Chapter 3: A Very Business-Like Proposal

The elevator doors hissed shut, sealing the two of them into a box of brushed steel and the cloying scent of caramel-scented disaster. Julian’s hand stayed on the control panel, his finger hovering over the emergency stop button. He pressed it. With a mechanical groan, the lift jolted to a halt between floors.

"Tell me, Mr. Everhart," Julian murmured, his voice a dangerous purr. "Do you have a death wish, or do you just have a very good lawyer?"

Tristan swallowed hard, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He looked at the massive coffee stain on Julian’s chest and then up at the man’s glacial eyes. "Neither. I just have a really good eye for branding, and right now? Your brand is tanking."

Julian’s eyes narrowed. "You’re standing in a stalled elevator, covered in polyester, having just assaulted a CEO. I’m not sure you’re in a position to give career advice."

"It wasn’t an assault! It was a very aggressive delivery," Tristan shot back, trying to channel the same bravado he’d used at the gala. "And look, I know how this looks. But I’m the only person in this building who’s actually telling you the truth."

"Which is?"

"Which is that everyone out there is terrified of you. They call you the Ice King behind your back, Julian. And not in a cool, Narnia way. In a 'this guy might actually be a sociopath who will tank the company because he doesn't understand humans' way."

Julian leaned back against the mirrored wall, crossing his arms. The movement caused a bit of latte to drip onto his shoes. He didn't even flinch. "Fear is a highly effective management tool. It keeps the board in line and the competitors at bay."

"Maybe for the last decade," Tristan countered, stepping closer. "But have you seen the news lately? The public wants 'relatable.' They want 'human.' They want to know the guy running the city’s largest tech-and-trade empire actually has a pulse. Your stock dipped three points last week after that interview where you forgot what a 'brunch' was."

Julian actually paused at that. "I didn't forget. I simply stated it was an inefficient use of daylight."

"See? That! Right there!" Tristan waved a hand frantically. "That’s the problem! You’re a PR nightmare waiting to happen. You need a humanizing element. You need someone who can translate 'billionaire robot' into 'eccentric but lovable genius.'"

Julian watched him for a long, silent moment. The hum of the elevator’s ventilation was the only sound between them. "And let me guess. You think that person is you? A decorator with a grudge and a lack of coordination?"

"I’m a designer," Tristan corrected, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "And yes. I’m exactly who you need. Think about it. If you’re seen dating someone like me—someone 'flavorful,' as my prick of an ex put it—it changes the entire narrative. You’re not the cold-blooded titan anymore. You’re the man who was swept off his feet by a commoner with a loud vest. It’s a classic redemption arc. Investors love that shit."

Julian let out a short, dry laugh. "You’re pitching me a fake relationship to save my stock prices."

"I’m pitching a strategic partnership," Tristan said, gaining confidence. "You need a heart. I need a way to make Nathaniel Westbourne regret every single word he said to me at that gala. He wants power? I’ll show him what real power looks like. I’ll be on your arm at every event, softening your image, making you look like a person who actually enjoys life."

"And what happens when the month is over?" Julian asked.

"We 'break up' amicably. You’ve learned the 'value of human connection' or whatever. Your stocks stay high because you’ve been humanized, and I walk away with my dignity restored and maybe a few new clients who saw me on the news."

Julian looked down at his ruined shirt, his expression unreadable. He reached out, his thumb catching a drop of coffee on his lapel. "You’re very bold, Tristan. Or very stupid."

"I’ve been told it’s a bit of both," Tristan admitted, offering a small, crooked smile. "So? What’s it going to be? Do you call security and have me arrested for 'latte-slaughter,' or do we give the people what they want?"

Julian didn't answer immediately. He reached over and flipped the emergency switch back. The elevator jerked and began to rise again. He pulled a crisp, white silk handkerchief from his back pocket and began to wipe his hands with clinical precision.

"One month," Julian said suddenly.

Tristan blinked. "Wait, really?"

"One month," Julian repeated, his voice cold and businesslike once more. "We’ll call it a trial period. I have the harbor redevelopment gala coming up, and the board is already jittery. If you can actually manage to keep your mouth shut and your coffee in its cup, we might survive this."

Tristan felt a surge of pure, electric triumph. "You won't regret it. I can be very charming when I’m not tripping over rugs."

"We'll see," Julian said as the elevator chimed, announcing the arrival at the penthouse floor. "But let’s be clear. You follow my lead. You don't speak to the press without my approval, and you certainly don't wear... that." He gestured vaguely at Tristan’s neon-orange vest.

"Hey, this vest got me into your building," Tristan joked, though his heart was still racing.

Julian stepped out of the elevator, but paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. The mask of the Ice King was firmly back in place, but there was a new, sharp light in his eyes.

"Marcus!" Julian called out.

The secretary, who had been hovering near the desk looking like he was on the verge of a stroke, scurried over. "Yes, sir? I have the police on the line—"

"Hang up, Marcus," Julian commanded. "And get me a copy of our standard high-level NDA. My... consultant here needs to sign a few things."

Marcus stared at Tristan, his jaw dropping. "Consultant, sir? But he just—the coffee—"

"He’s a specialist in 'intrinsic value,'" Julian said, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "He’ll be joining me for dinner tonight."

Tristan leaned against the elevator wall, trying to look cooler than he felt. "Dinner? Already? Don't you want to see if the coffee stain comes out first?"

Julian didn't smile, but he did stop and look Tristan up and down one last time. "Be at my residence at 8 PM sharp. Marcus will send you the address and the non-disclosure agreement. If you’re a minute late, the deal is off."

"I’ll be there at 7:55," Tristan promised.

"And Tristan?"

"Yeah?"

"Find something black to wear," Julian said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, low register again. "I’ve had enough color for one day."

With that, Julian turned and swept into his office, leaving Tristan standing in the middle of the most expensive floor in the city. Tristan let out a long, shaky breath, his legs finally starting to wobble.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Leo’s number.

"Hey," Tristan said when his friend picked up. "Remember how you said I’d end up in jail?"

"Oh god," Leo groaned. "Which precinct are you at?"

"I’m not in jail," Tristan said, watching Marcus glare at him as he prepared the paperwork. "I’m Julian Ravencourt’s new 'consultant.' And Leo? Tell that vintage shop to hold the black velvet blazer. I’m going to need it."

Tristan hung up, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. Nathaniel Westbourne had no idea what was coming. The game hadn't just begun; Tristan had just flipped the board.