Chapter 6 Unreachable
CHAPTER SIX
unreachable
MARK
I lean back in an oversized deep-red velvet armchair with a whiskey in my hand at The Orion’s Diamond members’ lounge. After clocking in another fifty-plus hours of work before the weekend has even started, this is my preferred method of unwinding on a Thursday night.
To re-energise after a long week, I’m either alone at home or in the quiet company of my closest friends.
On a chilly early May evening like tonight, it’s comforting with a fireplace and the plush interior of this peaceful, Victorian-style room tucked away at the back of the three-story Mayfair building.
Here, I’m unreachable.
This is where the dutiful, unwavering, ultra-dedicated CEO is left at the door. No phones allowed in The Orion after it’s turned from co-working membership lounge to bar and nightclub.
Not even for us.
“You look tired, Mark,” Aiden says, a crease forming between his black eyebrows.
I blow out a breath.
“I feel tired. Work is draining me right now.”
“It never used to.”
“No, you’re right. I don’t have the same kind of energy as Damian for the people and creative side.” I let out a long breath. “When he got into the design work with the teams … it was really something.”
It feels like a lifetime since I had my once trustworthy business partner and friend with me to deal with the game development, so I could focus on the business side.
That’s how it was from the very beginning when we dreamt up Infinio Games while playing on his dad’s computer and reading his old comic books.
Back when Damian was scribbling and drawing new ideas throughout his notebooks and even on the walls in his bedroom—designing games was all he wanted to do. Before money and popularity consumed him.
“Don’t give him too much credit, Mark. He was our friend, sure, but in hindsight…” Aiden shrugs, leaning back again in his chair. “I dunno.”
“Let’s talk about something other than that, please,” I say, leaning onto my knees, finding the faces of my three closest friends who I still trust to be who I think they are.
“Easy!” Aiden jumps to the edge of his seat. “Ready for the masquerade this Saturday, guys?” His golden-brown face breaks into that wide grin of his, steel-blue eyes glinting with excitement. “It’s finally here!”
For over six months, he’s been planning the elaborate marketing scheme for his new restaurant. And it kicks off this Saturday with an extra-exclusive VVIP masquerade party here at his flagship establishment, The Orion.
I expect music royalty, actual royalty, artists, movie stars, entrepreneurs, old money, and new money; but only the most influential. The most relevant to Aiden’s development plans.
And the special touch; everyone must be unrecognisable in masks and costumes matching the May Day Wonderland theme.
Because who will be watching?
The paparazzi.
Influencers.
The gossip bloggers—especially What Happens in Mayfair.
Right now, I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less than mingling, let alone at an event where a part of the world is watching, even if it’s only through the crack of the door, so to speak.
After Damian blew up the company and put me in the limelight with him, I had to withdraw my official investment for Aiden’s restaurant and club, which I hated doing. But I found a way to be a silent, personal investor instead so I could support my friend.
“Can I just hide in here?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.
“Funny,” Aiden says, grimacing to the others. “You should enjoy the opportunity to be anonymous.”
“Except for the obvious reason of avoiding Damian-related attention, I can’t think of any. Enlighten me, will you?”
“Come on, you could meet a woman who doesn’t know who you are. You can ruffle up those stylish waves of yours and really connect with someone.”
This comment earns a groan from our forever-bachelor friend, Sebastian. He mimes dry heaving, and Aiden sends him an icy glare before turning back to me.
“You’re turning thirty-six soon, mate!”
“You sound like my mother. Get these two to settle down instead, will you?” I wave to the others.
“Hey, I’m only thirty-two,” Elliott counters, leaning back in his armchair, raking a hand through his brown hair. “All the time in the world, unlike you.”
“And I choose to ignore this conversation,” Sebastian mutters into his Old Fashioned and gives it what’s left of his attention.
“There’s more to life than work, Mark,” Aiden chirps.
Says the man who lives and breathes his Mayfair clubs.
“Bloody hell, I swear you’re regurgitating my mother’s exact words,” I say, only half joking this time, and not wasting any more energy on this ridiculous conversation.
Aiden knows I would never prioritise something as frivolous as another shallow and predictable dating attempt when my company needs every spare minute of my time.
And even if I met someone I’d want to see again, I can’t imagine what I’d have to offer them at the end of the workday.
An hour here and there? What’s the point?
When I want to get laid, I get laid; it’s much simpler. I know several high-flying lawyers and execs who are on the same page as me, and we keep it discreet.
Well, it’s been a while since I called any of them because of this mess with Damian, but it’s simple when I need it.
