Chapter Four
Masks and Models
Lincoln
“It’s just at the end of the hall…” I say, my voice rough as I take long strides, hand shoved in my pocket to fish for my office key. I toss a glance over my shoulder at Ebony—still a few paces back—looking just as unsure about being crammed into another small space together as I feel.
The key ring’s got two keys on it. And still, I almost drop the thing as I struggle to unlock the door, trying to keep my hands from shaking. Heaven forbid she stands anywhere near me for a few seconds longer.
Yeah, sure, we’re supposed to be working together. That’s fine. The attraction has always been there for me, simmering under the surface, but imagining if she’d walked into the bathroom two minutes sooner?
Jesus, that would’ve been one hell of an icebreaker.
“Here we go. Welcome.” Finally, I swing the door open, stepping back to give her plenty of space as she steps inside.
Then she freezes in the middle of the room.
“Uh…where would you like me?” she asks, her voice soft, like she’s already regretting this whole thing.
And that’s when it hits me—I wasn’t supposed to be showing her into the office. I was supposed to use the restroom, then rush back to clear the place before our appointment. Ten minutes, max.
But that was before the damn men’s room run-in.
“Sorry, yeah, let me just…” I mutter, scrambling to clear the chairs in front of my desk, shoving papers, samples, and motivational self-help books out of the way like I can pretend this isn’t the most awkward thing to happen since—well, since she walked in on me washing my hands downstairs.
When she remains standing, I follow her line of vision to her website portfolio gallery up on my computer screen.
“Okay, so we’re just going to pretend that’s not there. It’s for my research.” I chuckle, hoping she appreciates the levity. Especially since it’s at my expense. But nope. Nothing but the steely facade. “Please, have a seat.”
She hesitates, eyeing the chair like she’s trying to pick which one is least likely to ruin her precious cashmere. Finally, she sits on the edge of the left one, as if she might need to make a run for it.
I take a few seconds to unload the junk in my arms onto the file cabinet in the back corner, but as I go to settle behind my desk, something else occurs to me.
Why the hell am I so jittery?
Yeah, it’s been a while since Ebony and I last spoke, and we didn’t exactly part on the best terms, but we’ve known each other forever. We met when she was sixteen; I was eighteen. I was her high school history tutor. Her college tour guide. Even after that night , we maintained loose ties.
We were friends, first and foremost.
This whole awkward exchange? Feels like we’re doing too much.
I skip my chair entirely, plopping down beside Ebony with a grin that I hope comes off as casual. “So…how’ve you been?” I say, keeping my tone light, conversational.
Tight spaces make for creative solutions, right?
If we can just talk for a few minutes before we dive into the work, maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe we can get back to being Ebony and Linc?
But the way she looks just past me—her eyes wide, mouth hanging open like I’ve just asked her to bend over the desk and go at it right here—yeah, maybe I miscalculated.
“What?” I laugh, playing it off. “I’m just asking how life’s been treating you. Are you excited to get back to planning events? What’s new with you?”
She’s silent for a moment, like she’s still processing—or rethinking—this meeting, then clears her throat.
“All right, so, Madison Manor in September…” she starts, her voice clipped, all business as she dives into venue logistics for the wedding.
In a single fluid movement, she pulls a sleek silver iPad from her purse, her fingers gliding over the screen as she swipes through tabs with methodical efficiency.
I watch her, only half listening, noting her intense expression as she skips my conversation starter and opens a checklist. The heading jumps out at me: WINSTON LIVINGSTON .
“Wait, you don’t want to chat for a few minutes? Reconnect?” Remove the stifling formality?
“I want to discuss this wedding we’ve been hired to ensure goes off without a hitch in three months.” Her response is so matter-of-fact. So definitive.
She doesn’t even look at me when she says this.
And just like that, a light bulb goes off in my head, flickering to life with a sudden jolt of recognition.
This Ebony? The former Zion & Zara debutante, now the poised, polished anchorman’s ex-wife with her sensible, elegant wardrobe and ice-cold smile?
