8. Huxley
HUXLEY
I’ve been staring at a line of code for forty minutes, but all I can see is the way her hand shook for a split second before she signed that contract. It’s a glitch I can’t seem to fix.
I need caffeine, or maybe just the hit of cold air from the fridge to reset my head. I roll up the sleeves of my white linen shirt, drop my glasses on the desk, and head into the hallway.
The house is dead quiet until I reach the kitchen.
A single light is glowing over the marble island. Gwendaly is perched on a high stool, her legs crossed, wearing a silk robe the color of a bruised plum. She isn’t sketching or working. She’s staring intensely into a bowl of Fruit Loops.
I lean against the doorframe, watching the light hit her skin. She looks small. It’s a jarring contrast to the woman who stared down a room full of lawyers six hours ago.
"Those have zero nutritional value," I say, my voice dropped rough in the quiet room. "I’m pretty sure the sugar content alone could power a small village for a month."
Gwendaly doesn't jump. She just slowly lifts her spoon, lets a neon-pink loop fall back into the milk with a soft plink , and finally looks at me. Her hair is down, a halo of soft curls that makes my pulse do something erratic.
"I’m not eating for nutrition, Huxley. I’m eating because I need a win to survive another day in this glass museum." She gestures with her spoon to the empty seat beside her. "And for the record, these are a classic. Don't tell me you grew up on joyless granola and green juice."
"Steel-cut oats," I admit, moving into the room. I don't go for the espresso machine. Instead, I open the fridge and pull out a carton of milk, drinking straight from it.
"Savages," she mutters, though there’s no real bite in it. "Is that the billionaire move? Breaking basic hygiene rules when no one is watching?"
"Only when I’m too tired to care about how it looks." I lean my hip against the island, facing her. The professional distance I usually keep feels heavy, a suit I’m too exhausted to wear. "You couldn't sleep either?"
"Hard to sleep when you’re mentally rearranging your entire life," she says. She pushes the bowl away. "I keep thinking about the ports. About the legacy. My father looked so... beat today. Like he was handing me a torch that was already burnt out."
I watch her hands. She’s twisting the ruby ring—the one I put on her finger. "Nicholas values history. But history is heavy, Gwendaly. It’s a different kind of debt."
"You would know, wouldn't you?" She looks up, her amber eyes searching mine. "The Kinlow name. It’s not just a company for you. It’s an expectation. Your father doesn't look at you like a son; he looks at you like a support pillar for his ego."
"I run the show," I say, though it feels like a lie in the dark of the kitchen. "I don't get to complain about the pressure of the job I took."
"But you didn't take this job, did you?" She gestures to the empty space between us. "This merger. This engagement. You’re just the one who has to make sure the whole thing doesn't blow up while our fathers play God with our lives."
For the first time since Napa, I don't feel like I’m in a negotiation. I feel like I’m talking to the only person who actually understands what it’s like to be a pawn with a fancy title.
"It sucks," I say, echoing her frustration. "But at least the Wi-Fi is fast."
She lets out a short, surprised laugh. It’s a warm sound, lacking the sharp edges of her usual sarcasm. "Did Huxley Kinlow just make a joke? Someone call the press. The man has a personality buried under all that charcoal wool."
"It’s 3:00 AM, Gwendaly. I’m off the clock."
"Good," she says, her voice softening. She leans her chin on her hand, looking at me. "I like you better when you aren't acting like a manual. The manual is exhausting."
"The manual is how we stay on top."
"Is it worth staying on top if you’re miserable?" She asks. "I used to think that if I designed the perfect terminal, my father would finally see me as a partner instead of just his daughter. And now, the only way he sees me as a partner is if I marry you."
"I didn't choose this either," I remind her.
"I know. That’s the most annoying part. I want to hate you for it, but it’s hard to hate someone who’s stuck in the same mess as me."
I look at her, at the vulnerability she’s showing, and the irritation I’ve been nursing starts to evaporate. She isn't a liability. She isn't a line item. She’s a storm, and I’m beginning to think I’d rather be in it with her than in the dry silence of my own office.
"We could just quit," I say, the thought unbidden and dangerous.
She laughs again, a genuine, bright sound. "And go where? We’re too used to high-thread-count sheets, Huxley. We’d last ten minutes as fugitives."
"Probably less. I’d spend the first nine minutes trying to plan the most efficient escape route."
"And I’d spend them complaining about the lighting for my sketches."
We share a look—a moment of real levity. It’s just two people in a dark kitchen, realizing the enemy isn't as bad as they thought.
"You have milk on your lip," I say, the words coming out before I can stop them.
"What?" She reaches up, her fingers missing the spot.
"Here." I don't think. I don't calculate. I reach out, my thumb brushing against the corner of her mouth.
Her skin is like silk. It’s soft, warm, and the contact sends a jolt of pure energy through my system that no data could ever predict.
Gwendaly’s breath catches. Her amber eyes widen, locking onto mine. The laughter dies instantly, replaced by a tension so thick it’s vibrating between us. My thumb lingers for a second too long, tracing the curve of her lip, and I see her eyes drop to mine.
She doesn't pull away. If anything, she leans into the touch, a tiny movement that shatters my remaining logic.
My hand moves on its own, my fingers sliding into the curls at the back of her neck. I sense the heat of her, the racing of her pulse under my thumb. The air in the kitchen is suddenly gone.
Her hand comes up, her fingers wrapping around my wrist. I expect her to push me away, to remind me of the rules.
Instead, she pulls my hand closer.
Our palms meet, skin to skin, the contact sending a fresh wave of heat through my chest. The friction is undeniable, a raw, honest pull that has nothing to do with the "story" we’re supposed to be selling.
Then, the light catches the ring on her finger—the red ruby. It’s a reminder of exactly what this is.
Gwendaly snaps her hand back like I’ve burned her. She stands up so quickly her stool scrapes against the floor with a jarring sound.
"I... I should go," she says, her voice breathless. She won't look at me. She’s clutching her robe shut, her professional mask desperately trying to slide back into place. "It’s late. We have that yacht thing tomorrow."
"Gwendaly," I start, stepping toward her.
"No," she says, finally meeting my eyes. The vulnerability is gone, replaced by a sharp, defensive clarity. "Don't mess with the deal, Huxley. It’s too expensive to fix."
She turns and disappears into the shadows of the west wing, the sound of her bare feet on the floor the only thing left.
I stand alone in the dark, the feeling of her skin still burning on my thumb. I look down at my hand—the hand that was just holding hers—and realize that the most dangerous thing about this merger isn't the Singapore group or the debt.
It’s the fact that I’m not in control anymore.
The glitch isn't in the system.
It’s in me.