2. Dante
Chapter 2
Dante
Between endless rounds of drinks and the blur of faces, I’ve lost track of all my hours and minutes. Laughter cascades across the Mediterranean as sun-kissed bodies launch themselves off my yacht’s gleaming deck. The August sun blazes down on the French Riviera. It’s been a summer of pure decadence. Of lapping up what pleasures and beauty the world has to offer. Of forgetting I should be in my mask and plastron right now.
From my perch in the salon, I watch my company mill about. The goddess on my lap—Alessandra? Anastasia?—runs a finger over the tattoos on my neck as she chatters with the group around me. Her barely-there bikini leaves little to the imagination.
Another pretty distraction that won’t last past sunrise.
My favorite kind.
My gaze flashes to the muted TV hanging over the bar. Someone had the genius idea to flick on the Tokyo Olympics. I’m inexorably drawn to the screen, where the first men’s Saber team match is unfolding. The same event I took gold in four years ago.
I’m too sober for this.
“Be a dear and fetch me a drink, would you?” I tap on Alessandra’s thigh and reach for my unbleached cigarette papers and imported French tobacco—a vice, one I would never turn to if I were in competition, but fuck it. What more do I have to lose?
The chipped nail polish on my fingers looks like blood. I roll the cigarette, my fingers moving over the paper with the same precision that makes me deadly on the fencing strip.
Made , I correct. Made me deadly.
I light my cigarette with a vintage Zippo, inhaling deeply to allow the smoke to burn and plume within my lungs.
My eyes flit back to the screen. There they are—my U.S. Fencing teammates, standing on the sidelines and on the piste.
Competing without me.
The camera flashes to him. Quentin Brisbois.
I white-knuckle the armrest, feeling the phantom hilt of the saber in my hand before I’m transported back to Budapest, where everything went to hell in the most righteous way possible.
The Fencing World Cup. A week after my twenty-sixth birthday.
The beginning of the end.
I’d solidified my spot for the Olympics months earlier. This match was supposed to be a breeze. A stop on my road to defending gold.
I was running through my pre-match routine when I saw Quentin Brisbois swaggering over to me. He’d been the thorn in my side at every competition. Always trying to get in my head before matches with his mind games and insufferable sneer. His blade work is solid enough, but his real talent is being a first-class pain in the ass.
He cornered me by the equipment check, away from prying ears. “Saw you with Linus earlier. Heard you two are quite close.”
“He’s my teammate, Quentin. Can you get fucking lost? I’m getting in the zone.”
Quentin’s smile turned predatory. “Can’t help but think how… intimate some teammates can be. Personally, I never took a dip in my teammates’ pool. But maybe you and Linus don’t mind breaking that particular taboo.”
My blood ran cold. That night with Linus flashed through my mind—post-semifinals victory, adrenaline running high, stolen moments in the locker room. His first kiss with a man, desperate and searching.
For me, it was another night of fun, but for him? It was everything—his identity, his career, his family relationships—all balanced on the edge of a blade.
I saw the terror in his face afterward, his hands shaking as he made me swear secrecy. I planned to guard his secret as carefully as I protected my flank in competition. Not because I was involved, but because Linus trusted me with something so fragile.
“Watch your fucking mouth, Quentin, or I’ll shut it for you,” I said.
The World Cup arena blurred around me.
“Such compromising positions, mon petit champion .” Quentin’s voice dripped poison. “Imagine the photos I could share. What would happen if his father found out—he’s quite the traditionalist, from what I hear. How would sweet Linus handle being disowned before the Olympics in a few short months?”
Photographs? That would be fucking impossible. Unless someone broke into our locker room. Quentin had done petty shit before, but this would be a new low.
Growing up a Hastings meant mastering the art of defense against threats and jealous tongues. I’ve deflected countless attacks at galas, charity events, anywhere the elite gathered to whisper.
But this wasn’t another social bout.
This was fencing. My sanctuary. Where I’d transformed from the dyslexic, fucked-up rich kid into someone worthy of respect. My teammates came to me for technique tips, studied my footwork, watched with reverence as I commanded the piste.
They saw me as their champion, and like hell I’d let this snake poison what we’d built.
“If you didn’t hear me before, I’m going to shut your mouth for you. Get fucking lost.”
“ Mais non , Dante. I’ve already sent photos to my friend at Sports Illustrated . One word from me and they go public. Wouldn’t want the U.S. team to lose an up-and-coming fencer like Linus to such a scandale , would they?”
The threat was enough.
The crowd faded to white noise. My vision narrowed like it does before a crucial match, everything crystallizing into perfect focus. Protective instincts surged like an inferno.
