3. Gwendaly
GWENDALY
T he ivory silk of my suit feels like a straightjacket.
I don't realize I’m holding my breath until the heavy oak doors of the boardroom click shut behind me, muffled by the plush carpet of the executive hallway.
I march toward the elevator bank, my heels striking the marble with the force of a tectonic shift.
Behind me, I hear the quick, rhythmic footsteps of the only man I can actually stand to look at right now.
"Gwen, wait up!"
I don’t stop. I hit the down button with enough force to crack a nail. "I am going to burn that building to the ground, Bancroft. I’m going to salt the earth, and then I’m going to build a parking lot over the ashes of the Kinlow Tech Dynasty."
The elevator chimes—a polite, silver sound that mocks my rage—and the doors slide open.
I storm inside, and Bancroft ducks in just before they close.
He doesn't say a word. He knows my patterns. He knows that if he speaks too soon, he’ll get caught in the crossfire of a Luckett meltdown.
He just stands there, looking effortlessly calm in his navy blazer, watching the floor numbers drop.
"A summer of engagement," I hiss, staring at my reflection in the mirrored walls.
I look perfect. My mahogany skin is flawless, my hair is an architectural marvel of braids and pins, and my red lipstick is still sharp enough to draw blood.
I look like a woman who is in control. I feel like a woman being sold at an auction.
"In the Hamptons. In a shared estate. With a man who has the emotional range of a calculator. "
"He’s a piece of work," Bancroft finally says in a low, soothing baritone. "The way he looked at you, Gwen... like you were a line item he just decided to audit."
"He called me a liability!" I turn to him, my hands shaking as I grip my clutch.
"In front of my father. In front of the lawyers.
He stood there with that stupid, perfectly tailored charcoal suit and that steeled, unyielding stare that made me feel like an audit and acted like he was doing me a favor by marrying me. "
The elevator hits the lobby. I burst out into the afternoon air of Manhattan, the humidity hitting me like a physical weight. I don’t wait for my driver. I start walking, and Bancroft stays right at my shoulder, a silent, loyal shadow.
"Let’s go to Balthazar," Bancroft suggests, his hand touching my elbow to steer me toward a cab. "You need a mimosa and a safe space to scream. My treat. Or rather, my firm’s treat. Consider it 'Consultation Fees' for your sanity."
Ten minutes later, we’re tucked into the deep red leather of a corner booth. The restaurant is loud, a cacophony of silver clinking against china and the low roar of New York ambition, which is exactly what I need. I need to drown out the sound of Huxley Kinlow’s gravelly voice.
"I can't do it, Bancroft," I say, sinking into the booth.
I slide my phone onto the table—the screen still glowing with the digital copy of the 'Kinlow Clause' I was just forced to sign.
"I met him in Napa. Did I tell you that?
Three days ago, I was at the resort for my 'cooling-off' period, and he was the man who stole my cabana. "
Bancroft freezes, his glass halfway to his mouth. "Wait. The guy you called the 'Gargoyle'? The one you sketched as a monster?"
"The very same." I take a long, decidedly un-ladylike gulp of the mimosa Bancroft just ordered. "He knew. He must have known. He sat there and let me insult him, let me call him a tech-bro, and all the while, he knew he was going to be the one sliding a ring onto my finger on Monday."
"That’s predatory," Bancroft says, his jaw tightening. He leans forward, his dark eyes intense. "Gwen, if he’s this manipulative before the ink is even dry, imagine what he’ll be like in the Hamptons. This isn't just a merger. He’s trying to break you."
"He won't," I say, though my voice lacks its usual steel.
"I’m a Luckett. We don't break. We pivot.
But the ports, Bancroft... The debt is so deep.
Nicholas is terrified. If I don't go through with this, the Singapore group moves in, and three generations of work go up in smoke.
My father would never recover. It would kill him. "
Bancroft reaches across the table, his fingers grazing the back of my hand.
This is my safe harbor. Since we were children, Bancroft has been the person I ran to when the pressure of being the 'Crown Princess' became too much. He knows my favorite obscure jazz records, the way I take my tea when I’m sick, and exactly how many seconds I need to breathe before I walk into a high-stakes meeting.
"You’ve always been more than a legacy to me, Gwen," Bancroft says softly. His voice drops to a register that makes my pulse skip, but for a different reason than Huxley does. With Bancroft, it’s a warm, familiar comfort.
