Chapter 3
The doorman greeted him with a polite nod, and he returned it with the faintest of gestures, his dark hair slicked back and not a wrinkle or stray thread in sight on his tailored suit.
He adjusted his tie as he pushed through the heavy glass doors.
The scent of butter and sage greeted him as he stepped inside—elegant, expensive, a little too strong.
The restaurant buzzed, muted conversations layered over the clink of silverware and the delicate strains of piano music, peppered by bursts of laughter.
His polished shoes tapped against the marble floor as he strode forward, every movement purposeful.
Heads turned, not because he demanded attention, but because he had it. A waiter made the mistake of hovering too long in his path; one arched brow from Ronan sent the poor man scurrying away like a startled rabbit.
Gabriel was mid-conversation, one hand moving with restrained precision, the other hovering near his wine glass—every motion intentional, like everything else he did.
Knox, broad-shouldered and grinning like he’d pulled off a heist, leaned back with the confidence of someone who didn’t mind being the loudest man in the room.
“Well, well.” Knox’s voice carried enough volume to make two nearby tables glance their way as Ronan approached. “Look who’s graced us with his presence. Did you take a meeting on the way here…or did your GPS just figure out how to get across town?”
“Knox.” Ronan’s voice was even. “Still finding new ways to test my patience.”
Their usual firm handshake morphed into a fleeting, hearty pat on the back, a show of brotherhood that Knox wouldn’t even dream of initiating within the sleek confines of their office. There, the demarcation line between friendship and commerce was rigidly enforced.
“Good to see you.” Gabriel rose next, extending a hand. His grip was solid, his green eyes crinkling with genuine affection. “We were thinking you’d been kidnapped by your inbox again.”
“Only a near miss,” Ronan replied, the corners of his mouth shifting enough to suggest he wasn’t entirely unimpressed. This was as close as he got to looking remotely pleased without a multimillion-dollar deal on the table.
Their server arrived, notepad in hand, and the ordering proceeded with ease: a medium rare ribeye for Knox, grilled salmon for Ronan, and the predictable roasted chicken for Gabriel.
Ronan’s eyes scanned the wine selection, then set down the list and looked at the bottle open on the table—an expensive cabernet. “Judging by this choice, it seems neither of you deemed me fit to be part of tonight’s decision.”
“That’s because you’re set in your ways.” Knox reached for the bottle and poured Ronan a glass before he could protest. “You’d have picked a vintage so painfully dull, our poor server would’ve nodded off while uncorking the bottle.”
“Dull?” Ronan challenged. “Big words coming from someone who’s never strayed from roasted chicken on a menu.”
“Why tamper with what works?” Gabriel returned, with a grin that reached his eyes, hoisting his wine glass for their traditional toast.
“Could we perhaps hold off on the banter?” Knox interjected, more amused than annoyed. “Some of us like to ease into a peaceful dinner.”
Gabriel leaned back. “Same table, same chaos.” Their corner booth in the private dining room had become a ritual—monthly dinners where business mixed with friendship, and the rest of the world stayed outside.
“Appreciated, Gabriel.” Ronan reached for his glass and took a contemplative sip. He lifted it, studying the color. “At least someone remembers how to kick off a dinner properly.”
“Proper,” Knox scoffed, leaning forward with a smirk, “is overrated.”
Gabriel studied him for a beat. “You look more serious than usual, and that’s saying a lot.”
Ronan lowered his glass, expression flat. “For good reason. There’s a situation.”
Gabriel exchanged a glance with Knox, his interest piqued. “What kind of situation?” he asked.
Ronan exhaled slowly. “Devney has taken her role as my personal assistant to a new level.”
“How bad are we talking?” Gabriel asked.
“I’ve been lured into a charity ball.”
Knox nearly choked on his wine in a burst of laughter
“Make sure you keep that invitation. Frame it. Let’s showcase it in the office reception area under a plaque with her picture, reading ‘Most Committed Employee.’”
Ronan shot him an unamused look before shifting restlessly in his chair. “Don’t encourage her,” he warned. “She also added a line item labeled ‘emotional damages’ to her expense report after I rejected her proposal for themed office snacks.”
“Wait, hold on.” Knox’s expression caught somewhere between amusement and skepticism. “What exactly qualifies as ‘themed’ office snacks?”
“Apparently, matching the quarterly budget report to flavors of potato chips.” Ronan didn’t even blink. “Sour cream and onion for the losses, barbecue for gains.”
Gabriel chuckled, shaking his head. “Sounds like she’s keeping things lively.”
