Page 9 of The Unfluencer

“Exactly,” I say, letting him prove my point. “If I doubled it, you know he’s not for me. Do you know what the news outlets are calling him? Coldhearted. Soulless. Reclusive⁠—”

“Wow, a widower who refuses to be on a Luxe Lady podcast so they can publicly bash him for selling his home. It’s almost like he’s grieving the loss of his wife…” Chance cuts me another hard side-eye. “It’s barely been a year.”

Until it’s two, then three, then thirty-six.

“Do you want to hear the worst take I read?” I nod, drawing back to give him a warning once-over. “Get this, they said, and I quote, ‘he kept his end of the vow. Death parted them.’”

My mouth falls open.

But Chance just harrumphs. “Brutal.”

“Yes, and now?” Kneading the back of my neck, I turn just enough to get another glimpse of Warner, who, thankfully, isn’t looking at me. “Supposedly, he’s moved on, coldly, cleanly, without a trace. Just poof!” I snap my fingers. “Gone.”

The unimpressed look in Chance’s eye is giving I’m not trying to hear all this fake news.

“Listen…” I shrug, fully understanding how it sounds. “I was right there with you. I thought, Damn, that’s some cruel clickbait dressed up as journalism, right? Because who gets to decide how someone else grieves? How they live their lives?”

He taps his temple, as if now I’m using my brain.

And logically, I agree.

“But now?” I raise my eyebrows. “Standing a few dozen feet from this stone-faced man, dressed to the nines at three in the afternoon, tucked in the back of a candlelit corner of Ellswood’s country club. Two entrees in front of him, just smiling, wielding his money to command the staff like a CEO on a power trip. Pretending he’s ignoring the stares he absolutely can’t miss.”

“By which you mean yours included?”

“Of course,” I say. “But I can’t lie. I’m starting to wonder if the headlines had a point about him.”

Chance shoves his hands in his pockets. “Damn, give that man a break. He’s coping with food and throwing himself into his work. So what? Have you seen what the Echelon Technologies stock price is going for?”

“No, and⁠—”

“That’s just how some folks handle grief,” he says, like he’s suddenly the expert on healing. “Look, I use Mod3D. And that’s just his flagship app. I’m not even in the real estate and structural surveying space, but the way his company has evolved from high-performance computing into a dominant force in real estate technology with that RealSpace Engine…”

He blows out a long breath.

“Are you done tooting that man’s horn?” My tone takes on an impatient lilt even though I’m low-key impressed too.

“I’m just saying…” Chance flashes me that annoying, lopsided grin that feels loaded. “And since when did you start subscribing to gossip? I’m surprised you even follow the local news. I know you’re not on the socials and blogs. Probably skipping podcasts, too.”

“Correct. And I won’t be explaining further.” I chuckle.

“My point is you, of all folks, should agree. These judgmental people need to let that man live his life.” He lifts an eyebrow. “And, you know, it’s his personal business if he decides he wants to move on romantically or whatnot, with a beautiful Black bachelorette⁠—”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” I’m shaking my head, breathless with laughter. “Again, objectively handsome man, but no.”

In my periphery, the hostess passes the table beside us, ushering a small group of label queens double-fisting the day’s shopping bounty through the restaurant.

It feels like my cue to wrap up this little exchange, as great as it’s been.

“Listen, me and grand society do not mix,” I say.

“Unless it’s at your gallery, apparently,” Chance says, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows. “I heard about your Founders & Benefactors Ascension Award nod. And your upcoming exhibition… Private. Invitation-only. All your favorite high-society folks on the guestlist.” He holds out his hands, dipping his chin lower with that silly grin, then flicks his eyes toward a certain reserved table in the back. “What’s one more?”

I throw my head back, groaning and giggling. “Lord, that man is not, nor will he be, on my list just so you can talk his ear off about stocks and apps and whatnot.” I’m still gasping for breath. “Sir, are you done with me? Some of us have work to do.”

Chance licks his lips, grinning. “Sure you don’t want to look at him a third time?” he says, his crinkling eyes steady on me. “I’m only asking because he’s looking at you.”

I say nothing, even though that silence says everything.