4. Huxley
HUXLEY
T he double doors click shut with a heavy, final thud that echoes through the mahogany-clad room.
Gwendaly is gone, leaving a trail of expensive sandalwood and a lingering vibration of pure, unadulterated fury.
For a moment, the room feels oddly vacuum-sealed.
I’m still standing at the top of the table, my hand resting on the spot where she just scrawled her name in jagged, defiant ink.
Nicholas Luckett looks like he’s aged a decade in the twenty minutes it took to sign away his daughter’s summer. He doesn't look at me. He stares out the window, his hands clasped behind his back, a silhouette of old-world dignity crumbling in real-time.
"The lawyers are in the lobby, Nicholas," my father, Robert, says, breaking the silence. He sounds entirely too satisfied. He’s already tucking his gold fountain pen back into his breast pocket. "The press release goes out in an hour. We’ll coordinate the Hamptons arrival with your PR team."
Nicholas turns slowly. His gaze is weary, but when it lands on me, there’s a flicker of the man who built a shipping empire from a single dock. "Take care of her, Huxley. She isn't just a piece of paper."
"She made that very clear in Napa, Nicholas," I reply, straightening my cuffs. "And again just now."
Nicholas nods once, his jaw set, and walks out without another word.
Now, it’s just the two of us. The architects of a three-billion-dollar cage. Robert walks over to the bar in the corner of the boardroom, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass. He doesn't ask if I want one. He knows I’m still on the clock.
"You handled that well," Robert says, swirling the ice. "The possessive angle with Henderson was a nice touch. Keeps the narrative focused on you."
"I wasn't playing an angle, Robert." I approach the window, watching the street level far below. I can see Gwendaly’s white suit as she disappears into a taxi, followed closely by the navy blazer that is Bancroft Henderson.
"The man was touching her like he had a permanent lease on her time. If we’re selling a merger, I can't have a third party cluttering the frame. "
Robert scoffs, taking a sip. "Don't get distracted by the friend. He’s noise. Focus on the daughter. Gwendaly is... formidable. More so than I anticipated. She has the Luckett bite."
"She’s a wildfire," I mutter. "And you’re asking me to contain her in a beach house."
Robert walks over, standing beside me. He’s shorter than I am, but his presence is a heavy weight.
He looks at me—not as a son, but as his greatest investment.
"I’m asking you to stabilize her. She’s the face of the ports.
If she looks unhappy, the market looks unstable.
If the market looks unstable, the Singapore group finds a crack in our armor. "
"I know the stakes," I say, my voice tightening.
"Do you?" Robert’s voice drops, losing its corporate polish.
This is the man-to-man talk he saves for the moments when the cameras are off.
"Huxley, you’ve spent your life building systems that don't fail because they don't have hearts. You’ve automated everything.
But you can't automate a woman like Gwendaly Luckett.
She isn't a line of code you can debug."
"I’m aware."
"Then listen to me. Don't try to outmaneuver her. Not yet. She’s already looking for the exit. If you pull the leash too tight, she’ll snap it, and we both lose. You need her to want to stay. Not for the company, but for the optics. Give her the illusion of autonomy while you secure the shares."
I turn to him, my eyes narrowing. "The illusion? She’s a structural engineer, Robert. She knows how to spot a facade. She’ll see through it in an hour."
"Then make it real," Robert counters. He sets his glass down on the mahogany table with a sharp clack . "Find out what she values. Find out what Bancroft gives her that we don’t. Is it comfort? History? Whatever it is, you provide the upgrade. You’re a Kinlow. We don't just acquire; we improve."
"And if she refuses to be improved?"
Robert smiles, a cold, thin expression. "Every system has a vulnerability. Even her. Your job this summer isn't just to be a fiancé. It’s to find the glitch in her armor. Once you find it, you own the narrative."
He pats my shoulder—a heavy, clinical gesture—and heads for the door. "Five a.m., Huxley. Don't be late. First impressions are for strangers; second impressions are for enemies you’re about to turn into allies."
The door closes, and I’m alone in the Luckett museum.
I walk back to the chair Gwendaly was sitting in. On the table, she’s left a small smudge of charcoal on a napkin—a remnant from her hands, no doubt. I pick it up, the texture rough against my skin.
Find the glitch.
My father thinks this is a psychological game. He thinks I can just study her like a data set and find the right input to get the desired output. But he didn't see her in Napa. He didn't see the way she looked when she realized I was the one holding the contract.
She isn't a glitch. She’s a total system override.
I pull the velvet box from the table—the one she left behind after the signature. I open it, the diamond flashing under the boardroom lights. It’s a cold, perfect thing. It matches the room. It matches the contract.
I think about the way her breath hitched when I leaned in to whisper to her. The way her skin felt—just for a second—against mine. It wasn't cold. It was electric.
I snap the box shut and slip it into my pocket.
I have twelve hours before I have to be at her doorstep.
Twelve hours to figure out how to be the man she hates and the man she can't walk away from, all at once.
My father wants me to provide the "upgrade," but as I peek at the charcoal smudge on the napkin, I realized I don’t want to improve Gwendaly Luckett.
I want to see what happens when the machine finally meets something it can't break.
I leave the boardroom, my stride long and purposeful. Xyrel is waiting at the elevators, her iPad ready.
"Schedule a briefing with the Hamptons estate manager," I say as the doors slide open. "I want the west wing entirely renovated as an art studio. North-facing light. Professional grade. And I want the Savannah port reports on my desk by tonight."
"Is there a specific budget for the studio?" Xyrel asks, her stylus poised.
"No," I say, stepping into the elevator. "Just make sure it’s better than anything she’s ever seen. If I’m going to be her cage, I might as well make it a masterpiece."
The doors close, and I watch the floor numbers descend. My mind is already moving toward 5:00 AM.