BETRAYED ONCE: FROM NOTHING TO BILLIONIARE POWER

Chapter 14: Marcel

The Selene’s private garage sat two floors below the lobby. Ryan followed Marcus into the elevator going down, and neither of them spoke to each other. They stood in the cold silence of the elevator, and anybody could agree the silence was awkward.

The elevator doors opened onto a wide space. The lights shined ahead, flickering off and on at the end of the garage. Cars sat in neat rows, with Porsches, Ferraris, and a Bentley that looked like it hadn’t moved in months; its dust almost became a part of. 

Ryan’s each step echoed, but Marcus's didn’t. The man moved like he was made of smoke, hanging half a step behind Ryan’s right shoulder.

‘He’s checking my blind spot, already working the job as a professional,' Ryan thought when he noticed Marcus's eyes wandering ahead.

They stopped at a black Mercedes S-Class, the kind of car that costs more than a house in some poorer neighborhoods. 

“This is yours?” Ryan asked, although he already knew the answer from Harrison.

“Harrison’s,” Marcus corrected. “I just drive it.”

Ryan nodded and averted his gaze back to the car. “You don’t want anything of your own?”

Marcus’s eyes move upwards a bit, then return to normal. “I want to keep you breathing. "That's enough for me,” he replied, before sliding into the driver’s seat. 

The engine started so quietly Ryan felt the vibrations in his bones before he heard it, a low hum capable of putting a smile on a man’s face.

Ryan slipped into the passenger seat, allowing his body to lean into the soft leather. The interior smelled like money and some kind of cologne that probably cost more than Ryan’s old monthly rent. 

They drove out of the garage into the city, and Ryan's eyes panned out the windshield. They drove past the shops and bus stops, and nothing mundane caught his attention, not even the woman struggling to move the stroller up the curb of the roadside or a guy in a wrinkled suit yelling into his phone.

Ryan continued staring out the window when the thought came.

‘I was like them a few hours ago,’ he said, staring at the homeless people wandering about.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Marcus mutters beside him.

Ryan turned, scanning the man’s profile. The scar on his jaw looked old, almost white. His eyes kept moving from mirrors, sidewalks, and rearviews but never on him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You are falling, and I can see it.” Marcus finally glanced at him. “Stop.”

Ryan’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

“No, I don’t." Marcus' tone was flat. “But I know what you’re going through; it's written all over your face.”

Ryan scoffed. “And what might that be?”

Marcus finally looked into his eyes, and for an instant, Ryan couldn't tell if the man was staring at him or his soul. “Fear,” Marcus began. "Anger: That thing where you think everyone’s lying. I have been there and done that."

Ryan stared. “When?”

A long silence followed, and Marcus’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Afghanistan, 2008: it was an ambush. I was the only one who walked out.” His voice didn’t change, but he seemed to hesitate with his words a bit, which made Ryan’s stomach tighten.

“Three days in the desert, waiting to die. Everyone I trusted was dead, and everyone I fought for is gone. I had nothing.”

The words landed heavily, and Ryan muttered. “How’d you survive?”

Marcus was quiet for a few seconds. “Decided I wasn’t ready to die yet.”

Ryan felt that hit somewhere under his ribs. 

‘That’s what I did. In the grave. When the dirt was filling my mouth.’

“You don’t trust me,” Marcus said. 

“I don’t trust anyone,” Ryan replied.

Marcus nodded. “Good.”

“Why’s that good?”

“Because trusting people got you buried.” His voice still has the same flat tone. “I’m not your friend, and neither am I your therapist. I’m here to keep you alive; for the others, you can get someone else for that.”

Ryan studied him. “What if I order you to do something you don’t agree with?”

Marcus glanced at him. “Then we talk about it, and then I do it anyway. Your father’s orders were pretty clear.”

“What were they?”

A long pause lingered in the car as they rolled through an intersection. Sunlight bounced off a windshield and hit Ryan's eyes.

“Protect him even from himself.”

Ryan felt something shift in his chest. His father, a man he’d never really known, a man he’d spent thirty years hating, had been planning for this and kept him in heart unlike he thought.

“You really loved him,” Ryan said quietly. “My father.”

Marcus didn’t answer for a while. When he did, his voice was rough, like it hurt to push the words out. “He was the first person who looked at me like I wasn’t a weapon. Like I was a person.” He swallowed. “I owe him everything. I still do."

Ryan nodded slowly. “Okay.”

"Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’ll trust you for now.” Ryan looked out the window. A kid was eating an ice cream cone, not a care in the world; he wished he was there for a moment. “But if you betray me—

“I won’t.”

“How do I know that?”

Marcus met his eyes and held them. “Because I don’t break my word and your father’s the only man who ever deserved it.”

For the first time Ryan noticed how fast they were going. He leaned back into the seat, which felt different now; so did he.

Marcel’s was squeezed between an art gallery and a wine bar. No sign except a small brass plaque that said Sur Mesure. No window display or prices. The door was black with no name written on it.

The car rolled to a stop, and Marcus parked at the roadside. “Want me to come in?”

Ryan thought about it. “No, wait here.”

Marcus didn’t argue but responded with a nod.

Ryan stepped out, and the morning air hit his face, a little damp. He walked to the door and pushed it open.

A bell chimed.

Inside, the building was all dark wood and soft lighting, and suits hung everywhere like they were judging people or something. The air smelled like wool and cedar and some kind of chemical, probably for dry cleaning; Ryan didn't know. 

A man came out from the back. He was in his sixties, with silver hair. He had a tape measure around his neck like a priest's stole, which struck Ryan as a little strange. The man's eyes ran over Ryan's cheap jeans, worn shoes, and hollow cheeks, and something flickered across his face. It wasn't disgust, maybe curiosity. 

“Harrison sent me,” Ryan said when the man approached him.

The man’s expression changed. “Ah, Mr. Cole.” He stepped forward with his hand out. “I’m Marcel.” 

Ryan shook his hand. “Will reading’s at two, not much time.”

Marcel nodded. “Then we’d better start.”

The next hour blurred with measurements, fabric swatches, and questions Ryan didn’t have answers for. Marcel worked in silence, and his hands were quick and didn’t linger.

“You’ve lost a lot of weight,” Marcel said.

Ryan said nothing.

“Stress? Illness?” He asked.

“Both.”

Marcel nodded, not pushing further. “We’ll cut it with extra room in case you gain it back.”

“How many suits?” Marcel asked.

“How many do I need?”

Marcel considered. “For someone in your position? A dozen at least.”

Ryan thought about the black card in his pocket with unlimited credit and a company he will soon own.

“Make it twenty.”