9. Gwendaly
GWENDALY
T he reflection in the full-length mirror of the master suite is a stranger. I’m wearing a liquid gold slip dress that clings to my curves like a second skin. My hair is swept up into a braided crown, and the ruby engagement ring is glinting under the lights like a warning.
A sharp knock at the door makes me jump. "Come in."
Huxley walks in, he isn't wearing a suit. He’s in a black tuxedo, the jacket tailored so perfectly it should be illegal.
He’s adjusting his cufflinks, but he stops when he sees me.
For a long moment, the room is dead quiet.
His gaze travels from my heels to my face, and that clinical look he usually has is gone.
"The dress works," he says, though his voice has a rough edge that tells me he’s understating it.
"Works?" I walk toward him, the silk whispering against my legs. "Huxley, you’re about to walk onto a yacht filled with the most judgmental people in New York. If you look at me like I’m a high-interest mortgage, they’ll see through us in seconds.
We need to work on your 'I actually like this woman' face. "
He narrows his eyes. "I know how to sell a vision, Gwendaly."
"Selling software is not the same as selling a romance. You look like you’re preparing for a deposition." I reach out, my fingers catching the lapels of his jacket. I pull him closer, forcing him to look at me. "Soften your jaw. You look like you’re trying to bite through a cable."
"It’s just how my face is."
"Fix it. And stop standing like you’re waiting for a court date.
" I move my hand up, my thumb grazing the line of his jaw.
I feel him stiffen, but he doesn't pull away.
The memory of the kitchen—the way his skin felt—is vibrating between us.
"When we get on that boat, you are going to touch me.
Not like a business partner, but like a man who can't wait to get me alone. Can you handle that?"
Huxley’s hands find my waist. His grip is firm, his fingers splaying across the silk of my dress. He pulls me an inch closer, until I can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric.
"I think I can manage," he says, his voice dropping to that low hum. "But you need to play your part too. You look at me with enough hate to tank our stock price."
"That’s just my reaction to your ego."
"Try to hide it. For the sake of the ports."
"Fine. But if you call me 'Princess' in front of the press, I’m pushing you overboard."
"Deal."
The yacht, The Catalyst , is packed. The air is saturated with the scent of expensive gin, salt water, and gossip.
As we step onto the deck, cameras flash, and I feel Huxley’s arm slide around my waist. He pulls me flush against his side, his thumb hooking into the belt of my dress in a way that feels possessive.
"Smile," he mutters into my ear. "The press is watching."
I lean my head against his shoulder, projecting the image of a woman in love while my heart hammers a frantic rhythm.
The music shifts. The DJ transitions into a slow, heavy beat that pulses through the floorboards. The opening chords of Alex Warren’s Ordinary swell through the speakers, the lyrics cutting through the high-society chatter like a sharp edge.
“They say, 'The holy water's watered down / And this town's lost its faith / Our colors will fade eventually'…”
Huxley doesn’t ask. He doesn’t wait for a nod. He simply steers me toward the center of the deck, his hand shifting from my waist to the small of my back, his palm searing hot against the thin gold silk. He pulls me in until there isn't a breath of air between us.
“So if our time is runnin' out, day after day / We'll make the mundane our masterpiece...”
We start to move. He isn't just dancing; he’s anchoring me to him.
My eyes are glued to his, trapped in that piercing blue stare that feels like it’s stripping away every layer of my "Crown Princess" armor.
Our bodies move in a slow, synchronized friction.
Every time his thigh brushes mine, a jolt of that 3:00 AM electricity shoots through me, leaving my skin sensitive and humming.
“I take one look at you / You're takin' me out of the ordinary...”
The world around us—the billionaires, the flashes, the clinking crystal—turns into a blur of gray.
There is only the weight of his hand on my back and the way he’s watching me like he’s seeing me for the first time.
I’m supposed to be acting, but as he pulls me closer, my hand slides from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, my fingers digging the roots in the hair I’ve wanted to touch since Napa.
“I want you layin' me down 'til we're dead and buried / On the edge of your knife, stayin' drunk on your vine...”
The tension is a physical thing, thick and heavy.
Huxley leans down, his lips hovering a fraction of an inch from my ear.
"You're doing great, Gwendaly." He whispers it against the shell of my ear, his breath a warm contrast to the salt spray on the deck.
My heart hammers a rhythm that has nothing to do with the music.
"But your heart is racing. Is that part of the script? "
"Shut up," I whisper, though I don't pull back. I can't. I’m caught in the gravity of him.
“The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found / Somethin' so out of the ordinary...”
We spin slowly, his grip tightening as if he’s worried I might actually vanish. His eyes never leave mine. There is no clinical detachment here, no data points, no logic. There is just a man who looks like he’s starving and a woman who has forgotten why she’s supposed to hate him.
“You got me kissin' the ground of your sanctuary / Shatter me with your touch, oh Lord, return me to dust...”
The lyrics echo the raw, honest pull between us. I reckon the heat of his breath on my face, the way his thumb is tracing slow, rhythmic circles on my hip that make my head spin. We aren't just dancing for the press; we’re vibrating on a frequency that feels dangerous.
“At your altar, I will pray / You're the sculptor, I'm the clay...”
As the bridge of the song hits, he pulls me flush against him, his forehead resting against mine. We are moving as one, the friction of our bodies, I’m lost in the blue of his eyes, seeing a vulnerability there that matches the ache in my own chest.
“The world was in black and white until I saw your light / I thought you had to die to find / Somethin' so out of the ordinary...”
As the final notes of the song fade, Huxley doesn't pull back. He keeps me locked in his grip, his face so close I can feel his lips brush against mine as he breathes. For a second, the entire world stops. I’m not a Luckett.
He isn't a Kinlow. We’re just two people who found something in the dark that wasn't supposed to be there.
I finally pull back just an inch, my chest heaving, trying to find the mask that seems to have melted off. I need a drink. I need air. I need to get away from the way he’s looking at me.
I turn toward the bar, my legs feeling like lead, and that’s when I see him.
Standing by the railing, looking like he’s just watched his world collapse, is Bancroft.
He’s staring at us—at the way Huxley’s hand is still possessively on my waist, at the way I’m flushed and breathless from a dance that was supposed to be a lie. He looks devastated. The "safe harbor" I’ve known my whole life is standing in the shadows, and I don't want to go to him.
Huxley feels me go still. He turns, his gaze following mine, and his grip on my waist tightens with a sudden, sharp possessiveness.
"He shouldn't have come," Huxley mutters, his voice turning cold again.
I can't look away from Bancroft. But as I stand there, trapped between my past and this high-stakes future, I realize the heat I felt on the dance floor wasn't a glitch.
It was a warning.