Catch up on part 2 of “The Client is Always Wrong” before reading on…

Part 3: Servant Leadership 

The rain came down in sheets, hammering the windows of the cozy townhouse tucked into the sleepy cul-de-sac like applause from the sky. Inside, it was all warmth: amber firelight flickering across hardwood floors, the soft drone of a streaming reality show half watched, and the smell of cinnamon from some fancy coffee drink Frank had insisted on making despite Mike’s teasing. 

Frank was curled under a blanket on the sofa, gray-socked feet resting on the coffee table as he scrolled through his phone. Mike, hair tousled from the shower, leaned back in the armchair with a dog-eared paperback, one finger holding his place while he sipped his room-temperature mug of “Mocha Minty” and tried not to smirk. 

“Okay,” Frank said, snorting. “You’ve got to hear this.” 

Mike looked up. “Oh?” 

“Apology email. From Brandon.” Frank tapped his screen, eyes sparkling. “Listen to this: ‘I realize now that respect is not something I can demand, but something I must first embody. I hope I can continue learning from you and others who model dignity and discipline.’” 

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Dignity and discipline. Big words for a man who screamed at a sommelier four days ago.” 

“I mean, who is this guy?” Frank laughed, reading more. “He even CC’d Jason from the front desk. And attached a Starbucks e-gift card.” 

Mike chuckled, shaking his head. “Do I detect a budding ‘servant leader’ in the making?” 

Frank rolled his eyes. “If by ‘servant leader’ you mean ‘fully domesticated golden retriever in a tie,’ then yes.” 

The doorbell rang. 

Both men froze. 

Frank glanced at Mike. “You’re not going to believe who it is.” 

Mike blinked, the corners of his mouth turning upward. “No way.” 

“Check the doorbell cam.” 

Mike reached for his phone. The screen lit up with the sleek, rain-smeared image of Brandon Carr standing stiffly in the downpour. He was dressed in a sharp, dark charcoal suit, the fabric hugging every sculpted line of his body. The jacket was perfectly tailored, the shoes polished to a mirror shine. 

But instead of an open collar or a power tie, he wore a giant, ridiculous bow tie made of deep red satin that looked like it belonged on a magician. 

Mike nearly choked on his coffee. “He looks like the Bizarro version of a virgin valedictorian.” 

Frank was already heading to the door. “I have to see this for myself.” 

When the door opened, Brandon stood on the front step, dripping, nervously clutching a leather portfolio like it was a shield. 

“I–I needed to make sure everything was okay,” he said, blinking water from his lashes. “I couldn’t leave town without apologizing. In person.” 

“You’re getting soaked,” Frank said, eyes wide. “Come inside, at least. Dry off.” 

Brandon nodded gratefully, stepping over the threshold. His polished shoes squelched on the welcome mat. He peeled off his coat carefully, revealing the full effect of the bow tie: enormous, tight at the neck, making his thick chest look even bigger by contrast. 

“I’m sorry,” he added softly. “For everything. Especially to you, Frank.” 

They rounded the corner into the living room. And there was DadMan. 

Electric blue shimmered in the firelight, glistening and impossibly tight. The suit hugged every sculpted inch of his broad frame. The iconic crossed-spatula shield gleamed on his chest. His gloves, his boots, his firm, stubbled jaw, everything about him radiated impossible authority. Power, distilled and beautiful. 

Brandon stopped. He stared for a moment, then dropped to his knees. 

“You,” he whispered, voice breathless. “I never thought I’d see you again.” 

DadMan tilted his head. “You probably never will after tonight,” he said. “So let’s make the most of it.” 

Brandon’s entire body shivered. “Please… I—I need to tell you—” 

“Speak.” 

And Brandon did. 

He confessed everything. 

The dreams. The cravings. The ache to be owned, disciplined, reshaped. How every small act of kindness now made him hard. How he had memorized etiquette manuals. How he had practiced kneeling. How he woke up aroused and desperate for rules, for direction, for the weight of obedience. 

He unbuttoned his shirt without being told. His hands shook. DadMan didn’t touch him—not yet. He simply held out a laminated card. A list. Brandon took it reverently. 

“Read.” 

Brandon’s voice trembled as he obeyed. One by one, he read the etiquette rules aloud. 

“I will greet others with eye contact and a respectful tone.” 

“I will thank my hosts sincerely.” 

“I will serve before I speak.” 

With each rule, his posture straightened. His arrogance dissolved, and his will bent like forged metal. DadMan’s glowing hands pressed into his shoulders, shaping him, commanding his spine to align, his voice to steady, and his heart to submit. 

Brandon moaned, eyes fluttering. “I am polite,” he whispered. “I serve. I follow the rules.” 

“Good boy,” DadMan said. 

Brandon came with a shudder so deep it seemed to silence the storm outside. The bow tie quivered against his throat, soaked in sweat. 

Later, in the rain, Brandon walked calmly toward the black limousine, idling at the curb. His shirt was freshly buttoned. His tie reset. The ridiculous bow still firm at his neck. The smile on his face was serene. Changed. 

He paused at the driver’s side window. Tapped gently. 

The driver—young, unshaven, and tired looking—rolled it down and raised an eyebrow. “Yes, sir?” 

“Would it be alright,” Brandon asked, his voice perfectly measured, “if I drove us to the airport tonight?” 

The driver stared at him, confused… then amused. 

“Sure,” he said. “But only if you wear my hat and gloves.” 

Brandon shuddered in pure, delicious pleasure. 

“Of course,” he whispered, slipping into the role with a sigh of blissful surrender. 

The door clicked shut behind him, and the limousine pulled into the rain. The city had lost a monster. But it had gained a servant leader. 

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