RICKMAS 2024

Lionel Shabandar stood at the edge of the grand ballroom, with a tumbler of scotch in hand, watching the spectacle unfold before him with a detached, almost amused air. A lion surveying his kingdom. It was a scene he’d witnessed countless times: the glittering gowns, the perfectly coiffed hair, the subtle yet ruthless maneuvering for position among the wealthy elite. It was a game they all played. But Lionel? He mastered it long ago.

He tipped the glass to his lips, savoring the smoky burn of the single malt as he scanned the room. Everywhere he looked someone vied for attention. There was Lord Moreland, blustering about his latest gallery acquisition—a piece Lionel had sold him for double its worth. Stupid bastard. In the corner, a diamond-draped heiress fluttered her lashes at an ambassador who was clearly more interested in her father’s connections than her conversation.

Ah, the things we do to get ahead, Lionel mused, enjoying the juvenile display. 

And then there were the sycophants. Lionel’s personal orbit of admirers, buzzing around like moths drawn to the flame of his prestige. He spotted one of them now, a portly gentleman with a receding hairline and an overeager smile, nudging his companion and gesturing subtly toward Lionel.

“Shabandar,” the man was probably saying, his voice dripping with reverence. “The man could buy the Louvre if he wanted.”

Lionel smirked into his glass. He wasn’t completely wrong, Lionel could probably afford the Louvre thought it’d put a noticeable dent in his pocket. No, it wasn’t worth the hassle. Too many tourists.

It wasn’t that he despised these people. They were useful, in their way. Networking was the name of the game, the very lifeblood of his empire, and he had long since learned how to wield their admiration like a finely honed blade. But tonight, the entire scene felt… tedious.

No, not tedious—empty.

The power was nice, Lionel absolutely enjoyed that. And wealth allowed him extravagance very few were able to experience. And those instances where he felt the cold bite of loneliness, his power and wealth enabled him to warm his bed with the pick of the litter. He wasn’t some perverted degenerate though, every woman he bedded was wined, dined, and satisfied. But occasionally Mr. Shabandar wondered if in his cutthroat quest for power, he’d missed out on his chance for true connection.

The realization didn’t unsettle him as much as it might have years ago. He spent decades climbing to the top, carving out a place for himself in this glittering, hollow world. And now that he was here, he’d grown accustomed to the gnawing sense of isolation, learning to live with it as people do with a bad back. 

It was amusing, really. Lionel Shabandar, the man who had everything, standing in a room full of admirers and feeling utterly alone. And he’d rather die that admit it to anybody.

He turned his back to the crowd, his gaze drawn to the frost-covered windows lining the ballroom. Beyond the glass, snow fell in thick, lazy flakes, muffling the world in a soft white blanket. The sight stirred something in him, a faint memory he couldn’t quite place. He had always loved the snow. It was clean, quiet, and unpretentious—everything this room was not, himself included.

“Mr. Shabandar!”

The voice interrupted his thoughts, syrupy and eager. He turned to see the portly gentleman from earlier, smiling broadly as he approached with a half-empty glass of champagne.

“An honor to see you again,” the man said, holding out a clammy hand.

Lionel shook it briefly, his practiced smile slipping into place. “The pleasure is mine.”

“I must say, your latest acquisition was nothing short of genius.”

Lionel inclined his head, the picture of modesty. “You’re too kind.”

“Not at all! I was just telling my wife—”

Lionel let the man’s voice fade into the background as his attention drifted once more to the snow outside. He could see the faint glow of lanterns lining the driveway, their light reflecting off the ice. Somewhere out there, beyond the confines of this gilded cage, was the world he had left behind.

He glanced back at the man, who continued to hammer on—something about a potential partnership, no doubt. Lionel smiled faintly, cutting him off with a polite, “Excuse me. I need some air.”

Before the man could protest, Lionel turned and walked away, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. He felt their eyes on him as he went, whispers trailing in his wake. Long ago, he learned not care what was said about him. After he purchased a couple different media companies, of course.

Outside, the cold hit him like a slap, sharp and invigorating, a much needed grounding. The terrace was deserted, the snow on the stone steps untouched. He stepped forward, his shoes crunching softly in the fresh powder, and leaned against the railing. The cold seeped through his coat, biting at his skin, but he welcomed it. It was real at minimum.

He gazed out at the estate grounds, the snow-covered trees standing silent and unyielding in the moonlight. Here, there were no false smiles, no calculated gestures. Just the quiet, the cold, and the snow.

Oh, to belong.

The thought came unbidden, a whisper at the edge of his mind. He pushed it aside, but it lingered, like a persistent splinter he couldn’t quite dislodge. It was absurd, of course. Lionel Shabandar belonged everywhere. He could walk into any room in the world and command it. People bent to his will, sought his favor, hung on his every word.

