17. Gwendaly
GWENDALY
T he dining room of the Kinlow estate feels like a high-end morgue.
Every surface is polished to a blinding sheen, reflecting the silver candlesticks and the frozen expressions of the people gathered around the table.
If I thought the house was cold before, it’s currently reaching sub-zero temperatures.
I’m wearing a deep emerald sheath dress, my hair coiled in a sharp, structured updo that feels like armor.
Beside me, Huxley is a statue in charcoal wool.
He hasn't looked at me since the "consultant" arrived. Across from us, the architects of my current misery are holding court. Robert Kinlow sits at the head, looking like he’s presiding over a supreme court hearing rather than a family dinner.
And then there’s Louise.
She’s wearing a shade of cream that’s meant to look effortless but screams "bespoke." She’s currently dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin as if even the act of eating is a performance art.
"The Sotheby’s auction in Gstaad was quite the letdown this year, don't you think, Robert?" Louise asks, her voice carrying that distinct, melodic chirp of the ultra-wealthy. "Too much new money trying to buy heritage. It lacked... soul."
Robert chuckles, a sound that has as much warmth as a dry leaf. "Heritage isn't something you can bid on, Louise. It’s cultivated. Like the port transition. We’re not just moving boxes; we’re merging bloodlines."
He glances at me, but his eyes don't linger. It’s the look a gardener gives a weed he’s decided to tolerate because it might have medicinal properties.
"Speaking of heritage," Louise turns her gaze to me, her smile tight and artificial. "Gwendaly, I was looking over the Savannah terminal aesthetic. It’s very... bold. Almost aggressive. Do you think the traditionalists on the board will find it a bit too much? I’ve always found that the old families prefer a softer touch.
Something more in line with the Kinlow aesthetic. "
I set my fork down, the silver clinking against the fine bone china.
"The Savannah project isn't about a 'soft touch,' Louise. It’s about structural integrity and modernization.
The 'old families' might prefer the past, but the global market moves on data.
And the data says my designs will increase efficiency by thirty percent. "
"Efficiency is such a cold word for a wedding gift," Louise says, turning back to Huxley. "Huxley, remember that summer in Saint-Tropez? When we debated the ethics of venture capital until sunrise? You were so passionate about the human element then."
Huxley’s jaw tightens. He finally picks up his wine glass, the red liquid swirling like a dark secret. "I was twenty-two, Louise. My priorities have shifted toward results."
"Results are fine, but rapport is better," Robert interjects.
"That’s why Louise is here. She understands the social shorthand we need to navigate this merger.
There are nuances, Gwendaly, that can't be found in a blueprint.
Conversations held in 'Old Money' shorthand at the club.
Things that take generations to learn, not just a few weeks in the Hamptons. "
I feel the heat rising in my chest—not the fire of the kitchen, but the slow, agonizing burn of being humiliated in a room I’m supposed to own.
They’re speaking in a code designed to lock me out.
References to schools I didn't attend, galas my family was only invited to for the sake of diversity, and a history that is white, wealthy, and exclusionary.
"I’ve spent my life navigating nuances, Robert," I say, my voice steady. "Usually the kind where people assume I’m the assistant instead of the lead architect. I find that when the results are undeniable, the shorthand doesn't matter much."
"A spirited answer," Louise says, though her eyes say something else entirely. "But let's be honest, darling. This isn't just about shipping. It’s about the Kinlow name. My family has been entwined with the Kinlows for three decades. We speak the same language. We have the same... expectations."
"And what expectations are those?" I ask. "That Huxley marries a consultant who hides in the library?"
The table goes silent. Even the server, a young man who has been moving with ghost-like silence, pauses for a second.
"Gwendaly," Huxley says in a warning hum.
"No, let’s talk about it," I say, turning to him. "Since we’re all about disclosure tonight. Your father hired your ex-girlfriend to oversee our 'cultural transition.' She’s living in the guest house. She’s touching your arm at dinner. And she’s talking about our wedding like it’s a re-branding exercise for a failing car company. "
"It’s professional, Gwen," Huxley says, but he still won't look at me directly. He’s staring at his plate.
"Is it?" I turn back to Louise. "Is it professional to kiss my fiancé on the cheek and talk about 'unfinished business' in front of me?"
