2. Duncan
DUNCAN
I'm sitting in my office, staring at my laptop screen, and watching my name cycle through Twitter trends for the fourth hour in a row, each refresh bringing a fresh wave of people who have never met me explaining exactly what kind of person I am.
Jeremiah sits across from my desk with his tablet balanced on his knee, scrolling through what I assume is the same nightmare from a different angle.
He's forty-three, Black, and has the permanent expression of a man who stopped being surprised by human stupidity sometime during the Bush administration.
"Okay," he says, finally looking up. "BioLuxe pulled their sponsorship. NorthPoint is 'reassessing the partnership.' Your TED Talk next month is now a 'scheduling conflict.'"
"Great."
"CNN wants a statement. So does the Times. Forbes called asking if you'd like to comment on whether this affects your position at Ellington Capital."
I close the laptop because looking at it isn't helping. "It was six years ago. I was twenty-two, drunk at some asshole's party in the Hamptons, trying to impress people I can't even name now. And now I'm paying the price for that?"
Jeremiah sets the tablet down. "Duncan, I know. I also know that none of it matters. Six years, six months, six minutes ago, the public doesn't grade on a curve. You said it, someone recorded it, and now it's out there with your name attached."
I lean back in my chair and press my palms against my eyes until I see colors. The audio keeps replaying in my head, my own voice smug and dismissive, describing a female colleague like she was some inconvenient problem I had to solve. I don't even remember her name. That might be worse.
"I'm not that person anymore."
"Then we need to show them who you are now." Jeremiah picks up his coffee, takes a slow sip. "And an apology tour won't do it. Those always look like damage control, because they are damage control."
"So what's the play?"
"I'm working on something." He stands, tucks the tablet under his arm. "Give me twenty-four hours."
I want to argue, to push for details, but Jeremiah has gotten me out of worse situations than this.
Not moral ones, maybe, but logistical ones.
He'll come back with a plan and it'll be smart and I'll probably hate it, but I'll do it anyway because the alternative is letting the twenty-two-year-old version of myself define the rest of my life.
"Fine," I say. "Twenty-four hours."
He leaves. I open the laptop again, which is a mistake.
Lunch with Emilio and Angelo happens because I need to be around people who knew me before I became a headline. We meet at Locanda Verde in Tribeca, tucked into a corner booth where the lighting is forgiving and the acoustics swallow conversation.
Emilio arrives first, same as always, dressed like he just stepped out of a Milan showroom and couldn't be bothered to change.
Tailored navy suit, no tie, hair slightly too long in a way that works on him because he's Emilio D'Amico and everything works on him.
He drops into the seat across from me and signals the waiter without looking.
Angelo shows up three minutes later, less polished than his brother but somehow more put-together in the way that suggests effort instead of inheritance.
His jacket is off, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, and he's got his phone in his hand like he's in the middle of something urgent. He probably is.
"Sorry," he says, sliding in next to Emilio. "Cierra called. Plumbing disaster."
Emilio raises an eyebrow. "Again?"
"Apparently our toddler tried to flush a toy truck." Angelo pockets his phone and looks at me. "So. You're fucked."
"Thanks, I hadn't noticed."
"It's bad," Emilio agrees. "But it's not fatal. You remember when I got caught sleeping with Paul Hathaway's wife?"
I do. She was a married socialite, and the scandal was splashed across Page Six in a photograph that left very little room for alternate interpretations.
Emilio had been reckless, and their father had lost his mind in the way only Italian patriarchs with billion-dollar reputations can lose their minds.
"Your dad made you get married," I say.
"Both of us," Angelo corrects. "I got dragged into it because apparently one scandal wasn't enough. He married me off to Cierra and Emilio to Marcia. Told us we'd stay married for a year and then quietly divorce once the press moved on."
"And?"
Emilio grins. "Turns out forced proximity works. Marcia's perfect. We're actually happy."
"Same," Angelo adds. "Cierra hated me for a while, which was warranted. I wasn't the kindest to her when we were younger… but then we figured it out. Now we've got a kid and a happy life together and I wouldn't trade it for the world."
I look between them. "So your advice is to get married."
"No," Emilio says. "Our advice is to attach yourself to the right narrative. People forgave me because I stopped being Emilio the homewrecker and became Emilio the great husband. They need a new story to tell about you."
The idea lands before I've fully processed it.
A new story. A reset. People hate misogynists, but they love redemption arcs, and they love a good romance story.
If I could attach myself to the right person, someone whose reputation is unimpeachable, someone who makes me look like a man who has grown instead of a man who's just trying to survive the news cycle...
"You're thinking," Angelo observes.
"Of course I am."
"This is gonna be interesting," Emilio says, leaning back. "I can tell."
Maybe, but it's the first thing that's felt like an actual solution since the audio dropped, and I'm desperate enough to chase it.
I grab my phone and text Jeremiah. "Call me when you have a minute."
Much to my surprise, he responds in thirty seconds flat. "Working on something. Sit tight."
I then reach for my water glass instead.
The condensation has left a ring on the tabletop.
When I glance up, Emilio is watching me with the expression of someone who recognizes his own terrible ideas reflected back at him across the table, and Angelo is trying very hard not to laugh.
His mouth keeps twitching at the corner.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," Angelo says, shaking his head. "Just wondering who the unlucky woman is going to be."
"There's no woman," I say flatly.
"Yet," Emilio corrects, pointing at me with his fork. "But there will be. And when your publicist calls you back with whatever plan he's cooking up right now, I'll bet you actual money it involves a photographer, a very public dinner, and possibly a ring."
I don't take the bet. He's probably right, and I've lost enough this week without adding cash to the tally.