Chapter 3
CALLUM
By the time my second drink was gone, I had come to a conclusion—Chantilly Giles was not a person. She was a performance. A carefully curated production designed to broadcast to her followers and anyone else watching. Everything was content. The meal. The restaurant. Me.
I watched her film herself tasting the bread, complaining that it was “so basic,” before sending it back and asking for gluten-free options.
The server was a young guy who looked like he was working his way through college and was just biding his time.
He nodded politely and disappeared. I imagined he was used to dealing with people like her.
Didn’t make it right, but he handled it like a champ.
“Can you believe they brought out regular bread?” she said to me, or maybe to her phone. It was hard to tell. One eye was always on that fucking phone camera. It was weird. “Like, does this place even know who dines here?”
I sipped my drink and said nothing.
She turned her attention to the menu, running a red nail down the page. “Oh my God, the scallops are only forty-eight dollars. That’s so cheap. They can’t be good.” She looked up at me. “Don’t you think that’s suspicious? Good scallops should be at least seventy.”
I didn’t care if they were three hundred. The sooner she ordered and ate, the faster I could get the hell out of there. My phone was in my pocket. My lifeline. One text and I could end my misery. But I knew I’d hear about it if I didn’t put in some effort.
“The filet is one-twenty,” she continued. “That’s more reasonable, but still. I expected more from a place like this.”
Everything was about the price tag with her.
Every item she mentioned came with commentary about cost. Not taste.
Not quality. Just how much it cost and whether that was impressive enough for her to order.
She was a walking, talking reminder of everything I’d learned to avoid.
She had already evaluated the wine, the glasses, and even the fucking tablecloths.
Maybe she was doing things right. Maybe I should notice the little things.
Fuck that. Her way of doing things was exhausting.
Women who cared about money were a hard pass.
Women who knew I had money and had an obsession with money were bad news.
I’d made that mistake too many times to count.
It was easier to keep things casual. A night, maybe two if the chemistry was there, and then we’d both move on.
No one got hurt. No one got used. No expectations, no disappointments.
I’d given up on the dream of love a long time ago.
My cousins in New York had all found it, one after another, like they were falling dominoes.
I was happy for them. Genuinely. But their fairy tale endings only reinforced what I already knew.
It wasn’t in the cards for me. Not in LA.
Not with the kind of women who circulated in my world.
At least Chantilly was honest about her priorities.
That was something, I supposed. She wasn’t pretending to care about art or philanthropy or anything beyond the dollar signs.
It didn’t matter, though. I had zero desire to pursue anything with her.
For a brief, desperate moment, I considered the possibility of just fucking her and never calling again.
That was usually my move. But even that felt impossible.
Her personality was so repulsive, I couldn’t even muster the energy to pretend I was interested.
There wasn’t enough alcohol to make her attractive enough to take to bed.
The server returned with gluten-free bread. Chantilly filmed herself examining it, narrating the whole thing for her phone.
“They brought me gluten-free bread, which is so sweet, but I don’t eat bread. I literally just wanted to see if they had it.”
The server’s face remained neutral, but I saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. I would be tipping the guy enough to pay his tuition for a semester.
She shooed the server away and then gave me her full attention. “So, your family does movies and fashion?”
Of course she wanted to talk about my family’s businesses. She wanted to know if the family money had staying power or if it would be gone in ten years.
“We have interests in several industries,” I said vaguely.
“That’s so hot,” she said, leaning forward. “I love a man with power.”
Chantilly’s hand reached across the table and landed on mine. Her nails were long, sharp, and painted devil red. With those talons, she could easily puncture an artery.
“I think we could be really good together,” she said. “I need a partner who can support me and my vision for the future. Financially and, you know, aesthetically. You look great in photos.”
I pulled my hand back and reached for my wine glass. “You’re very direct,” I said.
“I don’t believe in wasting time. Life is too short to pretend we don’t know what we want.”
“I can’t argue with that logic.” I shrugged. “I have a feeling you and I want different things in life though.”
It was too honest but my politeness was cracking. Not that she noticed.
Chantilly was back on her phone, filming herself again. “So, I’m on a date right now,” she said to the camera. “And he’s very handsome, obviously.”
I stared at her. She was filming herself talking about me while I sat three feet away. Scrolling on your phone on a date was already rude. Streaming on a date was downright offensive.
This was a new level of insane.
With Chantilly ignoring me, I glanced at the nearby table again. I couldn’t help myself. The woman—the one I’d knocked over—was leaning forward, talking with animated gestures. Jack Montana was looking at his phone, much like Chantilly.