Quentin pulled back, getting a good look at the fire burning in my eyes, but my fist was already flying. It connected with his nose in brutal slow motion—a sharp crunch, a shockwave up my arm, and the bloom of crimson on his pristine white uniform.
After I punched him, I grabbed Quentin by his collar, yanking him close as blood ran down his chin. Fear replaced his smugness.
“That’s what gets your rocks off, huh? Ruining someone’s life for sport? Say you’ll never breathe a word about Linus again.”
“I won’t! I swear it! I don’t have photos, I was bluffing.” His voice cracked, his panic evident. “I won’t say anything.”
I knew he was telling the truth. Quentin was a coward at heart. But the damage was already done.
My coach, Lev, screamed in Russian. Before the crowd could gasp, security materialized, dragging me out of the arena.
The fallout came fast.
The United States Fencing Association committee has a zero-tolerance policy for violence, and SafeSport doesn’t take context into account. They wouldn’t care about Quentin’s words or his threats. All they saw was me—fist raised, temper flared, reputation shattered.
Suspended.
For one full year. Pending disciplinary review.
Banned from every U.S. Fencing event until next May. Not allowed to compete, attend, view, or be near fencing.
And to top it off, I have to spend the year doing community service.
I was stupid, reckless, arrogant. I know better. In fencing, there’s no room for hesitation. You react. Instinct takes over. That’s what always made me one of the greats, the ability to move first and think later.
But this time, acting before thinking cost me everything.
If I’d waited. If I’d let it go. If I’d handled it the way I should have, I might be standing in that stadium with my team, wearing red, white, and blue, competing against the best in the world.
The memory of Quentin’s sneer dissolving into shock. Knowing I’d protected Linus from that bastard’s threats, I can’t bring myself to fully regret it.
Even if I’m here.
My life on pause.
It’s all so vivid I forget where I am. Forget I’m not supposed to care anymore.
I drag my cigarette until the taste of the filter fills my mouth and will those memories back into the recesses of my mind where they belong.
“Here’s your drink, Dante.” The beautiful woman who was here earlier returns with a perfectly crafted Manhattan. “Shouldn’t you be up there with the rest of them?” She gestures toward the TV.
Everyone turns to face me.
They all read the headline: Dante Hastings Suspended from United States Fencing Association and the U.S. Olympic Fencing Team . Yet they’re starved to know the real reason behind my punch, not the fluffed news coverage.
I toy with the idea of lighting another cigarette as I formulate my response, ignoring the way my chest tightens at their scrutiny.
Finally, I flash her my most charming smirk. “Why settle for a gold medal when I can have a yacht full of golden goddesses?”
The group erupts in laughter, though the reality is I’ve spent the last two months numbing my existence at the bottom of bottles and meaningless hookups. My fingers drum against the Olympic rings I have tattooed on my upper thigh.
It’s enough to satisfy her curiosity, and she makes a move to reclaim her spot on my lap. I stand in one fluid motion, my six-foot-two frame towering over her.
I need to get away from the television.
“Jerry,” I call out to my bartender, “can you be a good man and turn that off? And while you’re at it, crank up the music.”
The music shifts to Euro house. The kind of sound that drowns out thought and makes you forget that anything exists. The kind that makes you forget you’re watching your team compete without you.
Perfect.
“Why don’t we take this out onto the deck?” I wrap my ring-embellished fingers around my drink and gently place my free hand on the small of the woman’s back.
The sun seeps into my bones as I adjust my sunglasses. My bare chest glistens with a sheen of sunscreen.
“Dante, my love!” Amara Bellamy’s melodic voice floats across the deck like expensive perfume. She’s sprawled on a chaise, her skin glowing in the sunlight. At her side, Mei Wei and Tiago Fernandez are soaking up the sun. The three of them are part of my entourage from Princeton, all kids from families like mine—too much money in their hands and a ravenous taste for fun.
“Mari!” I call out her pet name, gliding over to her.
“You simply must dish about your upcoming adventure,” Amara purrs.
“Wouldn’t want to spoil the mystique.”
“Oh, please,” Amara laughs. She’s one of Hollywood’s most acclaimed directors, with two Oscar wins this year for her latest groundbreaking, character-driven film. “I’m on my self-imposed exile from the machine, pursuing my artistic awakening or whatever. The least you can do is keep me entertained with gossip while I’m pretending to enjoy my hiatus.”
“My agent pulled me into Robyn Hood . They needed someone who actually knows their way around a sword, both as a consultant and for the role of the sheriff.” I lean back. Todd used his connections, and he helped me land a job that finally puts my Princeton theater degree to use. “A corrupt lawman with a penchant for swordplay? It’s practically typecasting. Besides, it’ll keep me sharp for my triumphant return to the piste.” Before anyone can dwell on that last part, I add smoothly, “And naturally, you’ll all have prime seats at the July premiere.”
