Chapter One: The Perfect Day
6:00 a.m.
The alarm doesn't beep. It sings—a soft classical piece looping through hidden speakers in the ceiling. Elliot Montclair is already awake.
He brushes his teeth for exactly two minutes. Shaves. Showers. His personal barber fades the sides, his hairdresser trims a single stray. They don't speak unless he nods. His suit for the press tour is steamed during his two-hour run through the hills. He runs with pace, grace, and control—never panting, never breaking stride.
By 9:00 a.m., he's had a perfect breakfast: egg whites, fruit slices, imported black coffee. Then the gym—strictly for tone, never for bulk. The mall follows, just to be seen. Cameras flash. Smiles beam.
At noon, the press waits.
He stands on stage, his voice velvet and pain-laced.
"My wife meant the world to me," he says. "And I carry her in every step forward."
The crowd eats it up. Of course they do.
"I give them grief, and they give me worship. Fair trade."
2:17 p.m.
He's walking down the street. Told his driver to wait.
Needs air.
And then—her.
She's walking fast, coffee in hand, jacket slipping off her shoulder like a careless breeze wrapped her. And she doesn't see him.
She turns. Bumps. Coffee spills across his $100,000 tux.
"OH! I—I'm so sorry!" she gasps, mortified. "I didn't see you—!"
Elliot blinks. Then smiles gently.
"It's just a suit. A piece of cloth."
"But you—you're something else entirely. You're mine. Something I need. A drug I want to consume. No matter the cost."
He speaks, voice silk. "No, no, it's okay. I'm Elliot... Elliot Montclair."
Her breath catches. That name always does it.
She gasps. "Oh my god... I knew it. You—your story, it breaks my heart. And you're—ugh, you're too handsome to be lonely."
He gives a modest smile. Just the right amount of wounded.
"It's nothing," he says softly. "I help where I can. My feelings... they're something I let go of. For her."
He doesn't need tears. Just a pause. A sigh. A glance away.
Hook. Line. Sink.
She fumbles for her phone. "Can I—could you—maybe a selfie?"
He lifts a hand. "How about something better?"
He offers his number. Personal.
She blushes. Squeals. "Aghh—I mean I'm sorry but—aghhh—it's you!"
He laughs. Warm. Patient.
Then, coolly: "I'll call you."
He walks away.
"Haha… just wait, my love.""We're going to love each other. I'm going to give you the world.""And pluck it right for the picking… just for you."
6:00 a.m.
The alarm doesn't beep. It sings—a soft classical piece looping through hidden speakers in the ceiling. Elliot Montclair is already awake.
He brushes his teeth for exactly two minutes. Shaves. Showers. His personal barber fades the sides, his hairdresser trims a single stray. They don't speak unless he nods. His suit for the press tour is steamed during his two-hour run through the hills. He runs with pace, grace, and control—never panting, never breaking stride.
By 9:00 a.m., he's had a perfect breakfast: egg whites, fruit slices, imported black coffee. Then the gym—strictly for tone, never for bulk. The mall follows, just to be seen. Cameras flash. Smiles beam.
At noon, the press waits.
He stands on stage, his voice velvet and pain-laced.
"My wife meant the world to me," he says. "And I carry her in every step forward."
The crowd eats it up. Of course they do.
"I give them grief, and they give me worship. Fair trade."
2:17 p.m.
He's walking down the street. Told his driver to wait.
Needs air.
And then—her.
She's walking fast, coffee in hand, jacket slipping off her shoulder like a careless breeze wrapped her. And she doesn't see him.
She turns. Bumps. Coffee spills across his $100,000 tux.
"OH! I—I'm so sorry!" she gasps, mortified. "I didn't see you—!"
Elliot blinks. Then smiles gently.
"It's just a suit. A piece of cloth."
"But you—you're something else entirely. You're mine. Something I need. A drug I want to consume. No matter the cost."
He speaks, voice silk. "No, no, it's okay. I'm Elliot... Elliot Montclair."
Her breath catches. That name always does it.
She gasps. "Oh my god... I knew it. You—your story, it breaks my heart. And you're—ugh, you're too handsome to be lonely."
He gives a modest smile. Just the right amount of wounded.
"It's nothing," he says softly. "I help where I can. My feelings... they're something I let go of. For her."
He doesn't need tears. Just a pause. A sigh. A glance away.
Hook. Line. Sink.
She fumbles for her phone. "Can I—could you—maybe a selfie?"
He lifts a hand. "How about something better?"
He offers his number. Personal.
She blushes. Squeals. "Aghh—I mean I'm sorry but—aghhh—it's you!"
He laughs. Warm. Patient.
Then, coolly: "I'll call you."
He walks away.
"Haha… just wait, my love.""We're going to love each other. I'm going to give you the world.""And pluck it right for the picking… just for you."