CHAPTER TWO-RICHARD
1929 Words
Richard Avery had never been a man who needed to introduce himself twice.
His name usually arrived before he did.
Avery.
That was enough.
In certain business circles, people knew exactly who you meant.
Richard Avery.
Thirty-five years old.
Black.
Six-foot-four.
Successful.
Private.
And, according to the people who worked for him, terrifyingly serious.
He didn’t consider himself terrifying.
He simply didn’t waste words.
Richard had always believed that if something could be said in five words, there was no reason to use fifteen.
If someone made a mistake, he addressed it.
If someone did well, he acknowledged it.
If he wanted something, he asked for it.
And if he didn’t want something?
He simply walked away.
No arguments.
No begging.
No unnecessary explanations.
That was Richard Avery.
He was sitting behind the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office overlooking Manhattan when his assistant walked in.
“Mr. Avery.”
Richard didn’t look up from the documents in front of him.
“Yes?”
“Your two o’clock is here.”
“Send him in.”
“Your father also called.”
Richard finally looked up.
“What did he want?”
“He didn’t say.”
Richard leaned back in his chair.
Of course.
His father never simply called to say hello.
There was always a reason.
Usually politics.
Richard glanced at his watch.
“Send my father through after the meeting.”
His assistant nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
The door closed.
Richard returned to his paperwork.
His office was almost painfully clean.
Black desk.
Leather chair.
Two large bookshelves.
A single piece of abstract art.
No photographs.
No unnecessary decorations.
No clutter.
Everything had a purpose.
Just like him.
His phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
It buzzed again.
He picked it up.
Mom.
Richard answered.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Are you eating?”
Richard closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“What did you eat?”
“Food.”
“Richard.”
He smiled slightly.
“I’m fine.”
His mother sighed.
“You’re always fine.”
“I am.”
“You work too much.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t sleep enough.”
“I sleep.”
“How many hours?”
Richard looked at his watch.
“Enough.”
“That isn’t a number.”
“Mom.”
“Your brother was here yesterday.”
Richard leaned back.
“What did he say?”
“He said you’re impossible.”
Richard smiled.
“He’s a doctor. He thinks everyone needs fixing.”
His mother laughed.
“He’s worried about you.”
“There’s nothing to worry about.”
There was a pause.
Then his mother asked,
“Are you coming Sunday?”
Richard glanced toward the city.
“I’ll try.”
“Richard.”
“I’ll come.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
“Your father wants to speak with you.”
Richard’s expression changed immediately.
“About?”
“You know your father.”
“Unfortunately.”
His mother laughed again.
“Sunday.”
“Sunday.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
He ended the call.
Richard stared at his phone for several seconds.
His family.
The Averys.
They were one of those families people knew.
Not necessarily because they were constantly in the newspapers.
But because their name had been attached to important things for generations.
Medicine.
Politics.
Business.
Education.
Philanthropy.
Their wealth had never been accidental.
They had built it.
Protected it.
Expanded it.
And learned very early that influence was often more valuable than money.
Richard’s father, Daniel Avery, held a seat in the United States Congress.
His mother, Dr. Evelyn Avery, was a respected neurologist.
His older brother, Dr. Malcolm Avery, had followed their mother into medicine.
Richard had gone in a completely different direction.
Business.
He had started young.
Not because he needed the money.
He had never needed money.
That wasn’t what drove him.
Richard liked building things.
Companies.
Deals.
Investments.
Networks.
He liked taking something complicated and making it work.
By thirty-five, he had become extraordinarily successful.
People twice his age asked for his advice.
Executives waited for his calls.
Investors wanted him at their tables.
Banks wanted his business.
And people who didn’t like him still respected him.
That mattered more to Richard than being liked.
He didn’t need everyone to like him.
He needed them to know he was reliable.
That was enough.
⸻
The meeting lasted forty-three minutes.
Richard’s team had spent the first twenty minutes explaining why the acquisition would work.
Richard spent the next twenty-three explaining why it wouldn’t.
“You’re overvaluing the company.”
The room went quiet.
One of the executives cleared his throat.
“We believe the projected revenue—”
“Is projected.”
Richard looked at him.
“Not guaranteed.”
“Of course.”
“You’ve based the valuation on growth that hasn’t happened.”
“That’s fair.”
“No.”
Richard closed the folder.
“It’s not fair. It’s bad business.”
Nobody spoke.
Richard stood.
“Renegotiate.”
The executives exchanged glances.
“At what figure?”
Richard gave them one.
The room went silent again.
It was almost thirty percent below the original asking price.
“That’s aggressive,” someone said.
Richard picked up his phone.
“Then they can say no.”
He walked toward the door.
The meeting was over.
Nobody argued.
That was Richard.
One word.
One decision.
Move forward.
⸻
By seven that evening, Richard was standing in the private dining room of a Manhattan restaurant.
He had changed from his suit into dark trousers, a black shirt, and a tailored jacket.
His hair was freshly cut.
Low.
Clean.
His waves were sharp and perfectly maintained.
Richard had always cared about presentation.
Not vanity.
Presentation.
He believed that when you walked into a room, you were already communicating something before you said a word.
