Walter's black sedan looked like it belonged on Fifth Avenue, not parked outside a peeling brick theater in Queens. Ethan whistled low as Walter opened the door for him.
"Fancy ride," Ethan said, sliding in. "Seats probably cost more than my entire apartment."
"They are Italian leather," Walter replied matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.
The door clicked shut with the kind of finality that made Ethan feel like he'd just been arrested. The car's engine purred—a deep, steady hum that matched Walter's entire personality: efficient, expensive, and vaguely intimidating. Ethan tugged at the seatbelt as if it were trying to strangle him, wriggling until he found a slouch that irritated Walter on principle.
The car rolled into motion, headlights carving through the dim streets. The neon of Queens faded into the steady glow of Manhattan in the distance. Ethan drummed his fingers against his knees before blurting, "So let me get this straight. You want me—Ethan Miller, part-time stage clown, full-time disaster—to play your billionaire boss? Do I at least get a cape? A mask? A Batmobile?"
Walter didn't bother to glance his way. "Mr. Miller, this is not a comic book. Adrian Arden is not only the heir to the Arden Group, he is its face—measured, dignified, sophisticated. If investors sense weakness, the empire his family built will be torn apart."
"Right," Ethan said, nodding gravely. He kept a straight face for half a beat before cracking into a grin. "So basically, I just need to look like him, talk fancy, and not trip over the silverware?"
Walter exhaled slowly, the sound of a man questioning every decision that led him here. "You will need more than that. Japanese investors are flying in next week. Your table manners are… nonexistent. Your posture is appalling. And your understanding of corporate etiquette is—well—"
"Nonexistent?" Ethan cut in, voice cheerful, almost proud.
The glare Walter shot him could have frozen lava.
"Relax, Mr. Walter." Ethan tipped his head back, spreading his arms across the seat like he owned it. "You fix me up, I'll put on the greatest show Manhattan's ever seen. Nobody will know the difference."
Walter pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging away an oncoming migraine. "Heaven help us all."
The sedan slipped onto the Queensboro Bridge, the East River glinting like black glass beneath them. Ethan turned toward the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. The Manhattan skyline rose ahead, a glittering fortress of steel and ambition. He'd seen it plenty of times before, but from here—from inside a car that probably cost more than his block—it looked different. Menacing. Beckoning. Like a stage that wasn't built for him, but might let him sneak on if he wore the right costume.
For a while, silence filled the car. Walter checked his watch, muttered something about schedules, and typed rapid notes on his phone. Ethan let his gaze wander. He imagined himself standing in one of those towers, his voice echoing across a room where no one laughed, only calculated. He imagined suits that actually fit, forks with more than two tines, people watching him not for jokes but for answers.
The thought should have scared him—and it did, a little—but beneath the fear, a reckless thrill buzzed in his chest. This was a role no director would ever cast him in, but somehow, he'd been chosen.
He couldn't help but smirk. For once, the stage was bigger than he could ever imagine.
And this time, the audience was the entire city.