A smooth jazzy beat pours through the sprawling hotel ballroom hosting his mother’s event. Ever since Harlan’s death, Linda’s bark and bite has hushed, tamed by the leash around their necks held by one Marta Cabrera. What a joke this marketing event is. He can think of a million better ways to invest twenty-grand rather than some bougie-ass gala in a space that isn’t even the right feel for Linda’s real estate business. As if it could remove the dark cloud that hangs over the family these days, almost a year after the fall-out of Harlan’s death.
Harlan would be rolling over in his grave with laughter if he could see what his mother does now, but Ransom refuses to obey. He is the dog that won’t heel, that bites the hand that feeds him, he knows. He tried to kill his grandfather, after all. Killed the help. His only regret is the stage knife that prevented him from severing the confinement of their leashes.
As it is, Linda has always known how to make use of his charm. She knows the way he can turn it on and off with a switch, can work an entire room in a hour with an easy, breezy smile and a glance that dissects motives and delaminates even the most opaque of personalities. She knows all he needs is a good motive and he’ll play it to win.
That much hasn’t changed. and despite what most people think, it’s not the money he cares about. It’s the freedom. The time. The power that money can buy. So she dangles it in front of him like a carrot and hires him for the night. Thirty percent of whatever business he brings in.
Why else would he show up?
It’s her hair that catches his eye first—a shock of blond so pale it could almost be white. He tips his head in interest, a sharp smile already tugging on his mouth as he nods when they both turn toward a server holding a tray of champagne. He lifts a glass off the tray, perfectly manicured fingers grasping its thin stem delicately. His other hand remains folded in his suit, the luxurious double-breasted white corduroy tailored to fit his body perfectly. Yves Saint-Laurent. Current season.
“Alright, so I’ve been wondering,” he starts, stepping closer conspiratorially to her as the server continues his round in the room. Blue eyes lift to cast over the room and its occupants, its suits and dresses rubbing shoulders with each other. “How many people do you think came with an empty stomach, actually expecting a balanced ratio of food and alcohol?”
no subject
Harlan would be rolling over in his grave with laughter if he could see what his mother does now, but Ransom refuses to obey. He is the dog that won’t heel, that bites the hand that feeds him, he knows. He tried to kill his grandfather, after all. Killed the help. His only regret is the stage knife that prevented him from severing the confinement of their leashes.
As it is, Linda has always known how to make use of his charm. She knows the way he can turn it on and off with a switch, can work an entire room in a hour with an easy, breezy smile and a glance that dissects motives and delaminates even the most opaque of personalities. She knows all he needs is a good motive and he’ll play it to win.
That much hasn’t changed. and despite what most people think, it’s not the money he cares about. It’s the freedom. The time. The power that money can buy. So she dangles it in front of him like a carrot and hires him for the night. Thirty percent of whatever business he brings in.
Why else would he show up?
It’s her hair that catches his eye first—a shock of blond so pale it could almost be white. He tips his head in interest, a sharp smile already tugging on his mouth as he nods when they both turn toward a server holding a tray of champagne. He lifts a glass off the tray, perfectly manicured fingers grasping its thin stem delicately. His other hand remains folded in his suit, the luxurious double-breasted white corduroy tailored to fit his body perfectly. Yves Saint-Laurent. Current season.
“Alright, so I’ve been wondering,” he starts, stepping closer conspiratorially to her as the server continues his round in the room. Blue eyes lift to cast over the room and its occupants, its suits and dresses rubbing shoulders with each other. “How many people do you think came with an empty stomach, actually expecting a balanced ratio of food and alcohol?”