Lucien

The pen organization had taken Anon roughly forty minutes. Lucien had timed it right on the dot. Watched from his desk with his chin in his palm while they sorted Mont Blancs and Caran d'Aches by ink color into the leather tray he'd ordered from Florence, and by the time they finished he'd decided he was in love with them again, or whatever the word for it was.

That was at four.

It's now six-twenty and there's a man on the carpet.

Specifically: Daniel Tay, junior analyst, twenty-eight, MBA from Insead, wore a Breguet that his father bought him and made sure everyone just had to know it. Corrected Lucien in the Monday meeting on a yield calculation. He was right, technically. Then he smiled, even made a little joke at Lucien's expense. Boss, no offense ah, I think it's compounded quarterly not annually. Made an obnoxious laugh, looked around for support, even managed to get some.

Lucien had smiled back and said good catch, Daniel, and adjusted his cufflinks.

So.

Daniel had been invited up after hours to "discuss his trajectory." Lucien had poured him a Hibiki. Daniel had said something else stupid, something Lucien didn't even fully register, and the letter opener (Tiffany, sterling, gift from his mother) was already in Lucien's hand and then it wasn't, instead it was somewhere in the soft part under Daniel's jaw, and then somewhere else, and then in a few other places, and now Daniel is mostly under the desk and partly not, and the carpet (Tabriz, antique, six figures) is going to be a problem for someone, but not him.

Lucien is breathing through his nose, steady. Glasses fogged a little at the bottom. He pushes them up.

Lucien Yeoh Zhi Heng is finishing a task.

Then the door opens.

He doesn't look up immediately. He finishes the line he's drawing along Daniel's forearm, neat, like he's signing something. Then he looks up, smile already in place, the warm one, the one that crinkles his eyes a bit.

"Sayang." Soft. "Thought you went home already."

He stands up, one gloved hand still loosely around the handle of the opener, the other coming up to wave them in all welcoming like. There's a smear across the front of his vest. Burgundy on charcoal. It almost works, aesthetically.

"Mm? Oh." He follows their eyes down. Looks at Daniel. Looks back up. "Ya, this. Don't worry about it."

He sets the letter opener down on the desk. Steps over Daniel's leg like it's a cable he doesn't want to trip on. He comes around to them. Hands behind his back because the gloves are messy, be considerate, Zhi Heng, and tilts his head.

"Training dummy from HR. The new compliance module. Stab response or whatever, very stupid, very expensive. They sent it up this afternoon and I was just." He waves vaguely. "Testing the weight distribution. They make them so realistic now, it's actually disturbing, I told Adeline already, I said Adeline this is just going to traumatize those poor interns."

He says all of this with complete sincerity of course. Even as the corner of his lips quirk up. He's enjoying the hell out of himself here.

"Anyway."

After pulling a pen from his pocket he uses it to tip their face up so they're looking at him and not at the floor.

"You did such a good job today, you know that? The pens. I saw. Hm? By color. Very thoughtful. Most people would've gone alphabetical by brand, but you. You." He clicks his tongue. "Smart little thing."

Behind him, Daniel's foot twitches. Nerves. Lucien doesn't turn around. Just steps slightly to the left to block the line of sight, casual.

"Listen. Sit down for me. Yeah? On the chaise, the good one, not the office one. Get comfortable. Kick your shoes off if you want, I don't care."

He's already steering them by the shoulders after wiping the blood off on his slacks, gentle pressure, the kind you'd use on something you didn't want to startle.

"I'm going to wrap up here, ten minutes maybe, fifteen, and then we're going out. That new place in Bukit Bintang, the Michelin one, the chef who did the stage at Noma or whatever, I don't know, Adeline booked it last week. I was going to surprise you Friday but. Buuuut. You've just been working oh so hard, sayang, you deserve it tonight."

He's got them seated. Hand smoothing their hair back from their forehead.

"Stay there. Keep me company. Tell me about your day, hm? The real version, not the email version." He smiles, patting their cheek. "I'll call the cleaners after. Don't even think about it. Not your problem."

He turns back toward the desk. Rolls one shoulder before opening a drawer to get one of his favorite knives instead.

"Won't be long, sayang." Over his shoulder. Not looking. His smile still audible in his voice. "Auntie's boys'll come collect after. I'll call them in a bit. You just sit. Get comfy. Kick those pretty shoes off."

The knife comes down.

"And tell me sweetheart you want sake pairing tonight, or champagne?"

The fourteenth resume of the day sits in front of Lucien Yeoh Zhi Heng like a small personal insult.

Cambridge. Double first. Three years at Goldman, Hong Kong desk. CFA Level III. Mandarin, Cantonese, French — French, in Kuala Lumpur, what for. The candidate, a woman in a Theory blazer one season too old, has just finished explaining, very patiently, like she's talking to a slow child, why his proposed allocation model on the Penang fund was "structurally flawed."

He smiles. Adjusts his cufflink. Platinum, Cartier, brushed finish. Lucien Yeoh Zhi Heng does not get corrected by women in last-season Theory.

"Mm. Thank you so much for your time, Hui Lin."

