Page 102 of The Associate
He couldn’t finish. The word lodged in his throat, a solid, choking thing.
“Man.”
It wasn’t a question.
Samuel’s eyes flew open. He looked up, his gaze crashing into hers for the first time since he’d sat down.
Jasmine was looking at him, her hazel eyes soft behind her glasses. There was no shock. No disapproval. No triumphantaha! There was only a gentle, knowing empathy, and a small, reassuring smile that held a universe of understanding.
“Right?” she asked softly, her head tilting again, giving him the space to confirm or deny.
The world didn’t end. The floor didn’t open up. The warm, safe room remained. The kind-eyed woman waited.
Samuel felt something in his chest, a knot he’d been carrying for half his life, loosen, just a fraction.
He nodded.
Chapter 26
Samuel
Samuel sat in the passenger seat, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, watching the elegant, shadowed streets of the Upper East Side slide past the window. Gael had said little after picking him up, the usual charged quiet between them amplified by the gravity of their destination.
The Crimson Knot.
The name had lived in Samuel’s mind since Gael first mentioned it; a dark, throbbing mystery. He’d imagined all sorts of things: a basement throbbing with industrial music and neon, a series of velvet-draped rooms smelling of sweat and sin, something illicit and grimy hidden behind a false wall.
His stomach was a tight, cold knot of dread. He was certain he would see something that would confirm every worst thing he’d ever believed about himself, about Gael, about the terrifying pull between them. He was equally certain someone from the firm, a senior partner, a client, God forbid a member of his parents’ church, would see him slinking in and his life would be over.
It was an irrational fear, a childish one. If they were there, they’d be slinking in too. But logic had no power over the old, familiarshame. It whispered that he was stepping over a line from which there was no return, that the mark of this place would be on him forever.
He wanted to bolt. To say the words:It’s too soon. It’s too much. I can’t.
He rehearsed them in his head, feeling the cowardice of them burn his tongue. But beneath the fear, a deeper, more stubborn current ran. Curiosity. A desperate, hungry need to understand. To see the world Gael belonged to, not through the lens of his own panic or the condemnatory sermons of his past, but with his own eyes. To learn the rules of the desire that had him in its thrall. He wanted, more than he feared, to experience everything Gael offered, even if the offering felt like a lit match held to the dry tinder of his soul.
Gael pulled the car to a smooth stop before a pristine, four-story townhouse. It blend seamlessly with its neighbors; a fancy restaurant, a high-end boutique. The only distinguishing feature was a single, wrought-iron lantern beside the black lacquered door. Its glass was a deep, blood crimson, casting a faint, rosy glow on the stoop below.
The engine died.
Gael turned in his seat. In the dim light from the streetlamp, his face was all sharp angles. The playful intensity, the heated possessiveness from the previous weekend was gone. This was not the lover from the previous night. This was the instructor. The guide to a foreign and potentially dangerous country.
“This is a private club,” he began, his voice low. “You are here as my guest. You will stay by my side unless I instruct otherwise. You will speak only to me, unless someone addresses you directly. You observe. You do not engage.” He paused, his darkeyes holding Samuel’s, ensuring the words penetrated the fog of anxiety. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” he whispered.
They exited the car. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of blooming jasmine from a window box nearby. The ordinary sound of a distant taxi horn felt surreal. Samuel followed Gael up the three shallow steps to the door. There was no buzzer, no intercom.
As if summoned, the door opened.
A man stood in the doorway. He was older, perhaps in his sixties, with impeccably groomed silver hair and the poised bearing of a retired diplomat. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit.
“Mr. Wise,” the man said, his voice a cultured murmur. A small, professional smile touched his lips. “Good evening.”
“Charles,” Gael replied, a hint of familiarity in his tone. “This is Samuel. My guest for the evening.”
Charles’s sharp, intelligent eyes shifted to Samuel. The appraisal was swift but comprehensive; taking in his tense posture, his carefully neutral expression, the fine tremor he couldn’t quite suppress. After a moment, he gave a single, slow nod, as if satisfied by what he saw.
“Of course. Welcome, Samuel. Please, come in.”