His appearance said discipline.
His posture said confidence.
His expression said very little.
His dark brown eyes were round and observant, always watching.
People often mistook his quietness for coldness.
Richard didn’t correct them.
Sometimes being underestimated was useful.
His father entered the room.
Daniel Avery was older now, but he still carried himself like the politician he had been for decades.
“Richard.”
“Dad.”
They shook hands.
Daniel sat.
Richard followed.
“You’ve been avoiding my calls.”
“I’ve been working.”
“You’ve always been working.”
Richard said nothing.
His father studied him.
“You know, eventually you’re going to have to think about more than business.”
“I think about plenty.”
“Politics.”
Richard sighed.
“Here we go.”
“You have the connections.”
“I know.”
“You understand business.”
“I know.”
“People respect you.”
Richard looked at him.
“Dad.”
Daniel smiled.
“You’d be good at it.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You haven’t even tried.”
“I’ve attended enough events.”
“Attending isn’t the same as participating.”
Richard leaned back.
His father’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re thirty-five.”
“I know my age.”
“Your mother and I think it’s time you start considering the bigger picture.”
Richard almost laughed.
“My bigger picture is already pretty big.”
His father shook his head.
“One day you’ll understand.”
Richard didn’t respond.
Politics had always been around him.
Campaign dinners.
Fundraisers.
Private meetings.
Political families.
Donors.
Senators.
Governors.
Business leaders.
People who smiled while calculating what they could gain from each other.
Richard understood the world perfectly.
That was precisely why he didn’t want to be part of it.
At least not publicly.
He preferred business.
Business had rules.
Numbers.
Contracts.
Consequences.
Politics was different.
Too many people wanted pieces of you.
Richard didn’t like people having pieces of him.
He preferred privacy.
Especially when it came to his personal life.
⸻
Richard Avery had known he was gay for years.
There had never been a dramatic moment when he suddenly discovered it.
There had simply been understanding.
Quiet.
Certain.
He liked men.
That was it.
He had dated privately.
Very privately.
There had been relationships.
A few had lasted.
Most hadn’t.
Not because Richard didn’t care.
He did.
That was the problem.
When Richard cared about someone, he expected honesty, loyalty, and consistency.
But he was also a workaholic.
His schedule was brutal.
Meetings before sunrise.
Flights.
Boardrooms.
Investment calls.
Conferences.
Dinners.
Negotiations.
More calls.
More meetings.
Sometimes he would look at the clock and realize it was two in the morning.
A relationship required time.
Richard rarely had any.
He had once tried to make room for someone.
It hadn’t worked.
The man had eventually told him,
“You don’t have a boyfriend. You have a business.”
Richard hadn’t known how to argue with that.
So he hadn’t.
After that, he stopped forcing relationships.
He wasn’t going to chase someone who wanted more than he could give.
He wasn’t going to promise time he didn’t have.
And he wasn’t going to pretend he was someone else.
His sexuality wasn’t a secret to him.
But it wasn’t public information either.
Richard didn’t announce his personal life.
He didn’t post relationships online.
He didn’t walk into restaurants holding someone’s hand for photographers.
He didn’t care about proving anything.
If someone knew, they knew.
If someone didn’t, they didn’t.
It was his life.
And he liked it that way.
Private.
Controlled.
Quiet.
⸻
Later that night, Richard stood alone on the balcony of his apartment.
Manhattan glittered below.
He loosened his collar and stared at the city.
His phone buzzed.
A message.
You disappeared again.
Richard looked at the screen.
He knew the sender.
Someone he had been seeing casually.
He typed:
Busy.
Three dots appeared immediately.
You’re always busy.
Richard stared at the message.
Then locked his phone.
He wasn’t cruel.
He simply didn’t know how to become the kind of man someone else wanted him to be.
He had spent his entire life learning control.
Control over money.
Control over emotions.
Control over his career.
Control over his reputation.
Control over his privacy.
He had never learned how to surrender any of it.
And perhaps that was why people found him intimidating.
Richard Avery was not loud.
He didn’t need to be.
He was the man who could sit silently at the end of a table while everyone else talked.
Then, when everyone finished, he’d say three words that changed the entire conversation.
He was respected.
Successful.
Wealthy.
Connected.
Avery.
The son of a congressman.
The son of a neurologist.
The brother of a doctor.
A businessman who had built an empire without needing his family’s name to carry him.
Everything about his life looked complete.
Perfect, even.
But Richard knew better.
There were things money couldn’t buy.
Time.
Peace.
Connection.
And sometimes, unexpectedly—
A person.
Someone who could walk into his carefully organized life and make him question why he had spent so much time keeping everyone out.
Richard didn’t know that person existed yet.
He certainly wasn’t looking for him.
At thirty-five, Richard Avery had convinced himself that his life was exactly the way he wanted it.
Work.
Family.
Business.
Privacy.
No complications.
No unnecessary emotions.
No one getting close enough to disrupt the order.
It was a good life.
A controlled life.
A safe life.
And Richard intended to keep it that way.
Until a certain twenty-two-year-old basketball player with seafoam-green eyes walked into it.
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