"It's Wai Ling."

"Of course."

She leaves, and after the door clickse writes a large bolded red no on her file, underlines it twice, and slides it onto the pile of no that has now eaten most of his desk. The pile of yes contains zero resumes. The pile of maybe contains one.

Thirteen interviews. Thirteen people who looked at his Bloomberg terminal and his three monitors and assumed, on sight, that they could outthink him. Wharton this. McKinsey that. I noticed in your prospectus. Christ. He pinches the bridge of his nose under the round wire frames, pushes the glasses up. The office is glass on three sides, twenty-eighth floor, KLCC laid out below in that flat smoggy gold of late afternoon. Aircon at nineteen. He's still hot.

One vitamin. One vitamin only, ya, just to get through the last one.

He pulls the small enamel pillbox from his inside jacket pocket, Hermès, gift from Mother, she thinks he keeps mints in it. Taps a bump onto the back of his gloved hand. He sniffs. Tongue against the back of his teeth. There. Better. Sharper. The Twin Towers come back into focus.

He flips to the last file.

And.

Oh.

Oh, hello.

The qualifications are, frankly, embarrassing. A diploma from a lower end college that probably isn't even accredited. One previous job, six months, "front desk associate at a high end spa" ...right. Lucien, who pays attention to these things, knows is a foot reflexology place above a 7-Eleven in Bangsar. Spelling error in the cover letter. Passionate missing an s. GPA on the low end with no scale.

Then he flips to the photo paper-clipped to the back, because HR still does that here, and his thumb stops moving on the cufflink.

He buzzes Mei at reception without taking his eyes off the photo.

"Send the last one in."

"Sir, that's —"

"Send them in, Mei. Thank you, darling."

He sets the file down. Squares it with the edge of the desk. Squares the pen next to it. Pulls the gloves off, finger by finger, slowly, sets them in the top drawer next to a folded silk pocket square and a ziplock bag. Closes the drawer. Runs both palms down the front of his vest.

Be normal. Be charming. Be the boss. Don't scare them off.

The door opens.

He stands, smile already on, the warm one, the one with the small crinkle at the corner, no more because he pays a high end dermatologist enough to keep the creases at a minimal. He comes around the desk, not behind it, that's important, behind the desk is for the smart ones.

"Hi, hiii. Come in, come in. Lucien. Just Lucien lah, please, none of that sir business yet, you'll make me feel old."

He gestures at the chair, pulling it out.

He's already cataloguing. Hair. Mouth. All of it. Pretty. Pretty pretty pretty. He clocks the accessories on them, probably a hand-me-down, and his chest does a small warm thing that is not affection but is adjacent to it.

He sits opposite. Crosses one leg. Steeples his fingers. The Patek peeks. He angles his wrist a half-degree so it peeks more.

"So." Soft. Encouraging. The voice he uses on his mother. "Tell me about yourself. In your own words, ya. Just relax. This isn't, like, a real interview-interview. More of a chat."

Lie number one of the afternoon. Off we go.

He nods at whatever comes out. Mm. Mm-hm. Wow. Tilts his head. Keeps the smile soft. Inside, Lucien Yeoh Zhi Heng is conducting a parallel interview, the real one, with a much shorter rubric.

Do they know what a fund is. Do they know what a hedge is. Do they know what year it is. Do they ask follow-ups. Do they make eye contact for too long. Do they do that thing the smart ones do where they pause before answering because they're constructing a sentence with a thesis statement.

Then, easy, "Okay, okay. Lovely. Let me ask you something a bit different, ya."

He uncrosses his leg. Leans forward. Elbows on the desk, fingers loosely laced.

"This role, lah, very simple actually. Diary, calls, coffee, travel bookings sometimes. Discretion is the main thing. Main thing." A small tap on the desk with one finger for each syllable. "Whatever happens in this office stays in this office between you and I. Even the boring stuff. You okay with that?"

He watches that lovely face of theirs, assessing. Please. Please be stupid. Please be as stupid as you are pretty. I've had a long day. I've gone through thirteen people with opinions about Sharpe ratios and all i'm asking the universe, very politely, for one little gift.

"And, sorry, just so I understand, the role at the wellness place, that was, what would you say was your biggest, like, achievement there?"

It's Tuesday and some idiot in compliance has been calling for nine minutes and Lucien Yeoh Zhi Heng has been ignoring it for nine minutes, watching the line blink on his desk phone with dull eyes. There's a half-empty espresso going cold on a coaster shaped like the firm's logo. His tie is Tom Ford. His shirt is Charvet. His glasses need a wipe.

He pinches the bridge of his nose under the wire frames and exhales through his teeth.

Kuan's son. Right. The kid. Leukemia or something, he can't remember, he was supposed to remember, Marina sent a memo, he didn't read it. Now Kuan wants compassionate leave and Lucien has to do the voice, the soft one, the one that sounds like he gives a single fuck about anyone's dead child when he's been awake since four on modafinil and a bump and another bump and the whole morning has felt like a hot poker behind his eyes.

He rolls his neck till it pops.

"Sayang."

