Chapter 13: The Dinner Table Reveal
Simon’s house in Bel Air always felt like a museum to success. The air smelled of lemon polish and money. From the vaulted ceiling of the dining room, a chandelier scattered light across the long mahogany table, already set with crisp linen and heavy silver. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city below was a smear of amber jewels in the hazy twilight.
Matt arrived with a bottle of Pinot from Simon’s favorite vineyard in Sonoma, a ten-year tradition. His stomach was a tight knot.
“Matthew!” Simon boomed, pulling him into a back-slapping hug that smelled of cigar smoke and amber cologne. “You look tired. That bastard director working you too hard?”
“Just the night shoots, Simon. You know how it is.”
“I do. Which is why I told them to keep the call times civilized. Come in, come in.”
The family was already assembled. Helen, Simon’s wife, offered a serene cheek to kiss. Lily, Dee’s younger sister, gave a distracted wave from her phone. And Dee.
She stood by the window, a glass of white wine in hand, backlit by the dying sun. She wore a simple emerald green dress that made her skin glow. Their eyes met, and a current, invisible and electric, passed between them. Next week. After the premiere.
“Dee, sweetheart, come say a proper hello to Matt,” Simon called, his arm still around Matt’s shoulders.
She crossed the room, the click of her heels on the marble floor measured. She offered a smile that was pure, polished polite society. “Matt. Good to see you.” A hand extended.
He took it. Her skin was cool. They shook, a brief, formal press of palms. Letting go felt like losing a lifeline.
“You look well,” he said, his voice thankfully steady.
“Germany agreed with me.”
Dinner unfolded with the familiar, comfortable rhythms of a decade. The staff served a chilled pea soup, then a roast tenderloin. Simon held court, his stories a well-worn tapestry of Hollywood’s recent past, with Matt as the gleaming thread.
“Remember the ‘Echo Protocol’ audition?” Simon laughed, splashing more wine into his own glass. “You walked in with the flu, sweated through your shirt, and the director said you looked like a man with nothing left to lose. Got the part because you genuinely looked like you were dying.”
Matt smiled, playing his role. “I was dying. You forced me to go.”
“And made you a star!” Simon pointed his fork. “That’s my job. To see the asset and protect it. From everyone. Even from itself.” His gaze, warm and paternal, landed on Matt. “You’re not just a client. You know that. You’re family.”
The words were a barb, neatly hidden in velvet. Matt felt Dee tense beside him. She was to his right, the careful distance of the table between them.
Helen steered the conversation to Lily’s graduate program. Dee engaged, smart and insightful about the European film market, her comments impressing even Simon. It was surreal, sitting here, the taste of her still a phantom memory on his tongue while she discussed distribution models.
Dessert was a flourless chocolate torte, rich and dark. Simon was recounting a story about negotiating Matt’s first seven-figure deal. Matt laughed, genuinely this time, at the memory of Simon’s theatrical fury on a conference call.
He took a bite of the torte. A crumb, a tiny fleck of dark chocolate, clung to his lower lip.
Dee saw it. She was mid-sentence, listening to her father, but her eyes drifted to Matt’s mouth. A habit formed over a month of mornings. Without a pause, without a thought, her hand reached across the space between them. Her thumb brushed the crumb from his lip.
The table froze.
Her hand completed its arc. She brought her thumb to her own mouth, licking the crumb away.
The silence was absolute.
It was the casual, unconscious intimacy of it. The kind of gesture that spoke of shared beds, of private mornings, of a body known so well its topography required no thought. It screamed a truth no polite dinner could contain.
Helen’s fork slipped, letting out a tiny, sharp clink against her plate.
Lily looked up from her phone, eyes wide, a slow smirk spreading.
Simon’s face drained of all its warmth. The avuncular twinkle in his eyes snuffed out, replaced by a glacial calculation. He watched his daughter’s face, then Matt’s, then the empty space between them where her hand had just been.
Dee blinked. She looked at her own thumb, then at the stunned faces around her. The blood left her cheeks in a visible rush, leaving her pale. The weight of what she’d just done, of what she’d revealed, crashed into her. Her hazel eyes found Matt’s, filled with a stark, quiet panic.