And yet, standing here in the stillness, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be seen—not as the man who had everything, but as the man beneath it all. If there was anything worth seeing.

To have someone look at him and not see the empire, the power, the carefully crafted persona. Someone who might laugh at his expense, challenge him without fear, and remind him of the man he had once been, before the world became his.

Lionel closed his eyes, exhaling a long, frosty breath. Somewhere out there, beyond the snow and the silence, was something he hadn’t yet found. Something that couldn’t be bought or negotiated. Was it still within his grasp?

But for now, all he had was the cold and the quiet. And, for tonight, that would have to do. Schooling his features back to the cool devil may care mask his partygoers expected, Lionel returned to the gala.

Rachel leaned back in her office chair, balancing a pen between her fingers as she stared down at the thick stack of documents in front of her. It wasn’t that the case she was working on was hard—far from it. The opposing counsel had tried to pull a fast one, but their arguments were so flimsy they might as well have been held together with duct tape.

She sighed, clicking her pen against the desk. “If I have to read one more page, I’m going to walk out of here and join a circus.”

Across from her, her assistant, Becky, didn’t even look up from her laptop. “You’d last a day. Someone would tell you the trapeze was unsafe, and you’d have OSHA on speed dial before lunch.”

“Yeah.” Rachel smirked, stretching her arms behind her head. “Fair point.”

The phone on her desk buzzed, and she raised an eyebrow as she hit the speaker button. “This is Collins.”

Her boss’s voice came through, clipped and efficient. “My office. Now.”

Sighing, Rachel agreed and flopped back. He would want to see her on the one day she came in wearing a t-shirt and jeans. “Of course, the bastard knows I’m here on my day off.”

“Your fault for coming in,” Becky said with a shrug. “I would’ve emailed anything you needed.”

Grabbing her coffee mug, Rachel made her way to her boss’s office, her western boots at odds with the polished floor. The Manhattan office buzzed with activity around her, but Rachel navigated it effortlessly, her sharp eyes cutting through the noise.

When she stepped into the corner office, her boss, Martin Dunham, was already seated behind his massive oak desk. He looked up from his papers and gestured to the chair across from him.

“What’s the emergency?” Rachel asked, settling into the chair and crossing her legs.

“Europe,” Martin replied. “London specifically.”

“An all expense paid vacation? How kind.” Her brow furrowed at the lack of response. “Who’d I piss off?”

Martin ignored the jab, sliding a folder across the desk. “We’ve been brought in to help negotiate a major partnership with Lionel Shabandar.”

Rachel didn’t pick up the file right away. Instead, she leaned back, her gaze narrowing. “And what does that have to do with me? You’ve got a whole team of corporate lawyers chomping at the bit for that kind of gig.”

“We need someone who can handle him,” Martin answered frankly. Rachel was probably his favorite acquisition. She was smart, had the same Midwestern roots as him. But she had a mouth on her, one clients didn’t particularly appreciate.

“Handle him?” Rachel snorted. “He’s a businessman, not a bomb.”

“He’s also notoriously difficult. He doesn’t work with people that he doesn’t respect, and he’s known for…” Martin paused, clearly trying to phrase this delicately.

“For being a pain in the ass?” Rachel supplied, arching a brow.

“For being… selective,” Martin finished.

“Selective,” Rachel repeated, her tone dripping with sarcasm. She finally picked up the file and flipped through it, scanning Shabandar's profile. The usual billionaire life: private jets, rare artifacts, high-profile parties. Her lips quirked at the note about his charm.

“Oh, I get it now,” Rachel smiled like a shark, tossing the folder back onto the desk before crossing her arm. “You’re sending me because I’m cute.”

Martin frowned. “That’s not—”

“Bullshit,” Rachel interrupted, holding up a hand. “You think I can sweet-talk him into cooperating. Let me guess: he’s a sucker for a pretty face in a cute dress?”

“You’re the best person for the job,” Martin said, ignoring the accusation. Rachel could ruthlessly file an ironclad lawsuit just to be a pain in the ass. “You know how to deal with people like him.”

“People like him?” she echoed, tilting her head. “You mean arrogant billionaires who think the world revolves around them?”

Martin didn’t answer, which was all the confirmation she needed. Verbally neutering the rich always brought a smile to her face. Which lended itself to her high success rate. They loved hiring her, but hated dealing with her.

Rachel sighed, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the desk. “Fine. I’ll do it. But if he so much as winks at me, I’m coming back here and billing you triple for emotional damages.”

“Noted,” Martin replied dryly.

She stood, scooping up the file. As she turned to leave, Martin spoke again. “One more thing, Rachel.”

“Which is?”

