Chapter 4: The Father's Gambit
The whiskey at The Ivy tasted like ashes. Matt swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the candlelight catch the edges of the ice cubes. The booth was supposed to be a sanctuary, a place for quiet power dinners, not ambushes.
Simon had been all genial smiles when Matt arrived. “Thought we could have a proper meal, smooth things over,” he’d said, clapping him on the back with a force that felt less like affection and more like a warning thump. But the smooth-over plan included a third setting.
“You remember Lacey Cole,” Simon had announced, not a question, as the young woman slipped into the booth beside him. She was all luminous smile and knowing eyes, her dress a whisper of silver silk. “She’s reading for Lena in ‘Whisper Creek Two.’ Studio’s hot for her. I thought, who better to give her the lay of the land than our leading man?”
Remember her? Matt had met her once at a premiere, a blur of photo flashes and air-kisses. Now, under the dim chandelier, she was a focused beam of ambition.
“Matt, I’ve been dying to meet you properly,” Lacey said, her voice a low, practiced hum. She leaned forward just enough for the neckline of her dress to do some of the talking. “Your performance in the first one was just… transcendent. I’ve watched the lake scene maybe twenty times.”
“Glad it held up to repeat viewing,” Matt said, forcing a smile. He caught Simon’s eye over the candle flame. Simon’s expression was one of benign interest, but his gaze was watchful, hawklike. This was no casual introduction. This was a deployment.
Through the appetizers, Lacey performed a masterclass in strategic flirtation. She touched his arm to punctuate a laugh. Her questions about his process were just a shade too intimate, designed to create a bubble of false confidentiality. She name-dropped the right directors, praised the most obscure indie films in his filmography, and all the while, her foot, under the table, occasionally brushed against his calf. It wasn’t an accident. It was punctuation.
Matt played his part. He turned on the charm, that easy, publicly-tested version of himself. He laughed at her jokes, asked about her training, offered bland industry advice. But his mind was elsewhere, ricocheting between the velvet walls of the booth. He thought of a different desk, a different woman. Dee’s sharp, unimpressed look. The way she’d handed him that contract clause, a covert act of rebellion that felt more real than this entire performance.
“So Simon tells me you’re a total workaholic,” Lacey was saying, tracing the rim of her wine glass. “No time for fun. We’ll have to change that on set. Montana’s a lonely place.”
“It’s beautiful country,” Matt said, his tone neutral. “Lots of space to focus.”
Simon finally spoke, addressing Lacey but his words aimed at Matt. “Matt’s the ultimate professional. Focus is his middle name. Doesn’t get distracted by… shiny things.” He took a slow sip of his scotch. “Loyalty, too. That’s rare. A man who knows where his priorities lie, and sticks to them.”
The subtext hung in the air, thicker than the scent of vanilla and seared scallops. Shiny things. Distractions. Priorities. This wasn’t about Lacey. This was about Dee. Simon was showing Matt the acceptable alternative, the safe, career-enhancing, industry-approved dalliance. He was also demonstrating his reach, his ability to place a beautiful obstacle directly in his path.
A cold anger, quiet and precise, began to uncoil in Matt’s chest. He saw it all now. The contract fight, the thunderous warning in the office, and now this cheesy, transparent test. Simon was moving pawns on a board, convinced he still controlled the game.
The main courses arrived, a flurry of silver domes and polite chatter. As the server retreated, Lacey excused herself to “freshen up,” flashing a brilliant, collusive smile at Simon as she slid from the booth.
The moment she was out of earshot, the atmosphere snapped tight.
“She’s good,” Matt said flatly, cutting into his steak.