2. Avery
Chapter 2
Avery
A quiet Saturday morning had turned into an anxiety-filled day as I stood in front of my ancient car with the hood propped open, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with it. But all I could tell so far was that it was making a screeching—yet somehow clunking—noise whenever I drove it.
Since I had exactly zero knowledge about cars and their mechanical workings, I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone by standing in the parking garage looking under the hood. But maybe my neighbors at the apartment complex would walk by and think I was a man who was perfectly capable of repairing a car.
They’d be wrong.
Slamming the hood shut, I walked toward the elevator to go back up to my apartment. Dollar signs added up in my head as I imagined all the things the mechanic would charge me for when I took it into the shop on Monday morning. That was the problem with knowing nothing about cars: mechanics could make up whatever imaginary problems they wanted and charge me a fortune to fix them.
Plus, I knew I’d have to call in late to work because of car troubles.
Yet again.
As an art teacher at a local high school, I knew they’d have to scramble to find a substitute teacher on short notice. I only hoped my boss wouldn’t see that this was my third time being late for car-related troubles.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened on my floor. Absentmindedly, I said hello to my neighbor before making my way down the winding hallway to my one-bedroom unit.
The unavoidable truth was that I needed to replace the car, not just have it repaired again. But the reality was that I couldn’t afford to buy a new car, which might have been a surprise to most people who knew my family.
The entire city of Charleston was under the misguided impression that, because I came from the Ashford family, I must have access to fantastic wealth. But my parents had cut me off financially years ago, and I struggled to pay my bills like most people I knew.
The only glimmer of hope in my otherwise bleak financial situation was my five percent share of the Harborstone Gallery that my grandfather had bequeathed to me. It had officially become mine when I turned thirty, nearly three years ago.
But there was one big problem: my parents, who controlled every single aspect of the gallery’s finances, refused to pay out any of the profits. Instead, they claimed they were investing every dollar back into the business to ensure its future growth.
Translation: technically, I owned a piece of the pie. But in reality, I couldn’t even smell it.
Harborstone had been thriving for years. Meanwhile, I struggled to afford car repairs.
Before I could spend any more time dwelling on my financial situation, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I threw my keys on the kitchen counter next to a stack of ungraded art quizzes and wiped my hands clean from the black smudge that had come from under the hood.
I glanced down at my phone and saw a number I didn’t recognize. Normally I didn’t accept calls from random numbers, but I was waiting on callbacks from various mechanics around town whom I’d called earlier in the day seeking price quotes.
I slid my finger across the screen to answer the phone, bracing myself for an estimate of what the repairs might cost.
“Hello? This is Avery speaking.”
“Avery, darling,” came a smoky, unrecognizable voice. “It’s Betsy Westbrook. I trust you’ve heard of me.”
I blinked without responding.
Of course I’d heard of her.
Who in Charleston hadn’t heard of Betsy? The Westbrooks were practically royalty, and Betsy—eccentric, fabulously wealthy, and occasionally terrifying—was, without a doubt, their queen.
“Yes, Mrs. Westbrook,” I choked out, straightening my posture as if she could see me through the phone. “What can I do for you today?”
“Well,” she said, practically purring in a tone that was so sugary-sweet it made me suspicious. “I’m calling because I have a proposal for you, Avery—something mutually beneficial.”
What could be mutually beneficial with a woman of her means?
Alarm bells started ringing in my head.
“I’m listening,” I said, uneasiness coursing through me.
“I need you to date my son,” she said as casually as if she were asking me to pick up her dry cleaning.
“Excuse me?” I asked, almost dropping the phone.
“Fake date, of course,” she clarified, as if that cleared things up completely. “Hunter Westbrook, you’ve probably heard of him. Handsome, brooding, and overly concerned with what the world thinks of him.”
“Mrs. Westbrook, I’m sorry but?—”
“Listen, dear,” she said, cutting me off with the delicate efficiency of a guillotine, “this arrangement could work wonders for both of us. You’ll help repair your family’s reputation, and you’ll look like a saint doing so. We’re in the middle of a teensy scandal. In the process, you’ll benefit as well. A teacher from a humble background taming a wealthy bachelor like Hunter? The media will eat it up.”
“Humble background?” I asked, trying to hide my incredulity.
Maybe Betsy, perched high upon her throne, didn’t realize that my family did just fine financially. Or maybe she didn’t care. Sure, my parents didn’t share the money with me, but Betsy didn’t know about that. And seeing as how she owned half of our family’s gallery, she should know that it turned a nice profit. Last I checked, my parents were worth at least ten million, not including the value of Harborstone.
