24. Henry
HENRY
Mom is in my office when I arrive on Monday morning.
She sits in one of the guest chairs, legs crossed, phone in hand, looking like she owns the building.
Technically, she does. Her cream silk blouse is perfectly pressed, her diamond studs catch the light, and not a single hair is out of place. She looks up at me as if I’m late.
I pause in the doorway and scan her face.
She is calm, too calm, which means something has happened.
I run through the possibilities: a board leak, a financial hit, maybe Carter has been dragged into a scandal.
I shrug off my jacket and toss it over the back of my chair.
“Bad news?” I ask, lowering into my seat.
She lifts her phone and starts to read, her voice clipped and precise.
“While Carter clings to its legacy, Vue is rewriting the rulebook. Under Natalie Wright’s direction, the brand has become fashion’s boldest voice.
Disruptive and impossible to ignore.” She lowers the phone and looks at me. “They’re saying she’s better than us.”
I hold her stare. “Maybe she is.”
Wrong answer. Her fingers smooth an imaginary crease in her trousers. Her tone is even, but I know what is underneath. “Since you’re so hesitant to do what needs to be done,” she says, “I did.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It won’t trace back to us. Just a whisper in the right ear.
That she’s had assistance on her way up.
Pretty girl like that, someone was always going to give her a leg up.
” She glances at me, all cool detachment.
“People believe what they want. All it takes is the right suggestion.” She looks pleased with herself. Proud, even.
My jaw tightens. Heat climbs the back of my neck. “You didn’t.”
“With articles like this, what choice did I have? She needed to be knocked down a peg.”
“Undo it,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“Undo it. Now. Call whoever you told and tell them it’s not true.”
She stares at me like I’ve started speaking in tongues. A flicker passes over her expression before the room goes still, nothing but the low hum of the air conditioner between us. Then she studies me.
“I did wonder,” she says finally, her voice softer but no less sharp.
“The way she looked when Isla came up at the gala. That wasn’t professional irritation.
That was personal. That was pain.” She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing.
“But then I thought, no. You wouldn’t be that reckless. Not that weak. Not my son.”
I don’t flinch. I just meet her stare. That is all the answer she needs.
“You’re a fool, Henry,” she says, rising from the chair in one smooth motion. “It’s serious, then?” I glance down at the desk, at the grain I’ve been tracing with my thumb without realizing, then back up. This isn’t how I planned to tell her. “Yes,” I say.
She doesn’t react or blink. The air shifts. Then her mouth curves into something colder than a smile. Amused, in that calculated way she reserves for profound disappointment. She straightens and smooths her sleeve like she’s finished tidying up a mess.
“I’ll make the call,” she says, her displeasure crisp. The door clicks shut behind her, and the silence that follows is louder than anything she said.
I lean back in my chair and stare at nothing, my pulse pounding in my neck. I told her. I can’t take it back. I didn’t mean to; I promised Natalie we’d keep this quiet. But what was I supposed to do? Let Mom drag her name through the dirt?
Besides, I’ve met her parents…but they’re removed from our world and had no idea who I am.
There’s no risk there. Mom knowing is different.
Natalie won’t like it and she won’t believe that Mom will stay quiet.
And the truth is, Dean and Will know too.
I didn’t ask them to keep quiet because I didn’t have to.
They won’t say anything. She doesn’t need to know that.
It’s not really lying. It just keeps her from worrying.
And she made it sound like it would only be a couple of weeks until she told Cosmo, but it’s been longer than that.
I pull out my phone and scroll without thinking, stopping at Natalie’s name. My thumb hovers over the screen, the instinct to call immediate. To tell her the truth. But she’ll think I’m pushing, accelerating things I agreed to keep slow.
The screen goes dark in my hand. I exhale and let the weight of it settle on my chest. I’ll tell her tonight. Face to face. That’s the right thing to do.
The box is still tucked behind the sofa cushion, out of sight.
I pulled it out earlier, sat with it in my lap for ten minutes like an idiot and then shoved it back.
It’s a necklace. I bought it on my way home, telling myself it would make things easier when I tell Natalie the truth.
A gesture. Now I see it for what it is. A bribe.