The Manhattan in my hand can’t quite mask the bitter truth—I’m filling time. A year of suspension stretches before me like an endless void.
But Dante Hastings doesn’t wallow.
He reinvents.
Princeton’s theater scene taught me that spectacle masks pain beautifully. Hollywood will adore me—I’m their catnip.
A Hastings pulled away from sport for a big-screen debut.
“Is it true that you’ll be on set with Reese Sinclair?”
“Jennifer Lawrence was their first choice, but she’s off doing some pretentious Nolan thing.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Sinclair’s the consolation prize.”
“She’s absolutely divine!” Mei gushes. “We were at Wilhelmina’s charity thing last month—a dreadfully boring affair—but Reese was just delightful. A true darling.”
“Are you planning to turn America’s good girl bad?” Susan Martin from the Stone Times interjects, her martini untouched beside her notebook.
The reporter’s here because I want her to be—better to feed the press stories about my indulgent escapades than let them focus on the reality of my grim situation.This way, I control the narrative.
“Hardly.” I brush her off. “Reese Sinclair is not my type of woman—far too sugarcoated for my liking.” Sure, as a teenager, I had a poster of her taped up on my bedroom wall, but who didn’t at that age? Nowadays, I prefer a taste of someone more sour and full-bodied. “Besides, remember, I’m a changed man this year.” I raise my glass in mock solemnity. “I have to be good.”
“But, Dante!” One of the models Tiago invited last night frowns.
What the press doesn’t know can’t hurt me.
I lean over to her. “What happens behind cabin doors, though?”
“No one needs to know.” She giggles, and I grin, letting the facade of innocence settle in place.
“Find it hard to believe Reese is slumming it in a Langford action film.” Susan taps her pen against her notebook. “It’s so pedestrian.”
“America’s sweetheart probably needs a taste of something stronger than vanilla rom-coms,” I drawl.
Mari looks at me over her Chanel sunglasses. “Dante, you absolute devil. Some of us actually admire her work.”
“Maybe I’ll give her a cultural exchange. My world of champagne and scandal for her world of sweet tea and southern charm.”
“Sources say she’s still mourning her fling with Jaxon Elio,” Susan says.
“I saw an early showing of Love and Loathing , and they were marvelous together,” Mei chimes in. “But if those rumors are true, you could show her that nothing cures heartbreak like a fling with a bad boy.”
“I told you, not my type,” I lie.
Susan tucks her notebook away and loosens her shoulders. “Well, I hear that filming is happening around Redwood National Park later this month through late November.”
“It’s an undisclosed location,” I tsk.
“Can’t you fill me in a little? I’m dying for a good scoop.”
“You are always so well-researched, Susan,” is all I say, confirming her suspicions. “Though all of this stays between us. Off the record, of course.”
I laugh softly, masking the unfamiliar tension in my gut at the thought of the Los Angeles table read next week.
Acting feels like a half-forgotten language—something I haven’t touched since Princeton theater, and now here I am, opposite big stars like Reese Sinclair.
No sweat.
I’ll walk in there, let my natural charm do its work, and show them exactly why they made the right call.
“This is why we keep you around, darling! You’re our dealer of delicious scandal and fun.”
Mei’s words hit like cheap vodka. Bitter and hollow. At times, it feels as if they toast to my failures like they’re collecting fine art, but no one has asked how it feels to watch your Olympic dreams shatter.
It’s why I don’t get too close to any of them.
Don’t let them see all of me.
My entourage of trust-fund babies and professional party-crashers. Everything’s been handed to them on monogrammed silver—their names etched in privilege.
But me? Every medal, every victory was carved from raw talent and brutal determination. I had to prove I was more than another rich boy playing with swords.
I push the thoughts away.
“I never get this enthusiasm for my movies,” Mari pouts.
“Cast Reese Sinclair, and I’ll wear Harry Winston to opening night.” Mei shoots her an air kiss.
“After it wraps, you must introduce us, Dante. I’d kill to work with her.”
“Add it to your tab of favors, darling. Along with borrowing my yacht for the rest of the summer.” I wink.
“Yes, yes.” Mari dismisses me.
The rest of the conversation swells like the waves against the hull. But I can’t listen to it for much longer. “Another round for my beautiful people?”
Catching my reflection on the polished bar surface stops me short. The man staring back at me isn’t the one who stood atop that Olympic podium. My eyes hold shadows that no amount of Mediterranean sun can chase away. I adjust my tousled hair and drain my glass.
One year.
Just one year of playing the reformed fencing bad boy before I can return to the piste where I truly belong—where the roar of the crowd means something real.
My whole life’s been a performance of one kind or another.
At least this time, I get to choose the role.