Then again, to a woman as wealthy as Betsy, that was probably nothing.
“Oh, dear,” she said, “have I made a social faux pas? I meant your humble background, dear. I’ve heard that your parents don’t share their wealth with you. Isn’t that true?”
Damn, she knows.
I had no idea how Betsy had unearthed that private information. Most of Charleston treated me like a prince because they assumed I had unfettered access to my family’s wealth and influence.
Betsy cleared her throat as if she were about to deliver a speech. “I’ve heard that your parents keep everything for themselves. That’s not entirely surprising, considering what I’ve heard about them.”
Did she just casually insult my parents during our first conversation?
“I’ve also heard that your grandfather bequeathed five percent of Harborstone to you, which you officially received three years ago.”
My stomach twisted into knots. I was stunned. It was as if Betsy were narrating my life, chapter by chapter, with more flair and insight than I could muster.
Chilling.
I sighed, anxiously dragging a hand through my hair. “May I ask where you’re going with this?”
“Do your parents keep you in the loop about what’s going on at Harborstone? Or do they instead treat their son like an ornamental houseplant? You know, something one admires but doesn’t actually water. After all, as part owner, you have a right to know, even if your stake in the business is modest.”
Modest.
Wow.
Betsy had a way with words.
I didn’t appreciate her speaking to me like I was a peasant. My family name did carry some weight, after all.
“I am informed of what’s happening at the gallery,” I said, lying through my teeth and hoping she wouldn’t notice.
“Wonderful,” she said, her tone chipper. “Then you’ll already be aware that your parents and I, as joint owners, are considering selling Harborstone to a buyer at a price of four hundred million.”
My jaw dropped and, for a moment, it felt as if my heart had forgotten how to beat.
Four hundred million.
The number thundered through my mind and rocked my senses.
My parents hadn’t uttered a single word about a potential sale. Once again, I was completely in the dark about important matters.
“If my math is correct,” Betsy added, bringing me back to reality, “that means your five percent stake would land you twenty million.”
Twenty million dollars.
The air seemed to completely vanish from the room. My eyes desperately darted around my cramped apartment, landing on the broken cupboards and threadbare carpet. My thoughts raced to my shitty car that coughed to life each morning, my demanding boss, and my years of unpaid student loans.
Twenty million would flip my entire world upside down.
Forever.
“Avery?” Betsy asked, shaking me from my haze. “Are you still with me?”
Hope and rage collided in my chest as I thought about the fact that my parents hadn’t informed me of a potential sale this large. This would change their lives, and mine. I had a right to know what was going on.
Silence lingered in the air as I tried to think of what to say. My heart pounded in my chest as I attempted to compose myself, willing myself to think clearly.
I gritted my teeth as I thought about how my parents had yet again left me completely out of the loop.
This matter didn’t only concern them—it impacted my life too, and they’d left me completely uninformed.
My voice was hoarse. “They… they didn’t tell me.”
“Well darling, now, thanks to me, you know,” she said. “And knowing really is the first step, isn’t it?”
I clenched my jaw. Her casual demeanor simultaneously infuriated and comforted me.
“It would have been nice,” I said, my voice strained, “to hear it from my parents.”
She chuckled through the phone. “Parents are never as transparent as we wish they were, dear. But the only thing that matters now is that this sale is happening, and your entire life is about to change.”
Inside, I wanted to scream. I wanted to demand answers from the people who had denied me knowledge about what was rightfully mine.
But instead, I nodded silently as if Betsy could hear me.
Because she was right.
For once, my chaotic, messy life was about to change.
Forever.
The Gilded Magnolia was a Charleston staple.
It was a bar that had long intimidated me, frequented by the city’s wealthiest citizens.
As I fidgeted with my phone while waiting for Hunter Westbrook, I took in the lavish surroundings.
The Gilded Magnolia was the kind of place that whispered luxury without screaming it. The location was perfect; tucked inside a historic Charleston building that oozed opulence. The walls were dark, polished mahogany that evoked a bygone era. Above the wood bar, shelves of high-end spirits sparkled like jewels, backlit by soft light and surrounded by crystal decanters and cocktail shakers.
Each dimly lit corner of the bar was filled with small, intimate tables, their surfaces covered by flickering candles. A jazz trio played professionally in the background, punctuated by the low hum of conversations and glasses clinking. It wasn’t the type of establishment for a rowdy crowd or a casual drop-in; this bar catered to the city’s elite.
It was clear that reputations were important at this place, and I knew that all eyes would be on me and Hunter.
That is, if he ever showed up.
