Chapter 27 – Rowan
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rowan
When Chad said, “Debrief in twenty,” what he really meant was cognac and cigars with the partners.
A quiet little flex disguised as a meeting. An invitation-only affair where the top prospects get to pretend they belong while the real power players decide whether we’re decoration or investment.
I was invited.
Naturally.
After changing into fresh clothes I left Tessa and Waffles curled up on the bed, both damp, half-asleep, and smelling faintly of lake water and whatever organic shampoo the estate stocks.
She didn’t ask where I was going because she already knew. She’s studied this world from the outside long enough to recognize its rituals.
“Go,” she muttered, eyes half-lidded as she fluffed a pillow behind her back, creating a nest. “Seal the deal. Charm them. Smile like you care about hedge funds and polo. You know, all the things you do so well.”
I raised a brow, tying my tie with practiced precision. “You think I smile?”
“You’re terrifying when you do,” she said around a yawn that she didn’t bother covering. “Very predatory.”
“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 jury conditioning, 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.”
“She has that effect,” I say, keeping my voice neutral while cataloging every word for later analysis.
There’s a pause where their eyes shift toward Hale, the choreography of deference as practiced as any courtroom procedure.
“Interesting choice,” Brooks muses, studying his glass as if it holds profound secrets. “I’m disappointed she’s not in the interview pool. We could use someone with her... energy.”
“She didn’t come here to audition,” I say flatly. “She came as my guest.”
“Still,” Masden persists, “if she’s half as good with contracts as she is with working a room, we might be missing out on real talent.”
I shrug with indifference. “She’s not interested in Big Law.”
Camden leans forward, and I recognize the look—a predator who thinks he’s scented weakness. “How long have you two been together? You’ve been pretty quiet about her at school.”
I let silence be my answer.
Harris laughs, the sound of someone who’s never heard no in any meaningful way. “Come on, King. We’re not the ethics committee. Just making conversation between future colleagues.”
“She values her privacy,” I say. “And I respect that.”
The silver-haired partner I haven’t been introduced to, who’s been sitting in the corner with the patience of someone used to letting others exhaust themselves before he strikes, finally speaks.
“Pretty girl like that, smart too, and she doesn’t want the spotlight?” His tone makes pretty sound like an insult. “That’s unusual in our world.”
“She doesn’t owe anyone her ambition,” I say, letting an edge creep into my voice. “Or her presence.”
Camden chuckles, but it’s nervous now. “No need to get territorial, King. We’re just admiring your taste. She’s quite the catch.”
And then Brooks sets down his glass with a soft clink that somehow manages to silence the room. He leans back in his chair, studying me with the kind of focus that’s preceded every major merger he’s orchestrated.
“So tell us,” he says, each word measured. “What’s she really like? Behind closed doors, I mean. When she’s not performing for a crowd.”
The temperature drops ten degrees. Someone coughs. Harris’s smile evaporates. Even Camden looks uncomfortable.
The silver-haired partner leans forward slightly, and I realize this is the test. Not the question itself—the reaction.
They want to know if I’ll play along with the locker room talk, if I’ll trade Tessa’s dignity for their approval, if I’m the kind of man who sees women as currency in conversations.
My grip on the glass tightens until I can feel the crystal’s edges pressing into my palm, and the silence stretches until it becomes its own kind of answer.
Laugh it off. Play the game.
It’s what my father would’ve done. He would have leaned back with practiced ease, tossed out some lewd story wrapped in expensive scotch and casual cruelty, offered a wink to keep them comfortable in their shared degradation.
He was always comfortable in rooms, comfortable letting men strip women down with words and grins and the kind of immunity that comes with seven-figure trust funds.
My mother used to come home from those dinners quiet, her hair still perfect but her eyes hollow.
And here I am, standing in the same room with different wallpaper, listening to them pass Tessa’s name around.
I let it go for a while, allowing their words to pile up.
“Those heels should be classified as a weapon,” Camden mutters into his glass, already three drinks past professional. “Had half the junior associates forgetting their own names at cocktail hour.”
Harris smirks, the expression ugly on his already unfortunate face. “With legs like that? She could walk into court and the jury would forget what case they’re hearing.”
“She walks into any room,” Masden corrects, “and the entire dynamic shifts. I watched two board members actually stand when she entered last night, like they forgot their wives were sitting right behind them.”
Camden’s getting bolder now, mistaking my silence for permission. “That yellow dress was strategic. Fitted just enough to start conversations, modest enough to make everyone feel guilty for looking. She knew exactly what she was doing.”
“She’d make a hell of a client liaison,” Harris adds, already calculating her value in billable hours. “Put her in firm colors, have her work the investor lunches? Our retention rates would triple overnight.”
“She didn’t come here to network,” I say quietly, but they’re too deep in their fantasy to notice the warning in my voice.
Masden waves dismissively. “Then she’s wasting obvious talent. That kind of presence is rare. Dangerous, even, in the right contexts.”
“Dangerously flexible,” Camden chuckles, the innuendo thick enough to choke on, “if she can keep up with both this schedule and you, King.”