"David, come on—"
"I'll pay you. Actual money. Right now."
"I'll do your fucking homework for a month."
"I'll tell you what really went down at the Ashford gala—the real version, not the sanitized one."
David raised one hand. Composed. Serene. The quiet arrogance of a man sitting on a royal flush while the table thinks they're still playing Go Fish with jokers wild.
"I'll tell you what's in it," he said, each syllable slow, deliberate, rolled around his tongue like vintage Bordeaux he was in no hurry to swallow, "if you swear—on your mothers' lives—not to breathe a word."
Mark, Jonathan, and Tony-or-Tommy-or-who-the-fuck-ever exchanged glances. Grave nods. Solemn as pallbearers.
"Promise."
"Not a soul."
"Secret dies with us."
David bit the inside of his cheek to keep the laugh from escaping.
Who were they fooling?