What the hell was she doing with him?
Montana was a notorious asshole. Everyone in the industry knew it.
He showed up late to sets, treated crew like they were invisible, and had a reputation for being difficult with everyone except the directors who could make or break his career.
I’d met him twice at industry events. Both times he’d been condescending and dismissive.
The kind of guy who talked over people and never bothered to remember names.
She deserved better than that. Not that I knew her. Not that it was any of my business. But she had fire in her eyes when she’d glared at me outside, and now she was wasting it on Jack fucking Montana.
I took another sip of wine and tried to focus on Chantilly, who was still filming herself.
“And the ambiance here is very...” She paused, searching for the word. “Moody. I like it. Very romantic. I think I’d probably use lamps instead of the fake candles, but whatever. It’s a choice. Not mine.”
I wasn’t sure what was romantic about her talking to her phone instead of me, but I kept that observation to myself.
I needed to get out of here and I felt like I had waited long enough. Time to hit the eject button.
“Excuse me,” I said, standing up. “I need to use the restroom.”
Chantilly wrinkled her nose but didn’t look away from her camera. “Too much information.”
I walked through the dining room, past the woman at Montana’s table—she was still talking, and he was still ignoring her—and found the restroom in the back. I locked myself in a stall and pulled out my phone.
Me: Code red. Hit the fire alarm.
The three dots appeared immediately.
Drew: You sure?
Me: Positive.
Drew: On it. Give me five minutes.
I leaned against the stall door and closed my eyes. This was rock bottom. I was hiding in a bathroom, waiting for my brother to commit what was a felony so I could escape a dinner date.
But desperate times. This date needed to end and it had to look like it wasn’t my fault. So I had gotten creative.
I washed my hands, checked my reflection in the mirror, and gave myself a mental pep talk.
Five more minutes. Maybe ten. Then I’d be free.
I’d apologize to my father tomorrow, explain that Chantilly wasn’t a good match, and beg him to stop setting me up with women who treated other people like props in their personal reality show.
When I returned to the table, Chantilly had been served a new cocktail that looked like it belonged in a museum. It was a pale gold color with actual flakes of gold floating in it. That just tripled the bill and we hadn’t even ordered main courses.
“Oh my God, you have to try this,” she said, pushing the glass toward me. “It’s the signature cocktail. It has real gold in it.”
“I can see that.”
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” She pulled out her phone and filmed herself taking a sip. Her face immediately twisted into a grimace. “Ugh, it tastes like pennies. Like I’m sucking on loose change. Who in the hell would make something so pretty only to have it taste like hot garbage?”
Then why did you order it?
“That’s unfortunate,” I said.
She pushed the glass away and flagged down our server, who appeared with the patience of a saint.
“This tastes like metal,” she said. “I can’t drink this.”
“I apologize,” the server said. “Would you like something else?”
“No, I want this one. I just wanted you to know it’s not good.” She waved him away and then turned her attention back to the menu. “Oh, they have caviar. I’m getting caviar.”
Of course she was.
“With the gluten-free crackers,” she added. “No blinis. Blinis are basically pancakes and I don’t do carbs after three.”
It was seven-thirty.
The server took her order and disappeared again.
I poured myself another glass of wine and drank half of it in one swallow.
The vein near my temple was throbbing. I could feel it pulsing with every beat of my heart.
If Drew didn’t come through soon, I was going to have an aneurysm right here at the table.
I checked my watch. Four minutes since I’d texted him.
Chantilly was back on her phone, scrolling through comments on one of her videos. She laughed at something, then frowned, then typed out a response with furious speed.
I stole another glance at the other table. The woman was still talking. Montana was still on his phone. She looked frustrated. I didn’t blame her.
Chantilly’s caviar arrived. She filmed herself examining it, narrating the whole thing like she was hosting a show.
“So they brought me Kaluga caviar, which is fine, but it’s not Beluga. Beluga is obviously superior, but whatever. They probably wouldn’t even serve it right.”
I finished my wine and set the glass down. My phone was on the table. I was ready. The second that alarm went off, I was out the door.
“Do you want a bite?” she asked me.
I wanted to jab that spoon into my eye.
“No thank you,” I said.
Any time now, Drew.
Chantilly was eating her caviar, making little sounds of approval between bites. She filmed each cracker before she ate it. It was a performance I had no interest in watching or being a part of.
I waited. And waited.
Shit, what if my brother got caught? What if he was in handcuffs? If I got stuck sitting through an entire meal with this woman, I would be scarred for life. If he wasn’t in cuffs and I had to get through this, I was going to murder him as soon as I escaped.