Rage.
It hit clean and hot, a surge so sudden Max had to lock his teeth together to keep it from showing on his face. George didn't say the name like a casual question. He said it like a pin slid into a pressure point: gentle, precise, and intended to see what would bleed.
Max's smile did not move. He kept it mild, almost bored. "He's a singer."
George's green eyes brightened with that predatory satisfaction reserved for men who believed they'd found a soft seam. "Ah," he murmured, swirling his tea as if this were gossip rather than leverage. "And yet he seems… close."
Max breathed in through his nose, slowly, carefully. The mask demanded calm. The mask demanded patience. The mask demanded that he not lunge across a tea table and put George's head through porcelain.
"He's not close," Max said, his voice even. "He's contracted talent."
George's smile widened, slow and pleased, like Max had offered him exactly the line he wanted to break.
