14. Duncan
DUNCAN
The tech brunch is in Tribeca, at a restaurant that costs five hundred dollars a plate and exists primarily so venture capitalists can network while pretending to care about farm-to-table sourcing.
I'm here because Jeremiah insisted, said it would be good for optics to be seen doing normal business things instead of just following Millie around like a man who's forgotten he has a company to run.
The room is full of people I recognize from conference panels and Forbes lists.
A founder who sold his last startup for two billion, a CEO who's about to take her company public, and at least six investors who've tried to poach my portfolio companies over the years.
Everyone's wearing similar combinations of expensive jeans, designer sneakers, and dark blazers.
I'm talking to a woman from Sequoia about a fintech deal when I see him.
Brad Whitmore. Six-two, blond hair that's thinning at the crown, wearing a Patagonia vest over a button-down because apparently that's still a thing.
He was in my fraternity, a guy who thought hazing built character and called women "females" in every conversation.
I haven't seen him in at least four years, and I was hoping to make it forty more.
He spots me at the same moment and his face lights up like we're old friends instead of people who tolerated each other because we happened to live in the same house for two years.
"Duncan fucking Ellington." He crosses the room with his hand already extended for the aggressive handshake guys like him think establishes dominance. "Haven't seen you since that conference in Austin. How've you been, man?"
I shake his hand because refusing would cause a scene. "Fine. Busy."
"Yeah, I saw. That whole thing with the tape." He lowers his voice like we're sharing a secret. "Brutal, dude. PR nightmare."
"It was handled."
"Oh, I'm sure. You always land on your feet." He claps me on the shoulder hard enough that it's almost a shove. "And I saw you're engaged now. To that actress, right? Millie something?"
My jaw tightens. "Millie Harris."
"Right, right. She's hot. Good choice, man." He leans in closer, and I can smell the mimosa on his breath. "Between you and me though, you think she's actually into you? Or is this one of those situations where she needs the PR boost and you're just convenient?"
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. "Watch it, Brad."
"What? I'm just saying." He grins, oblivious or uncaring. "Actresses, man. They're all about the image. And after that tape dropped you needed some serious damage control. Proposing to a Black girl who's up for an Oscar? That's strategy, bro. Can't blame you for playing the game."
I take a step closer, close enough that he has to tilt his head back slightly to maintain eye contact. "Say one more word about Millie and I'll make sure you regret it."
Brad's grin falters. "Whoa, dude. Relax. I'm just messing around."
"You're disrespecting my fiancée. There's nothing to mess around about."
"Come on, Duncan. It's me. We used to talk about women like this all the time back at Penn. You were the king of?—"
I shove him.
Not hard enough to knock him down, but hard enough that he stumbles backward two steps and has to catch himself on the edge of a table. Glasses rattle. Conversations around us pause and people turn to look.
"That was years ago, I was a different person then. Someone I'm not proud of. And if you think for one second that I'm going to stand here and let you insult Millie because we used to be fraternity brothers who said awful shit to impress each other, you're out of your mind."
Brad straightens, his face flushing red. "Jesus, Duncan. I was just joking."
"Your joke isn't funny. And if I hear you talking about Millie like that again, to anyone, I'll make sure every investor in this room knows exactly what kind of person you are.
" I step back, my hands still clenched into fists at my sides.
"Now get away from me before I do something we'll both regret. "
He opens his mouth like he's about to argue, then thinks better of it. He holds up both hands in mock surrender and backs away, disappearing into the crowd near the bar.
I stand there for a beat, my heart pounding, aware that at least twenty people just watched me shove a guy at a tech brunch over an insult I would have laughed at six years ago.
The woman from Sequoia is staring at me with wide eyes, and Jeremiah is across the room making a beeline toward me with the face of someone who's about to ask what the hell just happened.
I don't care.
The only thing I can think about is the way Brad said Millie's name like it was a punchline, like she was a prop in my redemption arc instead of the most talented person I know. The idea that anyone could look at her and see strategy instead of substance makes me want to break something.
Jeremiah reaches me before I can decide whether to leave or stay. "What was that?"
"Nothing."
"That didn't look like nothing."
"Brad said something about Millie. I told him to stop. He didn't. I made him."
Jeremiah studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Okay. He had it coming, then." He glances toward the bar where Brad is now talking animatedly to someone else, probably spinning the story to make himself the victim. "But you should probably leave before this turns into a thing."
He's right. I'm still buzzing with adrenaline, my hands shaking slightly, and if Brad comes back over here I'm not sure I'll have the restraint to walk away a second time.
I leave through the side exit, bypassing the main room where people are still eating overpriced eggs and pretending to care about sustainable agriculture.
I replay the conversation with Brad in my head, hearing the way he reduced Millie to a PR tactic, a convenient move in a game he thinks we're all playing.
And the worst part is that six years ago I would have agreed with him.
I would have laughed, made a joke of my own, and moved on without thinking twice about what it meant to talk about women like they were strategy instead of people.
But I'm not that person anymore. Or at least I'm trying not to be.
The High Line is less crowded during the day, just tourists taking photos and a few locals cutting through on their way to somewhere else. I find the same spot where Millie and I stood last week, the rail overlooking the West Side, and I lean against it with both hands gripping the cold metal.
I'm seething. At Brad for saying what he said, at myself for the years I spent being exactly like him, at the entire situation that made it possible for someone to look at Millie and see calculation instead of talent.
She deserves better than this. Better than a fake engagement to rehabilitate my image, better than people questioning whether her success is earned, better than me showing up in her life a decade too late with an apology that doesn't undo the damage.
I'm about to call her when my phone rings. Not Millie. Jeremiah.
"You need to see this," he says.
"See what?"
"Twitter. Someone filmed the whole thing with Brad. It's already at fifty thousand views."
"Send me the link."
He does. I pull up the video and watch myself shove Brad Whitmore backward while people around us stop mid-conversation. The audio is muffled but clear enough to hear me say, "That was years ago. I was a different person then."
The video cuts off right as I'm telling him to get away from me.
The comments are already pouring in. Half the people are calling me a hypocrite, saying I'm only defending Millie because I got caught and need to perform redemption.
The other half are saying it's proof I've actually changed, that standing up for her in public when it costs me something means the relationship is real.
Nobody knows what to believe, which means we've successfully confused everyone into thinking this might actually be love.