10. Huxley
HUXLEY
T he salt air on the deck of The Catalyst is supposed to be refreshing, but right now, it feels like it’s fueling the fire in my gut.
Gwendaly has gone to find a glass of water—or so she said—but I know she’s actually trying to put some distance between us.
The dance we just shared wasn't a performance.
It was a revelation, and the way she looked at me when the music stopped is a problem I haven't figured out how to solve yet.
I’m standing near the stern, watching the moonlight hit the wake of the yacht, when a shadow moves into my peripheral.
"You look like a man who’s wondering if he can actually pull off the heist," a familiar, irritating voice says.
I don't need to turn around to know it’s Bancroft Henderson. He’s leaning against the railing, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, looking like he’s ready to challenge me to a duel.
"The merger is finalized, Henderson. There’s no heist left to pull," I say, my tone dropping into that cold, professional flatline.
"I wasn't talking about the ports, Kinlow. I was talking about her." Bancroft steps closer, his eyes fixed on mine with a raw intensity. "I’ve known Gwen since we were in diapers. I know the way she breathes when she’s stressed, and I know the way she smiles when she’s lying.
Tonight? That smile was a masterpiece, but her eyes were terrified. "
"She’s adjusting to a massive lifestyle shift. It’s to be expected."
"She’s adjusting to being owned," Bancroft counters, his voice low and dangerous. "She’s a Luckett. She was born to build, not to be a display piece in your Hamptons museum. If you think that diamond on her finger gives you the right to extinguish her light, you’re even stupider than your algorithms suggest."
I turn to him fully then, my hands tightening on the railing.
"You have a lot of opinions for someone who couldn't even manage a bridge loan fast enough to save her family from bankruptcy.
If you cared so much about her 'light,' you should have been a better businessman.
And perhaps you should worry less about my 'museum' and more about the subpoena sitting on your desk, Bancroft. I hear the SEC doesn’t take kindly to venture capitalists who treat client funds like a personal casino. "
Bancroft flinches, a quick, sharp movement that tells me I hit the mark. "It’s a routine inquiry, Kinlow. Don’t act like your hands are clean."
"My hands are efficient," I reply, my voice dropping into a lethal flatline. "Yours are desperate. There’s a difference."
He looks like he wants to throw the tumbler at me, but instead, he just glares.
"I’m a man who cares about her soul. You’re a man who cares about a balance sheet.
Gwendaly is an artist, Huxley. She needs to create.
She needs the sun and the space to be messy.
You’ve locked her in a house that smells like a hospital and a life that feels like a prison.
"She is my fiancée. Her well-being is my concern, not yours."
"She’s your prisoner," Bancroft says, taking a step into my personal space. "And the second that contract is fulfilled, I’m going to be the one standing there with the keys to the exit. Don't get comfortable, tech-bro. You might have the signature, but you’ll never have the woman."
He walks away before I can reply, leaving me with the taste of copper in my mouth and a nagging, uncomfortable truth ringing in my ears.
The drive back to the estate is silent. Gwendaly is staring out the window, her profile a study in exhaustion. She looks drained, her usual fire dampened by the weight of the night's performance. Bancroft was right about one thing: she looks like she’s fading.
When we reach the house, she heads straight for the west wing without a word. I don't stop her. Instead, I head to my office and pull up the security feeds. I spend the next hour watching her prowl through the house in the dark, her hands restless, her eyes constantly searching the walls.
She stops in the sunroom—a glass-walled space that overlooks the dunes. She stands there for a long time, her fingers tracing the condensation on the window, her head tilted as if she’s listening for something that isn't there.
She isn't looking for a drink. She isn't looking for a book. She’s looking for a way to breathe.
I pick up the phone. "Xyrel? I need that contractor we used for the penthouse renovation. And I need a shipment from Utrecht Art Supplies. Tonight. I don't give a shit about the delivery fee."