I couldn’t ignore the huge knot that had formed in my stomach. Meeting Hunter Westbrook felt like stepping into a scene from a high-society drama; the kind my mother wouldn’t allow me to watch when I was a child. Hunter’s face had been plastered all over the society pages for years, and I had to admit that a decade ago in my early twenties I’d had a huge crush on him.
From afar.
But to confess that I was attracted to him would have been catastrophic. My parents had made it clear to me since I was a little boy that our families were essentially at war. So that’s exactly what I believed.
And I wanted to hate Hunter.
I longed to despise him.
Hunter Westbrook was the kind of gorgeous that made you pause in the middle of your sentence—even in a grainy photo from a newspaper. With his chiseled jawline and his perfectly tousled hair, Hunter didn’t just belong in the society pages. He practically owned them.
Finally, I saw him walk through the door.
The moment he entered the bar, it was as if someone had cranked up the intensity in the room. His powerful presence hit me first. Self-assured, almost impossible to ignore. Then, I studied the finer details: broad shoulders filling his tailored jacket, dark hair that looked effortlessly undone, and a confident smirk playing on his lips that suggested he was in on a joke that no one else knew.
Hunter’s eyes scanned the room and when they finally landed on me, I felt like I’d been caught in the crosshairs. It was infuriating how someone like him could look that polished and magnetic without even trying—he was incredibly handsome.
He walked toward me with the kind of charisma that made it hard to look away. He wasn’t exactly strutting—he was far too understated for that kind of thing. But there was a certain ease to his movements; he walked as if he owned the ground beneath him.
Then again, with the kind of wealth the Westbrooks had, he probably did, in fact, literally own the ground beneath us.
The reach of their wealth never ceased to amaze me. At six hundred million, the world is truly your oyster.
I quickly tried to remind myself that just because someone is a member of a wealthy family, it didn’t necessarily mean that they were wealthy personally.
Like me.
For now.
If I played my cards right and went along with Betsy’s scheming plan, that could all change very soon.
As Hunter grew closer, I caught the faint scent of something expensive; a cologne with a subtle masculine smell that temporarily made my thoughts stumble over themselves.
By the time he finally arrived at my table, practically towering over me, I realized I’d been holding my breath.
“Avery, I presume?” he said, his voice deep and smooth.
His eyes locked onto mine, and I could feel him sizing me up from the start.
I rose to my feet and brushed a piece of imaginary lint off my sleeve.
“That’s me,” I said, extending my hand. “You must be the infamous Hunter Westbrook.”
“Infamous, huh?” he asked, briefly clasping my hand. “I guess that’s better than boring.”
I laughed lightly, releasing his hand and gesturing toward his chair. “Well, I don’t think anyone would accuse a Westbrook family member of being boring. Certainly not the Ashfords.”
My remark elicited a smirk from him.
“Touche,” he said, sinking into his chair.
I had to admit, I was starting to think maybe this wasn’t a terrible idea. We could turn our families’ reputations around, sell the gallery for a nice profit, and have some fun in the process.
In fact, for a brief moment, I started to wonder if I was looking forward to this fake relationship.
Maybe even excited about it.
I only wondered if Hunter was enthusiastic too.
He leaned forward as if he were about to whisper something serious. “Are you dreading this as much as I am?”
Well, that clears up whether he’s excited or not.
I chuckled politely, unsure of what to say.
“I’m guessing Betsy sweet-talked you into this whole fake relationship thing,” he added. “But let’s just get one thing straight. This is for family—nothing else.”
For some reason, I suddenly felt defensive.
“Of course,” I said with a feigned scoff. “I mean, it’s not as if I’m head over heels or anything.”
Hunter raised one eyebrow as he studied my face.
Shit, I’d said too much.
Finally, he smirked. “Good, let’s keep it that way. We’ll need to establish some boundaries.”
“Boundaries in a fake relationship?” I asked. “Hunter, I thought you’d be more adventurous than that.”
Clearly, this was strictly a business play for him.
“I’m adventurous,” he said. “But there’s a lot at stake here.”
The waiter suddenly appeared offering a bottle of water and a cocktail menu.
“Whiskey on the rocks,” Hunter said.
Classic drink for a classic man.
I was still anxiously nursing my fancy cocktail which I was suddenly very self-conscious about drinking. The waiter left the bottle of water on the table and walked off to fetch Hunter’s drink.
I leaned in and studied Hunter’s face in the flickering candlelight. “At stake? You mean our families’ reputations?”
Hunter stared at me, obviously trying to choose his words carefully.
