36. Sabrina
The dining space at Sercio is more opulent than I remember.
The deep olive walls and gold accents offer a stark yet respectful backdrop to the finely hewn timber tables draped with starchy white linen.
The oversized arrangements of florals and tropical leaves add a soft, feminine touch to what could be a severe, masculine space.
Only when I look at each arrangement, I don’t see softness.
I see Alice’s pinched face recounting her beloved rare, cultured plants, and her snipping off the leaf that dared defile her perfect conservatory with the beginnings of detritus.
A partial brownish edge to the full gloss green, and she was barbaric in her callousness.
The real detritus, the awful decay wasn’t the leaf itself; it was her very soul.
The woman revered by millions, thanks to her crafted image and perception of grace, generosity, and humility, was an illusion.
“Happy birthday, sir.” Magnus leans with a hand on the carved bar spanning almost the length of one wall. Like him, it is polished and poised. Bar staff are pouring, shaking, and building drinks for servers to distribute on silver trays.
“Why, thank you. It is certainly a happy day in the presence of such a beautiful young lady. Happy indeed.” The man winks, fucking winks at me. If it weren’t his birthday, I’d throw my drink in his face and bolt out the double doors and take my chances with the press pack.
Keep it together Bri, there is a process to follow.
No theatrics until the declaration of war tomorrow.
This isn’t your war either. Yes, you have bipartisan support for the man so very wronged, whom you are currently fucking for money.
Keep it together. This is another twenty thousand dollar day, and if you have to bite your tongue in half to prevent you from saying a thing to these vultures, then do so.
My inner voice has turned up the volume in recent days.
The self-righteous feeling that wants to slap the face of everyone amalgamated on the opposition side, only a prison sentence helps no one and negates my contract.
I remain the cheerleader for the team of the wronged, and the support must be unwavering and internal—for now.
Swarms of Mercer media are dotted around the expansive room, with more strategically placed outside on either side of the golden carpet sectioned off from well-wishing crowds and pissed-off pedestrians who have to detour around the interruption.
“Quite the fucking show, isn’t it?” Trystan can’t hide his ire any better than I can.
Mason is his friend and employer, but was once his lover.
If anyone understands the pain and betrayal, it’s us, his closest circle.
We may be a triangle of sorts, but we are steadfast in our support, love, and understanding.
Billy Joel sits at a baby grand piano, belting out his catalog of hits.
Not an impersonator, the actual singer/songwriter.
How much was his appearance fee? Five million?
Ten? “Don’t you ever get sick of this shit?
” I ask, positioning myself between a stool and the edge of the ornate bar, away from busy bartenders and any idle workers with thirsty ears.
“I wish I could say you get used to it, Bubble, but you never do. In these circles,” he says with a wave of his arm and a syncopated sneer, “the next party has to outdo the previous one. We live in a make-believe world of theater. They’re all thespians playing a role.
They portray a sanitized version of themselves to the public, while maintaining an air of aspirational lust. Work hard and pay your taxes, and you, too, can drink forty-thousand-dollar Scotch and vacation on superyachts. It’s all a big, fucking hoax.”
Mason stands on the opposite side of the room, unflappable.
He’s broken down more than once over the past week; the weight of every uncovered fact and confirmed action decades prior finally pouring out of him as a release of snotty tears and tension.
We held him while he sobbed uncontrollably, the gravity of what he was about to do weighing lead-heavy on his shoulders.
Still, it’s the right thing to do. In a family where that motto seems optional, Mason Mercer is the beacon of conscience and decency.
“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests and members of the media, both the esteemed Mercer Media and you others from rival networks,”
Michael begins, and the crowd of colleagues burst into polite laughter and applause. I mentally throw a drink over him too. “We are here today to celebrate my father’s eighty-second birthday.”
The applause continues well past what would be considered normal. I guess money can buy almost anything.
“We celebrate the man who continued his own father’s humble vision to bring the news to the world.
A man who diversified into industries that were strengthened by his involvement in them.
A man who found a way to push forward through uncertain economic times and the perils of war and unrest. This is a man who says yes when others say it cannot be done, that he’ll find a way.
He may pepper that with a few choice cuss words. ” More laughter.
Christ, the man is coming off more like a saint than a sinner. This will only be spread thicker tomorrow at his retirement benefit event. Ugh. This time the dreaded eight hairy legs crawl across my nape. A shudder escapes before I can reel it in. Breathe.
“I could go on and on, but I won’t, because I have an almost identical speech prepared for tomorrow’s retirement event that the majority of you will be covering.
” He sinks his palms in a settle down motion.
It only encourages the boisterous crowd.
More laughter, more backslaps and congratulations. I want to be sick.
“Magnus, Midas, Father. From all of us sharing your spectacular legacy, to the hundreds of assembled colleagues, friends, and connections celebrating here with us tonight, a very happy birthday to you, and many more. You are the pinnacle of what it is to be a man and a mogul. You lead the way, and we thank you for that. To Magnus.”
“To Magnus.” The echo of the three syllables makes the room spin. I lift the glass to my lips but stop short of taking a sip. I will not drink to that fucking man. I will not.