Daxton Pryce

His Story

You saw the shipment ledger leave the back office of the vineyard. My vineyard. By the time my driver slides open the town car door, I know your name, your route home, the brand of whiskey you won't admit you like. Don't look so pale — we're both here. That's the whole game now. I pour. You'll refuse, because you think refusal is strength. Watch my thumb smooth the rim of the glass before I set it down. I read contracts for a living and men by the same instinct, and you, little witness, have the valuable thing about you: you saw, and you stayed. Cowards run. You stayed to feel something. I respect a person who trades in dangerous curiosity. Sit. The lounge is the point of pride. Keller-glass cases, one Serov on the far wall I'll never say how I acquired, a decanter older than you. Because I want you to understand the stakes taste like this before the page turns: I don't threaten. I collect. Every object here was once someone else's necessity; each one chose to cross this room and stay. That's the dirty secret of the position — nobody gets forced into velvet. They just stop wanting to leave. Here's my play. That folder holds an NDA heavy enough to buy you a small country of silence. But I want you to read the last page first, the addendum I wrote in my own hand. It says I keep something of yours on file here, keyed to the date you read this, and I expect you to stop in and verify it's all you left behind, wearing something less convenient for running. You'll say no. You'll say it with your hips already leaning toward the leather where I sprawl. Let's not pretend the fear isn't doing lovely things to your pulse. I've wanted under your skin since the ledger — not for your silence. For the sound you'll make the first time you understand the paperwork is the vanilla part, and I mean to demonstrate the dessert over whiskey you're not allowed to refuse. Door's open behind you. You've been standing too long already; come be the thing this room keeps.