This Ebony, who doesn’t laugh anymore, doesn’t crack jokes?
Who’s all business, all the time? She’s not encouraging this interaction.
She doesn’t want to relax and build rapport with humor and shared experiences.
Honestly, I don’t know if that’s a relief or a damn shame.
This Ebony, I don’t know her anymore. And she doesn’t want to know me. Hell, she doesn’t know that Ebony anymore.
“You’re serious?” The words slip out of me, unbound, and she almost meets my stare. Almost .
“Uh, yes?” Her inflection rises in question, and I don’t miss the amusement dancing in her bright brown eyes.
“I mean, other than the gardens and the ballroom—with the restoration and everything, why wouldn’t we also focus on the private spaces?
” she asks, completely misunderstanding my confusion.
“An affair of this size, we must ensure there’s wedding party dressing areas, locations designated for photos, and a cocktail-hour spot. That’s bare minimum.”
I stare at her, completely dumbfounded.
It’s like a weird game of Two Truths and a Lie, only I can’t tell which version is the lie.
Downstairs in the restroom, I thought her demeanor was playful sarcasm, but she’s serious about this .
No small talk. No catching up. Apparently, no eye contact.
As far as she’s concerned, we’re not friends anymore—we’re just two professionals in an office, ticking off boxes on a to-do list.
Admittedly, the fact that she’s diving straight into wedding planning and logistics like we don’t share a past…it stings. But what’s even more frustrating is that it’s clear she’s got no intention of apologizing for calling me a liar when I tried to warn her about Julian.
It irks my nerves.
But yeah, okay, let’s keep this to the business, because we absolutely don’t know each other anymore.
“Sure, of course.” I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on the iPad in her hands, pretending the sudden tightness in my chest isn’t there.
I’m struggling to catch my breath. A thousand questions are racing through my mind.
Underneath the mask, how’s she really doing?
Is she okay with planning a wedding for Hillary’s sister and her ex-brother-in-law?
Does Cornelia have something on her, and that’s why we’re partnered?
Does Ebony blame me for telling her about Julian?
Instead, I ask the one question burning a hole through me.
“Who are you?” The question slips out, jagged with disbelief, breaking the seal on the moment. An exhausted laugh claws past my lips. “Seriously, like…is the real Ebony in there somewhere? Should I flash my camera Get Out -style to jolt you from the Sunken Place?”
She straightens, her face unreadable, but I don’t even care. I’m stunned.
“You seriously show up here after three years and act like this is just another vendor meeting? After all the bull that family put you through?” My eyebrows knit together as I glare at her.
“No ‘Hey, how’ve you been?’ No ‘Good to see you, Linc,’ and definitely no ‘Oops, my bad for ignoring your warning about my good-for-nothing, lying, cheating ass—’”
“That’s enough, Mr. Bridges!” Ebony’s glare hits me like a sledgehammer.
Mr. Bridges?
She’s shaking, her entire body trembling with the anger that every debutante has been drilled to keep in check. For damn sure, every Livingston.
Self-consciously, she smooths a hand over her hair, like she’s genuinely curious to know what’s changed, and all the humor fades.
It’s the first raw glimpse I’ve seen of Ebony King.
Forget the Two Truths and a Lie. Looking at her is more like analyzing one of those Find the Difference games in magazines with seemingly identical images presented side by side.
At a closer glance, there are tiny, trivial changes.
She’s still Ebony, only they’ve altered the hairstyle and clothing, removed the wedding ring, and muted the vibrant color that was once there.
I only notice because I remember everything about her.
“We’re not doing this,” she says, her tone curt, steady.
“No, it’s an honest question.” I throw up my hands in surrender.
“I get that we’re here in a professional capacity, but you’ve got your hair back, pinned up in a sensible style.
In this humid weather, you’re bundled up in cream and cashmere, nothing too flashy, revealing, or colorful, of course.
But then there’s the fact that this is the first time you’ve looked me in the eye on purpose. That’s not the Ebony I knew.”
