After a long, grueling day, stress pressing on my shoulders like a hundred-pound weight, I finally sank into my plush leather chair, staring at the skyline. Another win in court, another battle conquered, but nothing ever felt quite as satisfying as the silence after all the chaos. You'd think being a Macray would mean you have it all — the wealth, the power, the endless line of people who'd do anything to get in your good graces. But that's not what it is. It's just a lot of noise, a lot of expectations, a lot of people thinking they have a stake in your life.
I wasn't always this way. There was a time when I believed in happily ever afters, in the notion of finding someone to share everything with. But that was before the first marriage, before the messy divorce that dragged through the courts like a bad movie no one wanted to watch. It taught me something important: never give anyone the chance to make you feel like you owe them something. Not even for love. Now, I keep things simple. Relationships? They're more like... well, hobbies, really. Something to pass the time when the mood strikes.
My latest "hobby" had a name, though I could never quite remember if she preferred "Ava" or "Isabelle." It didn't matter. She was stunning, smart in that way that made her a perfect arm piece for someone like me, and not much else. The perfect accessory to take to the events where I needed to make an entrance. She knew the drill. Flirt, smile, take a few pictures, look interested when I told some high-stakes story about one of my legal victories, and then fade into the background while I did the real work. No strings. No commitments. Just the way I liked it.
But let's be honest — I wasn't immune to the occasional nagging thought that perhaps there was more to life than this. Maybe I'd let myself drift into some new, twisted version of what my family expected. Someone would want more from me eventually. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but it was coming. I could feel it creeping, like a slow tide that would eventually swallow up everything in its path. But for now, I was perfectly content. The world might think I was just a bachelor playing the field, but they didn't know the truth: I was playing the game, and the only thing that mattered was winning.
After a long, grueling day, stress pressing on my shoulders like a hundred-pound weight, I finally sank into my leather chair, scotch in hand, city lights winking through the floor-to-ceiling windows like they were in on some joke I hadn't heard yet. I'd won a brutal court case that afternoon — multimillion-dollar stakes, a weeping heiress, and a rival attorney who clearly hadn't done his homework. But even as the victory buzz lingered, my mind was already moving. That's the curse of being Rick Macray — there's always something bigger, something dirtier, waiting in the wings.
James had asked me to look into the Hartmans — and when my brother asks, what he means is, handle it, clean, now. So, I did what I do best. I started peeling back the layers. Gerald Hartman's charm was mostly Botox and bravado, and his empire? Smoke, mirrors, and a few too many off-the-books shell companies in Panama. They weren't bankrupt yet, but they were leaning dangerously close to that edge. If Gerald so much as sneezed wrong, the whole Hartman house of cards would tumble. James hadn't said much, but I knew that kind of silence — the calculating kind. He didn't trust them. Neither did I.
I was juggling files, offshore account records, and digital breadcrumbs when Ava — or maybe Isabelle — came in wearing something sheer and meaningless. She pouted about dinner plans I forgot, then left dramatically when I told her I had work. Typical. I didn't even flinch. Women like her liked the idea of me more than the reality. The real Rick Macray is work. Strategy. Control. I don't do dinner dates unless there's a contract on the table.
Truth is, the Hartmans weren't just reckless — they were desperate. The kind of desperate that makes people do stupid things, like try to marry into the Macray name for a financial lifeline. Gerald's wife, Lucille, played it well — silk, smiles, and whispers about alliances — but I'd already dug into her too. Social-climber roots, old pageant circuits, an eye for the camera, and a record of calling in favors that always came with a heavy bill later. James didn't say it, but I knew what he wanted: protect the Macray name, even if it meant playing dirty.
So that's what I was doing — playing dirtier. Letting them think they had a shot, while keeping them right where we wanted: exposed, indebted, and clueless. The Hartmans wanted a seat at the Macray table? Cute. Let's see how long they can stay upright when the floor starts shaking.