A buffer to soften a blow I am too cowardly to deliver.
The elevator pings. Natalie’s on her way up.
I pace the length of the room twice before stopping in front of the window. The dark skyline is scattered with cold, distant lights. I tell myself again that I am going to tell her. She deserves to know. I can’t keep this from her.
The doors slide open and she steps inside, her face breaking into a smile when she sees me. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes glassy. She’s been drinking.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says, dropping her bag by the door. “Rebecca wanted to do shots. I thought I could keep up.” She mentioned work drinks earlier, said she couldn’t keep skipping them or people would start asking questions.
“How many did you have?”
She lifts two fingers with exaggerated precision. “Just two. Maybe a couple glasses of wine before that. I’m fine.”
I grin. She is not fine. Her blouse is untucked on one side, and a slight wobble accompanies each step as she crosses the room, toeing off her heels one by one.
She flops onto the couch and exhales like she is ready to melt into the cushions.
Then her eyes snap open as if a circuit has just connected. “This place is spotless.”
“It’s always clean,” I say.
She glances around, her suspicion now fully engaged. “Not this clean.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. Nothing gets past her.
“I was bored waiting for you,” I shrug, as if that explains the compulsive tidying.
She narrows her eyes, reading a second meaning. “You clean when you’re nervous. It’s your thing.”
I open my mouth to tell her the truth, but she speaks first. “I know things are getting heavy,” she says, with the kind of blunt confidence that only comes after a few drinks.
“I’m scared too. The other night, when I cried.
I looked it up.” She exhales slowly. “Apparently it can be a hormone thing. Or sometimes it happens because you feel safe. Like your body finally thinks it’s allowed to stop fighting.
” She pauses. “I guess I didn’t know that’s what it felt like.
Being safe with someone. It sort of broke something open.
I trust you, Henry. I really do, and I haven’t trusted anyone in a really long time. ”
Her words hit me with a quiet force. Natalie doesn’t do emotion.
When she says she trusts me, I know exactly what it costs her.
I reach for her and pull her into me. She lets herself come, her head resting against my shoulder.
My hand slides into her hair and stays there, holding her close. “I’ve got you,” I say quietly.
And I do. I have her and the weight of that responsibility settles low in my gut, right alongside the truth I am still holding.
How am I supposed to tell her now? I’ve spent months getting through to her, pushing past every defense and wall.
Now they are finally down. She is open and soft, and the truth would build those walls right back up.
So I don’t tell her. I kiss her instead and tell myself I will explain everything later, when the moment is right.
I reach behind the cushion and pull out the box. She watches with mild curiosity as I bring it around, the ribbon already coming loose in my fingers. “What’s this?” she asks.
“I saw it the other day,” I say, keeping my eyes on the box.
She lifts the lid and goes quiet. Inside lies a delicate gold necklace with a single pendant: a thin, curved bar.
“You don’t have to wear it,” I say, too quickly. “I just saw it and thought of you. That’s all.”
She runs her thumb over the bar, her face softening as she looks back at me. “Can you put it on?”
I nod and take the necklace from her. She turns, sweeping her hair over one shoulder. I fasten the clasp behind her neck, my fingers brushing her warm skin. I let them linger for a second longer than necessary. When she turns back, she’s smiling.
“I had my initials engraved,” I say.
“What?” Her smile tilts. “Henry—”
“So I can be close to you,” I say.
She glances down, spots the tiny letters.
“H.J.C,” she says. She tilts her head thoughtfully. “You know, James is a nice name.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
She shakes her head in mock exasperation, a soft smile playing at her mouth as she leans back into the couch. For a moment, everything is still.
“Have you eaten anything besides wine and two ill-advised shots?”
“No. Rebecca ordered fries for the table and then ate all of them herself.”
I stand and head for the kitchen. “I’ll make something.”
She eyes me with deep suspicion. “Like what? Toast?”
“Wow. Zero faith.”
“Your last attempt at pasta turned into soup.”
“That was one time.”
“And the grilled cheese incident?”
“I stand by that one. It was deconstructed.”
She laughs, and I think to myself that I would burn a thousand sandwiches just to hear that sound again.