“She’s keeping things unhinged.” Ronan leaned back as the waiter placed a fresh basket of bread on the table. He broke the bread in half, controlled even in irritation. “I can’t decide if I should promote her for sheer audacity or fire her to protect my sanity.”
“Promote her,” Knox said. “Definitely promote her. If nothing else, it’ll make your shareholder meetings wildly entertaining.”
“Because that’s what I need,” Ronan countered, shaking his head. “More entertainment.”
“Well, you can’t fire her.” Gabriel’s tone was laced with that measured diplomacy he wielded so effortlessly. “She’s clearly good at her job, even if she has unconventional methods. Besides, you’d miss her antics. Admit it.”
“Miss is a strong word.” The slight quirk of Ronan’s lips suggested otherwise. “One doesn’t miss earthquakes, tornados, and hurricanes.”
A commotion on the far side of the restaurant drew their attention.
A young man had dropped to one knee beside a candlelit table, producing a small velvet box that caught the light.
The woman’s hands flew to her mouth, tears already streaming down her face, as nearby diners turned to watch.
Her emphatic nodding set off a round of applause, punctuated by the distinctive pop of a champagne cork.
Knox watched the scene unfold with an exaggerated grimace, as if he’d witnessed someone step in an unpleasant mess. “Speaking of natural disasters,” he commented, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the polished mahogany table, “isn’t it remarkable how we’ve upheld the pact?”
Ronan frowned. “The pact?”
“Don’t feign ignorance, Wilder.” Knox waved his fork in Ronan’s direction.
“You know exactly what I’m referring to.
We remain free birds until we reach forty.
No exceptions. No loopholes. And certainly, no bubbly assistants with glitter pens convincing you otherwise.
Half of our old schoolmates are now sporting gold bands of servitude and dad bods while we’re here enjoying our freedom. ”
“Ah, yes.” Ronan’s voice was flat. “How could I forget such a profoundly mature agreement?”
“Hey, it’s called self-preservation,” Knox defended. “We agreed. Careers first, complications later. We’ve made it this far—you’re not bailing on us now.”
“Trust me,” Ronan assured him. “There’s no risk of that.”
“I’m making sure.” Knox eased into a more relaxed position, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. “You know I’m a stickler for the rules.”
“That’s hardly the term I’d use to describe you,” Gabriel remarked, his tone light and edged with humor.
Knox shrugged nonchalantly, lifting his glass in a toast. “Label me as you wish. But a pact is a pact. Here’s to remaining free and uncommitted.”
Ronan and Gabriel raised their glasses, clinking them against Knox’s. “Free, perhaps,” Ronan murmured under his breath before taking a sip. “Uncommitted seems hopeful.”
As if on cue, their server appeared at that moment, expertly balancing three plates of steaming entrees on his forearm. The tantalizing aroma of seared steak and roasted vegetables filled the air as he placed each dish before them.
“Perfect timing.” Knox rubbed his hands together in anticipation as he eyed his ribeye. “I was about to start gnawing on the table.”
“Your refined dining habits never cease to amaze.” Ronan turned his attention to the seared salmon on his plate and reached for another slice of sourdough from the breadbasket.
“Some of us work up an appetite doing actual work,” Knox said with a grin. “We can’t all survive on spreadsheets and spite.”
“Debatable on both counts,” Ronan countered. The candlelight caught the rich burgundy of the wine in their glasses, casting ruby shadows across the crisp white tablecloth.
Ronan set his glass down. “Speaking of debates, there’s a chance for me to meet with Andrew Beauchamp this weekend.”
That name snapped Gabriel’s attention from the breadbasket, while Knox set his glass down.
“Beauchamp,” Knox drawled slowly. “The family-values kingpin himself. You’re aiming high.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Ronan said. “The man has a portfolio worth over six billion dollars. If we secure even a fraction of his interest—say, five hundred million—it would be a game changer for Oath Capital. We could expand into markets we’ve only dreamed about.”
“Five hundred million?” Gabriel said with genuine interest. “What’s your angle?”
“His record shows he values innovation paired with stability.” Ronan’s voice was low but even, as if he were outlining a battle plan.
“He likes to see long-term growth potential backed by data. Our recent returns speak for themselves. Plus, Oath’s diversification strategy aligns exactly with his investment philosophy. ”
“Impressive.” Knox said. “But doesn’t he also have eccentric preferences? Like, didn’t he once reject a pitch because the CEO wore brown shoes to a meeting?”
“That was black shoes with navy socks,” Gabriel corrected, chuckling. “Though your point still stands.”