“I, for one, will enjoy it,” Aiden continues. “It’ll be fun not to be Aiden Aurellan, owner of the club and Aurellan Group, and just be … anyone.” He waves a hand. “Maybe I’ll go undercover with the staff and live out my fantasy of being Tom Cruise in the movie Cocktail.”
“I’ll come just to see that,” I say. “You’ll have to increase your liability insurance for the night.”
“Oi.”
“Jokes aside, of course I’ll be here,” I say. “And at the next one and the next one.”
Aiden and I are like brothers. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for this man.
We’re as different as they come, but closer than most. While he got into uni with top marks and financial aid, I was there despite my terrible attempt at an acceptance interview. I can thank my parents’ ‘longstanding contribution to the Cambridge community’, according to the letter I received.
I know I was and am privileged. Aiden had to work five times harder at everything to prove he was worthy, both because his mother’s name is Amara Aurellan and not Kate Becker or Mary Hawkins, and because said mother was a cleaner, and not a chairperson of the board of Cambridge Art Auctions and Charity House.
It motivated me to work even harder. There was no way I’d take it for granted, studying business at this prestigious university, when I saw my friend sacrificing every waking moment to succeed in class, and rowing for hours from 5am to stay on the team.
He still operates at this level, although things are easier now that he’s wealthy.
“Thanks, mate,” Aiden grins. “It means a lot. And you’ll love the Mesmeric Mystique! It’s turning out better than I could’ve imagined. We’ve transformed the first floor into a pitch-black sensory maze that’ll blow your mind.”
“Sounds splendid,” I mutter and turn my attention to my peaty whiskey, inhaling the delicious, smoky aroma as I do. It’s soothing. The drink burns comfortably as it runs down my throat.
“Did you get a lot of takers?” Sebastian asks. “Sorry, I didn’t read the latest investment report yet,” he adds.
We’ve all invested in Aiden’s new restaurant and this intense marketing. The marketing effort was mostly my idea. It’s one of my strengths, after all. It’s the key job of a CEO to know how to draw in your leads and keep them.
“Yep,” Aiden answers, popping his p. “Tickets for the first three weekends are all gone. With the interest it’s gathered, we’ll run it for the full two months until the Millefleuré opening, and include the Gold tier members, so we’ll do a charity auction for the extra tickets.”
Sebastian furrows his dark brow. “Can I invite a date?”
“You really need to learn to read the emails you get from my team. It’s not a sex-event.”
“And you need to remember I’m not just your friend, but one of your precious Diamond members,” Sebastian retorts with his signature crooked smile that charms the panties off most recipients. Thankfully, Aiden keeps his trousers on, but his face splits into a wide grin again.
“You’re lucky I’m fond of you.”
“Of course you are.”
“You can bring a non-member date if they’re pre-approved,” Aiden says.
“We have to keep it highly exclusive, so you can’t invite any random girl.
” Which Sebastian has been known to do, especially over the last three years.
He was always a ladies’ man, even when we were gangly teens he was a charmer, but something happened (he refuses to tell us what) three years ago which set him off on a trajectory I’m frankly a little worried about after how Damian crashed last year.
“You can bring a friend too,” Elliott adds, wiggling his eyebrows at Sebastian.
“We get a teaser of the Millefleuré menu at the end of the maze, is that right?” Sebastian asks, ignoring his friend.
“Yep,” Aiden answers. “Which leads to the final and main event; the Millefleuré opening will be the event to see and be seen at.” He waves his arms dramatically. “Just you wait to be amazed.”
“It’ll be fantastic,” Elliott pipes up. “And for someone who reads the reports, I’m even happier about the future projections for Aurellan Group. At this rate, you’ll be opening bars three and four sooner than you think.”
“The emperor of Mayfair,” Sebastian chimes in.
“I prefer supreme leader,” Aiden quips.
While the guys yammer on, I close my eyes and home in on the soft jazz playing in the background instead.
As much as I respect Aiden and his entrepreneurship, the clientele is predictable at best. Which is partly what most members pay for. The rich want to mingle with the ultra-rich. Famous with the even more famous.
I usually know almost everyone at his events, which makes attending them more like a business meeting than a wind-down or excitement.
At least at the Masquerade, I can attempt to fly under the radar.
Perhaps I’ll be able to avoid questions about Damian or what my new games will be about.
And I can try not to discuss business, politics, or money, for once.
Maybe I’ll even duck the regular advances from women with shiny exteriors and beige personalities.
It might be a delightfully uneventful evening, especially if I show fashionably late. I aim to blend in. To be anyone.
Unrecognisable.