The next afternoon, the sun is high and the house is quiet. I’ve spent the morning supervising a crew that worked with the kind of speed only a Kinlow paycheck can buy. I find Gwendaly in the living room, staring listlessly at a magazine.
"Come with me," I say, stopping in front of her.
She doesn't look up. "If it’s another yacht party rehearsal, I’m calling my lawyer. Or jumping off the roof."
"It isn't. Just follow me."
I lead her toward the sunroom. As we reach the double doors, I step aside and push them open.
The space has been transformed. Gone are the cold, white bouclé chairs and the minimalist sculptures.
In their place is a professional-grade drafting table, a massive easel, and shelves stocked with every type of charcoal, oil paint, and canvas imaginable.
The north-facing light is perfect, flooding the room with a soft, even glow.
In the corner, her old drawing table from the Luckett townhouse sits, meticulously restored and polished.
Gwendaly stops in the doorway. She doesn't move. She doesn't speak. She just stands there, her eyes traveling over the room, from the jars of brushes to the scent of linseed oil that now perfumes the air.
"What is this?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper.
"You’re an architect, Gwendaly. And an artist. You can't design the future if you’re too busy mourning the past." I step into the room, leaning against the edge of the new drafting table.
"This is your space. Rule One still applies to my office, but this room is yours.
No one enters without your permission. Not even me. "
She walks into the room, her hand trembling as she touches the edge of her old drawing table. She looks at the canvases, then back at me, her amber eyes wide and filled with a confusion that makes my chest tighten.
"Why?" she asks. "This wasn't in the contract. This doesn't help the merger."
"Maybe I got tired of you eating Fruit Loops in my kitchen at 3:00 AM because you had nowhere else to go." I push off the table, moving toward her. "Or maybe I just realized that a 'Crown Princess' is useless if she’s too miserable to think straight."
Gwendaly lets out a short, wet laugh. She looks at me, the disdain is gone. There’s a raw, honest vulnerability in her expression that is far more dangerous than her anger.
"You’re a piece of work, Huxley Kinlow," she says, her voice thick. "You act like an ice king, and then you do something like this."
"It’s just an investment in your productivity," I say, though we both know it’s a lie.
She walks toward me, stopping just a few inches away.
The tension from the dance floor is back, but it’s different now.
It’s softer. More intimate. She reaches out, her hand hesitating before she rests it on my forearm.
Her skin is warm, and the contact sends a jolt through my system that I don't even try to calculate.
"Thank you," she whispers.
She looks up at me, her gaze searching mine, and for a second, the world is perfectly still. I see the conflict in her—the desire to trust me fighting with the fear of being used. I see the woman beneath the name, and she is breathtaking.
"Don't thank me yet," I say in a rough hum. "I still expect you to be ready for dinner at eight."
"I might be late," she says, a tiny, genuine smile playing on her lips. "I have some work to do."
I laugh, a genuine, warm sound that surprises even me. Our eyes lock, and for a heartbeat, our hands shift, my fingers brushing against hers on my arm. The friction is there, the heat is there, and the truth settles in like a weight pulling me underwater—quiet, heavy, and absolute. .
I didn't do this for the merger. I did it for her.
The laughter dies down as the reality of that thought settles in. Gwendaly seems to feel it too, her smile fading as she pulls her hand back, the "Crown Princess" mask desperately trying to reclaim its territory.
"I should... I should get started," she says, her voice breathless.
"Yeah. I have a call," I reply, stepping back.
I turn and walk out of the room, leaving her in the light of her new sanctuary.
My heart is thudding a slow, heavy rhythm.
I head toward my office, but as I pass the library, I find myself looking toward the alcove where Louise’s portrait is hidden.
The guilt I felt in the boardroom is back, but it’s different now. It’s no longer about the deal.
It’s about the fact that I’m giving Gwendaly a studio, while I’m still living in a museum of a woman who never wanted me to be anything but a machine.
I’m falling for the woman I bought.
And in a world built on contracts and acquisitions, that is the one glitch that could actually destroy everything.