“Dress to impress.” He gestured to her casual attire. “Better than whatever…that is.”

“It’s my day off,” Rachel argued, secretly relishing Martin’s disdain. “I didn’t know you’d call me in, but I’ll make sure to pack my laciest thong.” 

“Just please don’t hit him,” Martin sighed, already regretting the unilateral decision. Damn the board for insisting Rachel handle it. Could she? Absolutely. Would she be the demure pretty face they envisioned? Obviously, they’d forgotten she’s once told a CEO to go fuck himself when propositioned after a mediation hearing.

Without waiting for additional instruction, Rachel dismissed herself, flipping open the folder as she headed back to her office. Becky looked up from her desk, eyebrows raised.

“What’s the verdict?”

“Europe,” Rachel said, dropping the file onto Becky’s desk. “Apparently, I’m flying halfway across the world to negotiate with a billionaire treasure hunter who thinks he’s God’s gift to the universe.”

Becky opened the folder and whistled. “Well, at least he’s hot. Got the whole silver fox thing going on.” 

Rachel scowled, noticing her ticket already forward to her phone. “Yeah, because that’s exactly what I was worried about. Tell IT to route my emails. I’ll be on a plane by morning.”

“Got it, go forth and make sure you only massage his ego.”

“Get fucked,” Rachel chuckled, tugging her hoodie over her head. She grabbed her canvas knapsack and headed for the elevator, calling over her shoulder. “And Becky?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let anybody give you a hard time in my absence.”

Rachel adjusted her seatbelt and stifled a yawn as the private jet taxied down the runway. It wasn’t the plane ride that bored her—it was the company.

To her left sat Gordon, the senior partner who’d been at the firm since dinosaurs roamed the Earth, his thick glasses perpetually sliding down his nose. Across from him were Judith and Philip, two other partners who clearly spent more time networking at country clubs than doing actual legal work. Judith’s pantsuit looked particularly uncomfortable.

The three of them spent the past three hours “coaching” her, though Rachel would have described it more accurately as “talking at her in increasingly condescending tones.” She’d already tuned them out twice, but Judith’s nasal voice cut through her latest attempt at zoning out.

“Remember,” Judith said, her manicured hands gesturing as though she were addressing a child, “Shabandar responds well to charm. Be agreeable but not too assertive. Men like him don’t like to feel challenged.”

Rachel tilted her head, giving her a saccharine smile. “Why don’t you do it then?”

Judith’s face flushed, stuttering some excuse or another. Rachel inwardly smirked. Judith was a woman who had no qualms simpering to a man of Shabandar’s status, but lacked the necessary…assets. She also had a fragile ego.

“Got it. Smile, nod, and make him feel like he invented fire. Anything else?”

Judith pursed her lips, clearly unamused. “There’s no need to be flippant, Rachel.”

“Oh, I think there is,” Rachel replied, leaning back in her seat. “If you plan to pimp me out to a billionaire, the least I can do is have a little fun with it.”

Philip, who had been furiously scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad, looked up. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re not pimping you out, only reminding you Shabandar values relationships. You’ll need to come across as warm, approachable—someone he wants to work with.”

Rachel raised a brow. “Warm and approachable? Have you met me? The last time I tried to be approachable, someone asked if I was feeling okay.”

Gordon, who had been silently flipping through a binder of documents, finally spoke up. “Rachel, you’re not taking this seriously.”

“Oh, I’m taking it seriously,” Rachel shot back. “What I’m not doing is pretending this guy is some kind of untouchable demigod. He’s a businessman. A very rich, very smug businessman, sure, but at the end of the day, he wipes his ass just like the rest of us. So forgive me if I don’t feel the need to grovel.”

Judith looked scandalized. “You can’t just waltz in there and treat him like anyone else! Lionel Shabander is—”

“A person,” Rachel interrupted. “Just like you, just like me, and just like that guy in 12B who keeps snoring.” She gestured toward a nearby passenger, her sarcasm cutting through the tension. “I’ll do my job, but I’m not about to stroke his ego just because he’s rich. That’s your department.”

Philip opened his mouth to respond, but Rachel held up a hand. “Save it. I’ll be fine. If I can handle a federal judge with a God complex, I can handle a charming billionaire.”

The three partners exchanged uncertain glances, but none of them pressed further, puzzling the last time they allowed a junior associate to speak to them in such a way. Rachel turned her attention to the window as the plane broke through the clouds, still irate she’d been brought on solely because of her looks. She reached for the file in her lap, flipping it open to his profile once again.

God, what a smug looking twat.

Leaning back, she let the hum of the engines drown out the sound of Judith’s continued muttering. There were still hours to go before they landed, and if she had to endure much more of this, she might actually start throwing chairs—diplomacy be damned.