Page 26 of The Associate
He didn’t answer.
Jacob exhaled softly, studying him with an expression that made Samuel’s skin feel too tight; a mix of concern and resignation.
“You deserve more out of this life than just this, Samuel,” Jacob said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m not sure you even know how to want anything else anymore.”
Samuel didn’t move. Didn’t allow himself a full breath. Didn’t trust himself to look up. The words weren’t spoken with cruelty. That was what made them worse, harder to deflect.
He pushed his chair back a moment later, the legs scraping against the wooden floor. “I should go. I have to go into the office early tomorrow.”
"Tomorrow is Saturday, Samuel," Jacob said, his voice thin and tired.
Samuel pretended, pointedly, that he hadn't heard him.
Jacob didn’t try to stop him. Samuel placed enough crisp bills on the table to cover both of their drinks and a generous tip, ignoring the way Jacob’s eyes followed his movements; sad, knowing, heavy with things unresolved.
Samuel didn’t say goodbye.
He turned and walked out into the cool night air, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, something sharp and jagged sitting like a shard of glass under his ribs.
Something he wasn’t ready to name.
∞∞∞
Gael
The Crimson Knot training center occupied the top floor of a converted, unmarked brick building, its entrance hidden behind a narrow, matte-black door with no signage; just a brass keyhole and a discreet camera. Gael pressed his keycard to the hidden reader. The electromagnetic lock disengaged with a soft click, and the door swung inward.
Warm, low lighting replaced the chill of the night. Dark wood paneled the narrow corridor, and thick Persian runners muted each step. The air smelled of leather, polished surfaces, and something cool and clean beneath it.
Gael handed his overcoat to the silent attendant behind the minimalist desk. There was no small talk. No acknowledgment beyond a brief nod.
He walked through the second set of soundproofed doors and into the main lounge.
The room opened before him in a gradient of burgundy velvet, glowing amber sconces, and the low hum of a string quartet from concealed speakers. Shadows pooled, softening the hard edges of the chairs, the side tables, the mahogany bar.
Along the left corridor, a row of private rooms stood in silent order, each marked only by a small, illuminated brass number. Across from them, an elevated mezzanine balcony overlooked the central chamber through one-way glass. The lighting there was brighter, revealing clean steel rings, coiled lengths of rope, padded benches, and an array of equipment arranged across the wall.
Gael stepped toward the railing, his movements quiet and assured.
Below, an experienced Dom worked with a long, unbleached hemp rope, his hands moving with steady confidence as he looped it around his partner’s forearms. The submissive stood perfectly still, breath even, posture yielding.
It was the kind of scene that usually settled something in Gael’s mind, a visual anchor for his mind.
It didn’t tonight.
Samuel Ruiz had barely looked in his direction since the incident in the office kitchen.
The boy had been visibly shaken, caught in the grip of a private memory, and the instinct to create distance afterward had been obvious.
What unsettled Gael wasn't the avoidance itself.
It was the fact that he cared about it.
Samuel was a virtual stranger. A junior associate with a sharp mind and a self-destructive tendency to overwork. Someone who should have been a name on a roster, a variable to be managed. Nothing about him, on paper or in practice, warranted this level of personal attention.
And yet the tense afternoon kept replaying itself: the tremor in Samuel’s hands as they clutched the mug, the way he’d folded inward under George's aggression, and most damningly, the moment his entire body had responded to the touch at the back of his neck; a full-system shutdown, as if a switch had been thrown.
Gael’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
