9. Chapter 8
Liv Strauss
Piper's spoon scraped the bottom of her cereal bowl like nails on a chalkboard. She did it three more times before I cracked.
"You're doing that on purpose."
"Doing what?" She blinked at me with the wide-eyed innocence she'd perfected at age six and weaponized ever since. The morning light through our one decent window caught the purple shadows under her eyes. She'd been up late studying again, textbooks spread across the pull-out like a paper fortress.
"The scraping. You want me to talk."
"I want you to explain why you're wearing that.
" She pointed her spoon at the garment bag hanging from the bathroom door.
Through the plastic, black fabric caught the light in ways that made my stomach flip.
"Because that's not your shift dress. That's not even your funeral dress. That's an undeniably expensive dress."
"It's borrowed."
"From who? The Queen of England?"
I poured myself coffee that had gone lukewarm while I'd been staring at the garment bag like it might bite me. "From Petra. Zoltan's assistant. There's a work thing tonight."
Piper set down her bowl with exaggerated care. "A work thing."
"A gala. The National Cybersecurity Summit at the Meridian Hotel."
"And you're going because you're his daughter's nanny."
"I'm going because—" I stopped. The explanation Zoltan had given me still sat wrong in my chest, too clinical, too transactional, even though I'd agreed to it.
"There's a government contract review. Some committee has concerns about his household stability.
Single parent, archaic clause, political nonsense. He needs to be seen with someone."
"Someone." Piper's voice went flat. "You."
"He's paying me."
"How much?"
I told her. Her spoon clattered against the bowl.
"Liv."
"I know."
"That's my entire spring semester."
"I know."
She stared at me with the look she reserved for decisions I'd already made but was still pretending to consider.
The look that said she could see right through my professional justifications to the tangled mess underneath.
The look that reminded me she was twenty years old and sometimes smarter than I'd ever be.
"You like him."
"I work for him."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
"They are when you've signed a conduct agreement saying exactly that." I drained my coffee and grimaced at the bitterness. "It's a job, Piper. A well-paying job that will cover your textbooks and maybe let me fix my phone screen. That's it."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she stood, crossed to the garment bag, and unzipped it.
The dress inside was simpler than I'd expected.
Black, floor-length, with a neckline that dipped just low enough to be interesting without being obvious.
No sequins, no beading, nothing that screamed trying too hard.
It looked like something a woman would wear if she belonged at a gala, not like a costume for someone pretending.
Petra had sent it with a note: He said you'd refuse anything that looked like a favor. This is borrowed from the company's PR wardrobe. Return it Monday.
"It's beautiful," Piper said softly.
"It's borrowed."
"Still beautiful." She looked at me over her shoulder. "You should do your hair up. Show off your neck."
"This isn't a date."
"No." She zipped the bag closed. "But that doesn't mean you can't enjoy it."
I didn't have an answer for that. I finished my coffee instead.
The car pulled up at exactly six-thirty, black and gleaming and so obviously expensive that Mrs. Kowalski from 4B actually stopped on the sidewalk to stare.
The driver who stepped out was built like a linebacker stuffed into a chauffeur's uniform, with the kind of watchful eyes that scanned the street before opening my door.
"Ms. Strauss." His voice was deep and careful. "I'm Dex. Mr. Boros is in the back."
I clutched my borrowed clutch, which contained exactly three things: my cracked phone, my apartment key, and a lipstick Piper had shoved into my hand with the instruction to reapply after dinner.
The dress swished against my legs as I slid into the back seat, the fabric softer than anything I'd ever owned.
Zoltan was looking at his phone.
Of course he was.
He wore a tuxedo that fit like it had been sewn directly onto his body, the white shirt crisp against his throat, his dark hair pushed back from his face. The car smelled like leather and him: cedar and coffee, the combination I'd started to associate with standing too close in his kitchen.
He looked up when I settled into my seat. His gaze traveled from my face to my shoulders to the neckline of the dress. One second. Maybe two.