Louise laughs, a light, tinkling sound. "Oh, darling. You're so... intense. It was a gesture of affection. Huxley and I have known each other since we were children. Some bonds are simply more real than others."
"Some bonds are just habits," I counter. "And habits can be broken."
"Enough," Robert says, his voice cutting through the tension like a gavel. "This is a celebratory dinner. We are securing the Luckett legacy. Let’s focus on the success of the buy-back."
He raises his glass. "To the merger. To the Kinlow Clause. And to the future."
Louise raises her glass, her eyes locked on mine, a silent victory dancing in her gaze.
Huxley raises his too, but his movements are stiff, robotic.
I don't move. I don't lift my glass. I just sit there, a dark green interloper at a white table, feeling the weight of the ruby ring like a brand of shame.
They go back to talking about Gstaad. About people named "Binky" and "Bunny." About the board’s reaction to the latest tech integration. I’m an outsider in my own narrative, a woman who has been traded for capital and then invited to watch the man who bought her flirt with his past.
I look at Huxley. I want him to say something. I want him to reach under the table and take my hand. I want him to prove that the man who pinned me against the kitchen wall wasn't just a glitch.
He doesn't. He’s listening to Louise describe a new charitable foundation, his head tilted in that clinical way he has when he’s absorbing information.
The dinner continues for another hour—an eternity of polite insults and exclusionary anecdotes. By the time we’re served coffee, I feel like I’m vibrating with the need to scream.
"I need some air," I say, standing up so abruptly my chair makes a jarring sound against the floor.
"We’re not finished with the Savannah summary, Gwendaly," Robert says.
"The summary is on the portal, Robert. Read it yourself."
I turn and walk out, my heels clicking a furious rhythm. I don't go to the sunroom. I don't go to my bedroom. I head for the terrace, needing the salt-heavy wind to scrub the scent of Louise’s perfume off my skin.
I’m standing by the stone railing, watching the dark Atlantic crash against the shore, when I hear the glass door slide open.
I don't turn around. I know the weight of the footsteps.
"You were rude, Gwendaly," Huxley says, in a low vibration in the night air.
"I was honest, Huxley. There’s a difference." I turn to face him, the wind whipping my hair loose from its pins. "Your father brought her here to replace me before the wedding even happens. He’s showing me the exit door, and you’re just... letting him."
"He’s protecting the investment. Louise has connections?—"
"I don't care about her connections! I care about the fact that she’s in our house. I care about the fact that you’re acting like last night never happened because 'consultant' Louise is back to remind you of the life you’re supposed to want."
Huxley steps closer, the light from the dining room spilling out behind him. He looks tired. The "CEO" mask is fraying at the edges, but he’s still not letting me in.
"Last night was real," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "But this dinner... this is reality. This is the world we live in, Gwendaly. It’s calculated. It’s transactional. And right now, the transaction requires Louise."
"And what about me? What does the transaction require of me? To sit there and be insulted while you two reminisce about Saint-Tropez?"
"I wasn't reminiscing."
"You weren't stopping her either."
I look at him, searching for the glitch, searching for the man who told me the ports didn't matter. But the shadows of the terrace are playing tricks on me.
"She still loves you, doesn't she?" I ask, the question a raw, bleeding thing in the air.
Huxley doesn't answer immediately. He looks out at the ocean, his expression unreadable. "Louise loves the idea of being a Kinlow. She always has."
"And you?"
"I’m a man who honors his contracts," he says, but his voice sounds hollow.
I look past him, through the glass doors into the dining room. Louise is still there, standing by the bar. She’s laughing at something Robert said, her hand resting on the back of the chair Huxley was just sitting in.
Then, she looks toward the terrace. She catches my eye and gives a slow, deliberate wink.
Huxley turns then, following my gaze. He looks through the glass at Louise.
I watch his face. His jaw isn't clenched. His brow isn't furrowed. He’s just... looking at her. And for a second, a single, terrifying second, his expression shifts into something I haven't seen before.
It’s not disdain. It’s not business.
It’s an expression of pure, haunting longing.
And as the wind tears at my dress, I realize the "safe harbor" was never here at all.
I’m alone in a glass house, and the storm is just getting started.