“Let me ask you,” he said, his voice low, almost growling. “Why did you agree to my mother’s proposal? I understand that your parents own half of Harborstone, but this is an awful lot of work to put in just for your parents’ benefit. Not to be nosey, but rumor has it that they cut you off financially years ago.”
“They did,” I said in a matter-of-fact tone. “But my grandfather didn’t. We were very close, and much to everyone’s surprise, he bequeathed five percent of Harborstone to me.”
Hunter’s eyes widened and a grin spread across his face. “Oh! So now things are making a little more sense. The plot thickens.”
I nodded. “Five percentage isn’t much, but when it’s five percent of four hundred million… well, let’s just say my interest in piqued.”
Hunter laughed as the waiter returned with his drink. He placed it on a cocktail napkin then turned and walked off toward another table.
I paused for a moment, trying to think of a delicate way to ask Hunter about his motivations for agreeing to this phony fake romance. Then I reminded myself that he’d been straightforward with me, so I could return the favor.
“What about you, Hunter? Why are you doing this? I mean, aside from the fact that your mother is terrifying…”
I quickly realized I had just insulted his mother in front of him.
Not a great way to start a first date—even a fake one.
“I’m sorry,” I said, chuckling to cover my embarrassment, “I meant to say that your mother is quite compelling.”
Hunter laughed. “How about we agree to call her terrifyingly compelling?”
I sipped my fruit-flavored cocktail and nodded.
“Let’s just say,” Hunter started, but paused for dramatic effect to take a sip of his whiskey, “Betsy is still making her final decisions about bequeathments.”
Suddenly, I remembered reading in the papers that Betsy had recently given thirty million to Hunter’s brother, Logan Westbrook.
Things were starting to make sense.
I had assumed that Betsy dispersed equal amounts to all the Westbrook boys, including Dean, Hunter’s cousin.
My assumption had, evidently, been wrong.
“I’m sure you heard about Mother’s gift to my brother, Logan,” Hunter said. “I’m hoping I’m next in line.”
With that kind of money hanging in the balance, it was no wonder he was willing to play along with this charade.
I squinted my eyes at Hunter. “So, there was no sweet-talking involved then?”
His eyes gleamed as he laughed. “More like railroading. She didn’t exactly leave any room for negotiation.”
For a moment, I felt a slight tinge of pain at the idea that I was a burden for Hunter. Someone with a life as perfect as his must spend all their time doing fun, exciting things. Not sitting in a bar with a stranger, scheduling appearances for a relationship that was all theater.
“Here we are,” I said, stirring the ice in my drink, “two unwitting pawns in her scheme.”
Hunter leaned forward again, placing his elbows on the table. “Let’s be clear; I don’t like this any more than you do, Avery.”
Ouch.
“But if we’re going to pull this off,” he continued, “we’re going to have to be convincing. Are you up for the challenge?”
My eyes met his, holding his gaze even though it felt like standing in front of a spotlight.
“Convincing?” I asked with a scoff. “Please, I’ve spent my entire life pretending my family isn’t a complete disaster. Pretending to love Charleston’s most eligible bachelor? That’s a walk in the park.”
His eyes quickly narrowed. “Love? No one said anything about love—this is all business.”
The lines in the sand had been drawn. Even though I knew this was supposed to be fake, I found myself wondering if there was something so repulsive about me that he’d been completely uninterested upon first sight.
I steeled myself and gathered my composure, hoping to appear confident.
“Well, if we’re going to convince Charleston that we’re together, we’d better give them fireworks. What’s the plan? Do we fake a whirlwind romance and then go our separate ways? How are we going to convince all of Charleston that this is real?”
Hunter’s tone shifted to something more businesslike. “Our first event will be a charity gala this weekend—my mother throws them all the time. Big crowd, lots of press—it’s the perfect stage for us to debut…”
I waited for him to finish, hoping he’d say something fun.
He frowned. “… Whatever this is.”
“A charity gala,” I said, trying not to purse my lips.
I’d seen pictures of his mother’s galas. They were extravagant affairs where everyone was dressed in their finest. The type of thing my parents would attend, but not me.
“Most people start with a coffee date or a stroll in the park,” I said, forcing myself to chuckle so I might appear relaxed.
“Welcome to the big leagues,” he said with a confident smirk. “This isn’t just about convincing a handful of people, Avery. We’re talking about journalists, society columnists, social media influencers, a billionaire investor, and half of Charleston’s wealthy elite.”
Hunter’s lips pulled into a grin as he added, “Get ready, Avery. One way or another, this is bound to be one hell of a debut.”
For a moment, it felt as if a challenge had been extended.
And accepted.