Then he looked back at his phone.
"The event runs until eleven," he said, scrolling through something on the screen. "Dinner is at seven-thirty. We'll need to circulate before and after. The committee chair is named Hargrove. He'll want to meet you."
"Nice to see you too."
His thumb paused on the screen. "You look appropriate."
"Appropriate." I let the word sit between us. "That's what every woman wants to hear when she's wearing borrowed couture."
"Would you prefer beautiful?"
The question was delivered in the same flat tone he used for everything, but something flickered at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like the memory of one.
"I'd prefer honest."
He set down his phone. Actually set it down, screen-side down on the leather seat between us, which was the equivalent of a normal person throwing it out the window. His coffee-colored eyes met mine, and I felt that familiar pull in my chest, the one I kept trying to ignore.
"The dress was Petra's choice," he said. "But you make it look like it was made for you. That's not a compliment. It's an observation."
"There's a difference?"
"Compliments are about intent. Observations are about fact."
I turned to look out the window because looking at him was starting to feel dangerous. The city slid past in a blur of headlights and evening crowds, everyone rushing somewhere that mattered to them.
"So what's my role tonight? Arm candy? Supportive partner? Woman who smiles and doesn't talk?"
"Yourself."
I turned back. "Excuse me?"
"Be yourself." He said it like it was obvious. "The committee wants to see stability. Stability doesn't mean performance. It means someone real."
"You're paying me fifteen thousand dollars to be real."
"I'm paying you fifteen thousand dollars to be present.
There's a difference." He picked up his phone again, but he didn't look at the screen.
"The committee has concerns because they've only seen me in professional contexts.
Controlled environments. They want to know there's a person behind the security clearances and the NDAs. "
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "You're the only person who's seen me eat dinner with my daughter and argue about leaf toxicity in a public park. That's the version they need to see."
Something softened in my chest despite my best efforts to keep it hard. "You think I can show them that?"
"I think you're the only one who could."
The Meridian Hotel rose from the Manhattan skyline like a monument to money: all glass and light and the kind of architectural confidence that came from knowing exactly how much everything cost. Dex pulled the car into a line of identical black cars, and I watched through the window as couples emerged in waves of silk and diamonds.
"Press at the entrance," Zoltan said, tucking his phone into his jacket pocket. "They'll take photos. Don't pose. Don't stop. Just walk."
"Any other instructions?"
"Yes." He turned to face me fully, and in the dim light of the car, his expression was harder to read than usual. "If anyone makes you uncomfortable, tell me. Immediately."
"I can handle myself."
"I know you can. I'm asking you not to have to."
Before I could respond, Dex opened my door, and the night rushed in with a wall of camera flashes and shouted questions.
Zoltan appeared beside me, his hand finding the small of my back with unsettling precision.
His palm was warm through the thin fabric of my dress, steady and certain, and I felt the conduct agreement and the age gap and every reason this was a terrible idea pressing against my ribs like a splinter I'd forgotten about until now.
"Ready?" he asked, low enough that only I could hear.
"No."
"Good. Neither am I."
We walked into the light together.
The ballroom was overwhelming in the way only truly expensive spaces could be: soaring ceilings, crystal chandeliers, flowers arranged with mathematical precision on every surface.
The crowd was a sea of tuxedos and gowns, of power posing as politeness.
Conversations hummed at a frequency designed to sound casual while communicating everything.
Zoltan guided me through it with the hand still pressed to my back, introducing me to people whose names I forgot immediately and whose faces blurred into a parade of professional smiles.
Senator Something. Director Whoever. A woman in red who ran cybersecurity for a bank and looked at me like I was a puzzle she was calculating.
I smiled. I shook hands. I answered questions about what I did with the truth, which seemed to throw people.
"A bartender?" The woman in red's eyebrows rose. "How fascinating."
"Someone has to keep the finance district hydrated."