With Huxley, it’s like a live wire. "You shouldn't have to sacrifice your life to save a shipping terminal. "
"I don't have a choice."
"You do." Bancroft's grip on my hand tightens. He looks around the crowded restaurant, then leans in closer, the scent of his cologne—something warm and woodsy—wrapping around me. "Gwen, listen to me. My firm is doing well. I know the tabloids are buzzing about that SEC inquiry into our tech allocations, but it’s a preliminary discovery phase—nothing more. My legal team has them chasing shadows in discovery, and I’m under no travel or business restrictions. We’re still in a position to look at a bridge loan.
It wouldn't be as clean as the Kinlow deal, and the interest would be a beast, but we could find a way to buy you time.
You wouldn't have to marry him. You wouldn't have to spend a summer in the Hamptons pretending to love a man who thinks you're a 'disclosure. '"
I stare at him, my heart aching. "Bancroft, your firm is your life. You’d risk that for me?"
"I’d risk more than that," he says. His thumb strokes the sensitive skin of my wrist, right over the tiny star tattoo he’s the only one allowed to see.
"I’ve spent a decade watching you grow into this incredible force of nature.
And I’ve spent that same decade waiting for the right moment to tell you that the 'best friend' label is a cage I’m tired of living in. "
My breath hitches. This is the moment I should have wanted. The confession from the man who knows me, who respects me, who has always been there. It’s the safe, beautiful choice. It’s the "gentle love" I’ve always imagined for myself.
But as I look at Bancroft, a stray thought flickers.
A memory of the way Huxley’s eyes darkened when I stood up to him in the boardroom.
The way his voice dropped when he told me he 'doesn't play.
' There is a terrifying, magnetic pull toward the chaos Huxley represents, a spark that Bancroft’s comfort doesn't ignite.
"Bancroft, I..." I start, but the words die in my throat.
"You don't have to answer now," he says quickly, sensing my hesitation. "Just know that you have a choice. You don't have to be a pawn. You could be with someone who actually knows your soul, not someone who wants to acquire it."
"It’s not just about me, Bancroft," I whisper. "It’s about the ports. It’s about Nicholas. If I choose you, I’m choosing a struggle. If I choose Huxley, the legacy is safe. The business is the only thing I’ve ever been taught to value."
"Then let's teach you something else," Bancroft says, his gaze lingering on my lips. "Let me show you that?—"
Ping.
The sound is sharp, clinical, and intrusive. It’s my phone. I reach for it, the screen flashing with a notification that feels like a summons to the principal's office.
NEW MESSAGE: Huxley Kinlow The car is downstairs at your residence. 5:00 AM tomorrow. Don't be late, Princess. We have a narrative to build, and I’ve never been fond of a slow start.
I stare at the text. The arrogance of it. He didn't ask. He didn't even use a greeting. He just issued a command.
"What is it?" Bancroft asks, his face dropping back into that protective, professional mask.
"It’s the machine," I say, sliding my phone back into my bag. I stand up, smoothing the wrinkles from my ivory suit with practiced efficiency. "He’s already scheduling my life. 5:00 AM. Apparently, the 'Summer of Engagement' begins before the sun comes up."
Bancroft stands with me, his jaw set. "I'm coming with you tomorrow. As your advisor. I'm not letting you walk into that estate alone with him."
"You don't have to, Bancroft. I can handle a tech-bro."
"It’s not about handling him, Gwen. It’s about reminding him that you have people who care about you. People who will be watching every move he makes."
I nod, too exhausted to fight him. I turn toward the exit, my heels clicking against the bistro floor once more, but the rhythm is different now. It’s faster. More urgent.
As we step out onto the sidewalk, the New York sun is starting to dip, casting long, jagged shadows against the skyscrapers. I feel the weight of the diamond on my finger—the one Huxley slid on with such cold precision. It’s beautiful, and it’s a cage.
"See you in the morning, Bancroft," I say as I hail a taxi.
"I’m not giving up on you, Gwen," he calls out as I slide into the back seat.
I watch him disappear in the rearview mirror, my heart a messy tangle of guilt and confusion. Bancroft is the home I want. But as I look down at my phone, seeing Huxley’s message one more time, I realize that for some reason, I’m already checking the clock for 5:00 AM