“Well,” Simon said. His voice was soft, deceptively calm. It cut through the silence like a blade. He set his own fork down with precise, deliberate care. The clack on the china was a gunshot. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze moving from Dee to Matt, settling on Matt with the focus of a predator. “That’s new.”
“Dad,” Dee started, her voice thin.
Simon held up a hand, silencing her. He never looked away from Matt. “How long?”
The three words hung in the fragrant air. Matt could feel the decade of trust and loyalty disintegrating like ash. He saw the script on his nightstand, the coffee growing cold. He heard his own promise. Next week.
He met Simon’s stare. There was no lying now. The evidence was in the air, in Dee’s stricken face, in the ghost of her touch on his mouth.
“A month,” Matt said, his own voice low but clear.
Simon nodded once, a slow, terrible dip of his chin. The fatherly mask was gone, completely. What remained was the agent, the negotiator who had clawed his way to the top. He looked at his daughter, a flicker of something like betrayal and profound hurt in his eyes before it was banked behind cold fury.
“Helen, Lily,” he said, still looking at Dee. “Give us the room.”
“Simon, please,” Helen murmured, reaching for his arm.
“Now.”
It was not a request. It was a command. Lily practically leapt from the table, pulling her mother up. Helen cast one last, worried glance at Dee before being ushered out. The door to the living room clicked shut behind them.
The grand dining room felt like a cavern. The fountain’s trickle outside was the only sound.
Simon stood up. He walked to the sideboard, poured three fingers of bourbon from a decanter, and drained half in one go. He turned, leaning against the polished wood.
“A month,” he repeated, letting the word sit. “In my world, that’s not a fling. That’s a pattern. That’s a choice.” He looked at Dee. “You. You knew my rule. The one rule.”
“It’s an outdated rule,” Dee said, finding her spine. She straightened in her chair. “I’m thirty, not fifteen.”
“It wasn’t for you!” Simon’s control snapped for a second, his voice cracking across the room. He pointed a finger at Matt. “It was for him! To protect him from becoming a cliché, from losing focus, from giving the vultures a piece of his private life to tear apart!” He slammed the glass down on the sideboard. “And you.” He turned the full force of his rage on Matt. “You, who I treated like a son. You looked me in the eye for a month and lied.”
Matt stood up. “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you. We were going to tell you next week.”
“We,” Simon sneered. “How cozy. You were going to tell me next week. After the premiere. After the headlines were secured. Very professional.” He laughed, a harsh, empty sound. “So, what’s the plan? You two ride off into the sunset? And what happens when Vanity Fair wants a couple’s spread, or the first bad review hits, and he’s in a mood, Dee? What happens when he’s on location in Budapest for six months and you’re here? You think this is a fairy tale?”
“I think it’s none of your business,” Dee said, rising to her feet.
“Everything concerning him is my business!” Simon roared. “I built that! I built him! And you…” His voice dropped again, dangerously quiet. “You’re my daughter. You were supposed to be smarter than this. You were supposed to be off-limits.”
Matt moved then, placing himself slightly between Dee and her father. “Simon. Stop. This isn’t about business. This is about us.”
Simon looked at Matt’s protective stance, at Dee standing close behind him. A raw, naked pain flashed across his features before it was sealed away behind a wall of pure, ruthless pragmatism.
“It’s always about business,” Simon said, his voice flat and final. “You just made it my business. Get out.”
“Dad—”
“Out of my house. Both of you.”
He didn’t yell it. That was the worst part. It was a dismissal, cold and absolute. He turned his back on them, refilling his bourbon glass, staring out at the city lights as if they were already gone.
Matt reached for Dee’s hand. This time, the grip was firm,公开的. She took it, her fingers ice-cold. They walked out of the dining room, past the living room where Helen and Lily watched in silent shock, and out into the warm, perfumed night.
The wrought-iron gate closed behind them with a definitive clang. They stood on the sidewalk, the sound of the fountain from inside the walls now mocking. The engine of Matt’s car hummed in the stillness.
Dee was shaking. Not from fear, but from a furious, adrenaline-fueled tremor. Matt pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her, feeling her heart hammer against his chest.
She spoke into his shirt, her voice muffled, stark. “That went well.”
He held her tighter, looking back at the illuminated windows of the house. The fallout hadn’t even begun. He knew Simon. This wasn’t over. This was just the declaration of war.