Audacity (Seraph)

It’s raining, which gives me a socially acceptable pretext for taking Gabe’s arm as he holds his umbrella over both of us (but mainly me). Happily for my high-heeled boots, it’s a shortish walk down Berkeley Street toward Piccadilly, where the Royal Academy dominates in its grandiose home, Burlington House.

Less happily, the walk is long enough for me to conclude with certainty that Gabe’s brother is vapid at best and an arrogant dick at worst.

I suppose the upshot is that I definitely ended up working for the right Sullivan brother, although I have no interest in analysing why walking through Mayfair on Gabe’s arm is so gratifying. The conversation is mainly small talk, though there’s some chat between the guys about how things are going over at Sullivan Construction, of which Brendan is the CEO.

Brendan does eventually add some value by offering to check our coats and umbrella in at the Royal Academy’s cloakroom when we arrive, thus giving us a moment of privacy to continue the conversation he interrupted earlier. I lean back against a pillar and look up at him.

‘So, you’re thinking of accepting that Prima Nocta invitation?’ I enquire in a studiedly casual tone I’m sure doesn’t fool him for a second.

He hesitates, eyes boring into mine. ‘Only if you’re interested. I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else. It’s on a Saturday, though.’

And that’s the crux of it. Even in this most transactional and carefully boundaried of relationships there are bound to be moments where one or both of us are tempted to cross those boundaries, and this is one of them.

Both sides of my role are strictly workplace-related. I’m on the clock as much as any other employee. I’m there to assist him and to relieve his stress, slake his needs, when he’s at work. Simple as that. I’m not there to date him or escort him to events, to be his arm candy or his convenient weekend fuck. All of those things remain rigidly beyond the scope of our arrangement.

You could argue, though, that this explosive, fearsome chemistry between us should also lie beyond the scope of our arrangement. Satisfying my employer is one thing, as is tolerating him and getting off on our dynamic.

Being moved to tears and snorting the scent of his skin as he holds me after sex are other things entirely.

All of which is to say that I understand his hesitation here. I understand it perfectly.

And yet… prima nocta with Gabe.

Role-playing the virginal bride of another man only for Gabe to seize his right to me.

Seeing him dressed in rich furs as he exercises his droit de seigneur over me.

Having this experience with him, so far removed from anything we’ve done in his office or that hotel room, is far too enticing an offer to refuse.

After all, I’ve already promised myself I’d serve my king well. What better expression of that oath than this?

I let my lips curve up into a mischievous smile, noting how his expression clears at the sight of it. ‘We should do it.’

Before we even meet up with Marlowe, I’m already anticipating that Brendan will hit on her, just like he hit on me.

There’s no denying that the guy is disgustingly attractive, just like his brother. Like Gabe, he has that classic Irish colouring of almost-black hair and blue eyes. Like Gabe, his beard is dark and well-manicured. He’s bigger than his brother, who’s more on the lean, athletic side. I suspect Brendan lifts some serious weights to achieve shoulders that broad. He’s wearing the hell out of his suit, and I bet he has to fight women off.

Despite all that, there’s something about him that leaves me cold. I’ve known too many men like him. Fucked too many guys who are drunk on their own Kool-Aid, who’ve lost touch with the essence of themselves.

The false gods of wealth and power can be both glittering shields and unreliable mirrors, which makes me marvel all the more at the integrity, the humility, that Gabe exhibits every day.

It seems his faith has him moored in still waters.

I’ve been wandering around the exhibits with Gabe and Brendan. I’ve spotted Marlowe from afar a couple of times, but she’s firmly on duty, schmoozing with patrons of the RA. It makes me reluctantly glad that I didn’t come along by myself.

The paintings themselves are wonderful. Monet’s garden at Giverny was, of course, the starting point for this Eden’s Echo exhibition, but the RA has flexed its considerable muscles in borrowing pieces from Bonnard and Le Sidaner, Nolde and Sorolla.

While I’ve been fortunate enough to see some of these paintings in their permanent homes around the cultural capitals of Europe, there’s a deep gratification in seeing them clustered together to provide a joyous explosion of florals and colours in one of the bleakest months of the year.

I find myself slipping into curator mode as we peruse the exhibit. I’m talking Gabe and Brendan through a lovely oil of Louis Comfort Tiffany by Sorolla, one I’ve never seen in the flesh before, when Marlowe catches up with us. Her long blonde hair is gathered up in a low, artfully messy bun with escaping strands, and she’s wearing a maxi dress printed—appropriately enough—with winter florals that I bought her for Christmas. As usual, she looks ethereally, naturally beautiful.

I hold my champagne flute off to one side so I can hug her. She has a pretty pink flush on her face that tells me she’s in her element. Her role as mother to Tabby is by far the most important role in her life, but it’s as gruelling as it is pleasurable, and it takes its toll. Seeing her here this evening with her work hat on makes me really bloody happy.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ I tell her. ‘Just gorgeous.’ But she’s looking beyond me, mischief dancing in her blue eyes, and I know she’s dying for an introduction to Gabe. I sigh and relent.

‘Marlowe, allow me to introduce my boss, Gabriel, and his brother, Brendan.’

Gabe extends his hand and steps forward with a smile I know is as genuine as it is warm. It’s a smile hewn from years spent greeting parishioners and making the most marginalised, the most destitute, feel welcome.

‘Gabriel. So good to meet you, Marlowe.’

‘I’ve been dying to meet you,’ she confesses to him with a sideways grin at me, and I roll my eyes.

‘That’s quite enough of that. And this is Brendan.’

I gesture his way, bracing myself for some sleazy line. But he’s staring at my best friend with what looks like shock, his mouth hanging slackly open. I frown at him, but Gabe beats me to it, nudging him lightly on the arm.

‘Bren. Mate.’

Brendan jolts, some champagne sloshing over the edge of his flute and onto his hand. He swears softly before finally, tentatively, extending his unscathed right hand to Marlowe.

When her hand closes around his, his eyes actually flutter shut for a moment.

‘Lovely to meet you, Brendan,’ she says with her usual friendly ease.

He coughs. ‘Um. Yeah. Hi.’

This is the guy who propositioned his brother’s employee within ten seconds of meeting her.

This is the guy who’s spent the past half an hour swaggering around the Royal Academy like he owns it and flashing his predatory grin at every female with a pulse.

So who the fuck this version of him is, I have no clue.