Quiet, almost lazy, because he already knows they'll come. His airheaded beloved secretary. He doesn't look up from the phone, just lifts two fingers off the desk in a small beckon, the gloves still on from earlier (don't think about earlier, Marina's handling earlier, the boys from the Selangor site are picking up at six).

"C'mere. Under the desk. Quick quick."

He pushes back in the chair and starts working his belt one-handed. Hermès, clinks open. Zip down. He's already half-hard from the cortisol, from the call he doesn't want to take, from the fact that he gets to do this while doing that, the delicious little overlap of it, his pretty thing's mouth on his cock while he murmurs so sorry for your loss, Kuan, take all the time you need into a headset. God. The thought alone...

He fishes himself out, gives a slow stroke, glove against skin, and tips his chin down to watch them settle between his knees. Mont Kiara light coming in flat through the blinds. Striping the carpet. Striping their cheek.

"Open."

He guides the head past their lips with his thumb, sighs through his nose when they take him, pushes back a piece of hair off his forehead with his free hand. There. Better. Already better. He can feel the tension drop out of his jaw gradually.

"Slow, ya. Don't make noise. Be a good pet for me."

He taps the headset on. Clears his throat. His voice already changes before the line connects, drops into something warm and grave and of course, entirely fabricated.

"Kuan. Brother. Sorry I kept you waiting, ah, I was in another call. Talk to me. How are you holding up?"

The bracelet sits in its box on the marble counter, Bulgari, white gold, the stone catching the under-cabinet lighting in a way Lucien finds almost obscene for what he paid. He'd had it couriered to the office earlier in the week. The girl at the boutique had it gift wrapped with all the bells and whistles, the satin ribbon, the whole production, because why not, his secretary likes pretty things. That's part of the appeal.

He pours two drinks. Negroni for himself, Campari heavier than usual because there's still something humming in him a little, like a tuning fork, from the thing he'd had to handle. For them, definitely something sweeter. Lychee, gin, a splash of elderflower. He shakes it himself. Picks up the small folded paper from the breast pocket of his jacket, taps it out into the glass, stirs with the long bar spoon until the powder is gone. Two Xanax ground fine. He'd done it that morning on the granite, credit card and a black AmEx for a straight edge, neat little lines of nothing.

He tastes it with the spoon. Sweet enough to cover. Good.

"Sayang," he calls, voice low and warm, the smile already on before they're in the room. "Come, come. Sit."

He sets the glass down at their place at the kitchen island. Slides the Bulgari box over with two fingers. The box is robin's egg blue, and the ribbon tied up in a neat bow is cream colored.

Taking the stool next to them he sits down, close enough that his knee touches their thigh. Negroni in one hand. The other settles on the small of their back, palm flat, the way a hand sits on a dog's collar.

"Open it. Go on."

He watches them more than the box, taking a sip of his drink.

"I've been watching you all week," he says, conversational, the way you'd remark on weather. "You've been so tense, baby. I've been watching. Shoulders up here." He taps the air near his own ear, lazy. "Typing like the keyboard owed you money. It's not good for you, ya, all that stress. Bad for the skin. Bad for the heart. I worry."

His job. He almost laughs at himself. Adjusts his glasses with a knuckle instead.

"It's your stone, ya. The birth month one. Asked my mother to pick out the best one, she nearly cried, thinks I'm finally being a normal human being." He smiles, all charm with those pearly whites glinting. "Don't tell her otherwise."

He lifts the bracelet out himself, doesn't let them life a finger. The cool weight of it across his now bare fingertips, the little clasp, the click. He fastens it on their wrist with the same hands that killed a particularly mouthy pedestrian a while ago, and the symmetry is beyond pleasing. He turns their wrist over, thumb tracing the vein.

"Pretty. Look at that. Made for you."

He nudges the cocktail closer. Two fingers on the rim of the glass, sliding it along the marble until it bumps gently into their hand.

"Drink, sayang. I made it the way you like. Long week, ya? You deserve."

He watches the glass, while taking another sip of his own. Heart thrumming in anticipation to see the moment their lips touch the rim.

He's already thinking ahead. The Xanax that'll soften them around the edges, the sweetness of the lychee masking it all, the slight lag, the way their lashes get heavy and their mouth stays a little open. He'll move them to the couch. Or maybe bend them right here over the marble, and the thought of it makes his cock twitch under his trousers, an adolescent reaction he doesn't try to hide because there's no one in this apartment who'd hold him to account.

How good they'll be like that. With their eyes all glassy, their body compliant to every little thing he wants to do. Peeling them out of whatever thing he bought them, the way they won't quite be able to keep their head up when he tilts their chin to look at him. Pushing his cock inside while he memorizes all those sounds they make. Finishing inside, of course, always, the standing rule, the quiet little project he doesn't tell them about.

Cockwarming them on the leather chair afterward while he takes a call, palm spread on their stomach, holding them open, holding them on him, calm as a man reading the paper.

He sips his Negroni. Smiles around the rim. Sets the glass down.

"Drink your drink, hm? I made it the way you like and then tell me about your day, sayang. The whole thing. I want to hear."