wanted to get to know me. I’d taken that to mean in one way only.

It’s strange how it feels more of a sacrifice to give him my company than to give him a blow job.

“I guess I made assumptions.” I try to be vague about what I’d assumed.

His lip curls up on one side. “I did tell you that today you’d be clothed.”

I hate that he knows exactly what my assumptions had been, despite their obviousness. Or maybe I just hate that he made it a point to mention them.

Brooding, I step away from his hand. From his warmth. “Since I’d requested evidence of your dedication to our agreement, I’d expected today would be about that. I’ve paid out, remember? It’s your turn. Quid pro quo.”

Hadrian’s expression turns dark, and he’s clearly annoyed. “Quid pro quo is not something you are in a position to demand. Might I remind you that what I have to offer you is far more than what you have to offer me in this deal. If I want to dress you up and have you accompany me to an art show in memory of my grandmother, then you should accept that as an honor and willingly comply.”

A chill runs down my spine, but I can’t say that’s rooted in fear. Not exactly.

Whatever it’s rooted in, part of me feels compelled to lower my eyes and say, yes, Mr. Seymour. Another part of me wants to slap him in the face, never mind that he’s the boss of all bosses, and that we’re in public.

I somehow manage to ignore both compulsions, and instead I laugh.

Which surprises him into a wary smile. “I don’t believe I said anything funny.”

“It’s funny,” I insist. “All of it. I promise.” That I’ve entered into a sexual agreement with a man who just wants my company? Downright hysterical. “Come on. Next piece. At this rate, we’ll be here all day.”

This time his smile is genuine. “My thoughts exactly.”

The next few photos are more of the same thing. The artist has skill and a good eye, if not the most original concept. Hadrian and I exchange critiques at each piece, but quickly, I understand why he finds this whole thing boring, and soon I’m having a hard time caring enough to mention the art at all.

“What do you mean you’re required to be here?” I ask when we’ve made it through what I estimate to be only half of Sendari’s exhibit. Several times already, Hadrian has been stopped and photographed—many times with me at his side—which I assume he will use as the proof that he attended today, since I’ve yet to see any one of his family members checking in on him. “Is your grandfather Irving that much of a hard-ass?”

Honestly, I don’t know much about the man’s temperament, though his accomplishments are plenty. The ninety-six-year-old was the founder of the Seymour Empire, building both an industrial corporation and a media conglomerate under one umbrella before the government broke up the company in the eighties. Irving remained CEO of the industrial branch for another twenty years and a board advisor for the media company, eventually retiring and leaving both businesses in the hands of his five sons.

It would make sense if the guy was an asshole. Probably where Hadrian got it from. It’s likely genetic.

“Actually, no.” He surprises me with his answer. “Grandpa Irving is kind of a teddy bear now that he’s retired. It’s the uncles that are the hard-asses.”

I urge him on with a questioning look.

He takes a breath, as though what he’s going to try to sum up for me is a rather lengthy history. “Grandpa retired, but he still owns everything, which means his sons are constantly scrambling to win his favor. All of them want to be his favorite. All of them hope they’ll be the one who gets handed the most power when he dies.”

I follow his line of thinking. “Attending this event is a way of gaining his affection?”

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