Zoltan's hand flexed against my back. I couldn't tell if he was amused or alarmed.
"And how did you two meet?" she pressed.
"He kept sitting in the wrong seat."
"The seat wasn't wrong." Zoltan's voice was mild. "The rules were arbitrary."
"The rules existed for a reason."
"The reason was tradition. Tradition isn't the same as logic."
"This from the man who organized his daughter's after-school activities by cognitive development stage."
He looked at me. I looked at him. The woman in red watched us like we were a nature documentary.
"I should check on the Hargrove situation," she said, backing away with visible relief. "Lovely meeting you both."
When she was gone, Zoltan leaned close enough that I could smell cedar. "Was that intentional?"
"What, scaring off the banking executive?"
"The banter. The authenticity." His breath was warm against my ear. "That was exactly what the committee needs to see."
"Glad my personality is useful."
"It's more than useful." He straightened, his hand still on my back, his eyes scanning the room with that constant alertness that never quite turned off. "It's the first thing I noticed about you."
I didn't have time to process that because a man was approaching from the direction of the bar, grey-haired and sharp-eyed, with the kind of walk that expected people to move. Marcus Webb was a half-step behind him, and even across the room, I could feel his gaze land on me like a weight.
"Boros." The grey-haired man extended his hand. "Good to see you."
"Hargrove." Zoltan shook it briefly. "This is Liv Strauss."
Hargrove's attention shifted to me with an assessment that felt clinical. "Ms. Strauss. I've heard about you."
"Good things, I hope."
"Interesting things." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You've made quite an impression on the Boros household in a short time."
"Children tend to bond quickly when you actually pay attention to them."
Something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe, or the beginning of something less pleasant. "And how do you find working for Mr. Boros?"
"I work with his daughter, not for him."
"A distinction."
"An important one."
Marcus shifted beside Hargrove, his posture radiating a satisfaction I didn't like. He was watching this exchange like a man watching a trap close, and I couldn't tell if the trap was meant for me or Zoltan or both of us.
"The arrangement is temporary, I understand," Hargrove continued. "Until a permanent nanny is found."
"Missy has particular preferences." Zoltan's voice was flat, controlled. "She responds best to people who don't treat her like a scheduling problem."
Hargrove's eyebrows rose at the phrase, and I felt my stomach clench. That was my line. From the bar, from the first night. Zoltan had remembered it, had used it here, in front of the committee chair, like it meant something.
"Family stability is important to our committee," Hargrove said slowly. "We need to know that our contractors have the appropriate support systems."
"Appropriate." I heard myself say the word before I could stop it. "What exactly does appropriate mean to your committee? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like code for married."
Silence. Marcus's satisfaction deepened. Hargrove's expression went carefully blank.
"Liv." Zoltan's hand pressed firmer against my back. A warning.
"It's a fair question." I couldn't stop now. The wine I'd had during the cocktail hour was making me brave, and the way Marcus was watching made me reckless.
"You're evaluating a single father's household stability based on archaic clauses written when women couldn't open their own bank accounts. Maybe the criteria need updating."
Hargrove studied me for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, his lips twitched.
"She's got fire, Boros." He shook his head. "I can see why you brought her."
"I didn't bring her for her fire."
"No?" Hargrove glanced between us. "Then why?"
Zoltan's hand slid up my back to rest between my shoulder blades. The intimacy of the gesture hit me like a punch.
"Because she's the first person in years who made my daughter laugh."
The words hung there, simple and devastating. Hargrove's expression shifted from assessment to something almost like approval. Even Marcus looked thrown, his careful calculation stumbling over a variable he hadn't accounted for.
"Enjoy your evening," Hargrove said finally, stepping back. "We'll talk more at the review."
They walked away, Marcus casting one last glance over his shoulder that promised this wasn't over. I stood frozen, Zoltan's hand still warm against my spine, the ballroom noise rushing back in like a tide.