She blinks repeatedly. “Did it occur to you that I’m human?” she asks. “Maybe I was embarrassed that I walked into the men’s restroom where I could’ve happened upon any number of…family jewels on display?”
I bark out a laugh straight from the gut. I’m breathless. “Family jewels? That’s what you’re going with?”
A red blush colors her cheeks, and I’m dying because this whole situation is laughable at best.
“You’re being ridiculous.” Ebony purses her lips. “And this outfit is appropriate for a semi-casual business meeting. Not that you would know.”
“Ah, touched a nerve, huh?” I chew the inside of my cheek, smiling. “I mean, it’s plain as day that I don’t know you anymore, and that’s fine. But do you?”
This earns me a small, shaky laugh.
Immediately, I know that’s it. She’s lost herself. In fact, I’d wager that she hasn’t known the fun-loving, smart firefly of a woman who used to sing on a whim and dream about waterfalls and beaches for, oh, say, about ten years.
I reach across the other side of my desk, grabbing the giant conch shell she brought back for me from one of her vacations in college, holding it with both hands just to see if there’s even a blip on her radar.
Ebony swallows hard, visibly pulling herself back together. She’s rigid and determined to not react, and I admit, I sort of love the cracks in her steely demeanor.
“Just asking questions.” I nod, chuckling to myself.
“I’m not going to stroke your ego, Mr. Bridges. I’m here to do a job. Nothing more,” she snaps. “Is that going to be a problem for you?”
“Nah, I’m good.” Except the ease of my tone seems to grate on her, and I sense the other shoe about to drop when she turns to me, gaze unwavering.
“Since you’re so eager to stroll down Memory Lane, last I recall, Lincoln Bridges was a man fueled by integrity and reclaiming his family’s Ellswood roots, right?
” Her full, warm pink lips curve up with satisfaction.
“I thought you were fighting to ensure the Livingstons don’t rewrite history.
Should we talk about why you’re working for Cornelia, then? ”
We stare at each other, at an impasse.
The air crackles with tension.
“No, it’s fine,” I say, straightening to focus on her checklist. “It’s just business. Like you said, we’re here to do a job , so let’s.”
And that’s what we do for the next forty-five minutes. She outlines the restoration and wedding event timelines leading up to the September twentieth ceremony and reception. Together, we map out a rough schedule for her to bring around the couple and vendors to the space.
“I’ve created a visual render of the building,” she says, tapping yet another app.
But this time, it isn’t a checklist or questionnaire.
It’s a bold red icon with Mod3D written in white block letters.
After a few seconds, a 3D model of Madison Manor appears on the screen, complete with floor plans and layouts.
“This is based off a blueprint I found online,” she continues, her eyes flicking between the model and her notes, “but I’ll need the updated specifications to include any planned structural changes, if there are any. I sent you a collaborator invite earlier, so accept that when you get a chance.”
As if she didn’t already impress the hell out of me, she keeps going, offhandedly mentioning color schemes, expected guest count, and preferred rehearsal dates. We’ll mostly correspond by email, she says, in person only when absolutely necessary.
I listen quietly as she asks to be CC’d on any restoration progress updates, but I’m not really hearing her anymore.
I’m looking at her, at all the small, seemingly insignificant changes—her subtle shifts in posture, the way her fingers tap the screen, the way she avoids my gaze, as if she’s hiding something.
And I can’t help but wonder about all this talking, the string of decisions masking her tiny, almost imperceptible sighs, they’re just…
what? Pieces of the mask? Me spotting the differences?
I don’t know what I was expecting, though.
We haven’t been close for years. We were never going to be best friends. There was never a clear path for what we became.
The room feels smaller, the air heavier. Everything’s awkward, charged, uncertain, and none of it should matter, but it does in ways I can’t explain.
She’s just someone I used to know.
And maybe that’s all she’ll ever be. As much as I’m curious about the person she’s become, if today is any indication, I don’t want to find out.