CHAPTER 8
MALCOLM
The photograph is on the front page of the Chicago Tribune’s society section.
It is a high-resolution, perfectly framed shot taken just as we reached the top of the marble stairs at the Field Museum.
Audrey is looking slightly over her shoulder, the emerald silk of her dress clinging to her hips.
I am standing directly behind her, my hand resting flat against the bare skin of her lower back.
The angle of the camera catches the vintage diamond on her left hand in blinding detail.
The headline above the photo reads: Vance Security CEO Steps Out with Mystery Fiancée.
I swipe my thumb across the tablet screen, closing the article.
I don't need to read the text. I already know what it says. Grant forwarded me the media analytics at six this morning. The photo has been syndicated to three national gossip blogs, and the Vance holding company’s PR department has received forty-two requests for comment in the last three hours.
I set the tablet down on the kitchen island and pick up my coffee mug. The black coffee is lukewarm, but I drink it anyway.
The trap worked. The narrative is set.
But as I stare at the dark screen of the tablet, the cold satisfaction I usually feel after executing a successful operation is completely absent.
I am thinking about the car ride home.
I shouldn't have said it. I operate on the principle of withholding information to maintain an advantage. Confessing to Audrey that I brought her into this arrangement because I wanted her—because I was too selfish to let her walk away—was a tactical error. It gave her leverage.
But when she looked at me in the dim light of the SUV, her voice cracking as she asked why I did it, the lie simply refused to form in my mouth.
I hear the soft, muffled sound of a door opening down the hallway.
I set the mug down, the ceramic clinking softly against the marble counter.
A few seconds later, Audrey walks into the kitchen.
She is wearing the same faded Georgetown t-shirt she wore two nights ago, paired with gray sweatpants that are entirely too long for her. She has a messy knot of hair on top of her head, and the remnants of yesterday’s expensive makeup are smudged slightly under her eyes.
She stops at the edge of the kitchen island, looking at me.
There is a moment of heavy, loaded hesitation. She is remembering the car. She is remembering the confession. I can see the exact second her brain tries to figure out how to navigate the morning after a billionaire psychopath tells her she is his prize.
She chooses sarcasm. It is her default armor.
"Please tell me you know how to make coffee," she says, her voice thick with sleep. "Because if I have to operate heavy machinery right now, I might burn your penthouse down."
"I know how to make coffee," I reply, my voice even.
I turn around, grab a clean mug from the cabinet, and pour her a cup from the French press. I slide it across the counter.
She walks over and wraps both hands around the ceramic, letting the heat seep into her skin. She takes a sip, her eyes closing briefly in pure relief.
"Okay," she murmurs, exhaling a long breath. "You can stay."
"I own the building, Audrey."
"Details." She opens her eyes and looks at the tablet resting face down next to me. "Is it bad? The news?"
"It is exactly what we planned." I tap the screen, waking the tablet, and turn it toward her. "The photograph is everywhere. Simon’s PR team is currently in full panic mode trying to figure out how to spin the fact that his older brother is engaged to the woman he discarded."
Audrey stares at the picture. Her thumb rubs rhythmically against the side of her coffee mug. She doesn't look triumphant. She looks like someone staring at a car crash.
"I look terrified," she whispers.
"You look untouchable," I correct her.
She shakes her head slightly, her gaze dropping to the vintage ring on her finger. "Simon called me four times between midnight and six this morning. He left two voicemails."
My jaw locks. The urge to pick up my phone and order Grant to pay Simon a physical visit is sudden and violent. I force my hands to stay flat on the counter.
"Did you listen to them?" I ask.
"No." She takes another sip of coffee, avoiding my eyes. "I deleted them. I blocked his number yesterday, but he used a burner app to bypass it. He’s persistent when he thinks someone is taking his toys away."
"He will stop," I say. "By the end of the day, my father will order him to cease all contact with you. Preston will not risk a public scandal before the engagement party."
"Your father called me a stray." Audrey finally looks up at me.
The vulnerability in her eyes is stripped bare, unhidden by the usual layer of irony.
"He looked at me like I was something he scraped off the bottom of his shoe.
And Simon... Simon didn't even try to defend me when we were together.
He just let them treat me like a placeholder. "
She sets the mug down. Her hands are shaking slightly.
"I spent four years trying to prove I was good enough for that family," she says, her voice dropping to a bitter whisper. "I wore the right clothes. I went to the right dinners. I smiled at men who looked at me like I was a spreadsheet. And in the end, it didn't matter. They just erased me."
I look at her. At the messy hair, the oversized shirt, the sheer, exhausted humanity of her standing in my sterile kitchen.
"They didn't erase you," I say quietly.
"They took my company, Malcolm."
"A company is a legal entity. It is a tax ID and a lease agreement.
" I step around the island, cutting the distance between us.
I don't touch her, but I stand close enough that she has to look up at me.
"They took your assets. They did not take you.
The woman standing in this kitchen is the same woman who built that firm from nothing.
You are the architect. They just stole the blueprints. "
Audrey’s breath hitches. She stares at me, her eyes searching my face for the lie.
"You don't have to prove you are good enough for the Vance family, Audrey," I continue, my voice dropping to a rough murmur. "The Vance family is a disease. You survived them. That makes you stronger than Simon will ever be."
A heavy silence settles over the kitchen. The hum of the refrigerator is the only sound in the room.
Audrey looks down at the space between us. She doesn't step back. She stays exactly where she is, anchored in my shadow.
"You're very good at giving pep talks that sound like threats," she whispers.
"It’s a specialized skill."
A tiny, reluctant smile touches the corner of her mouth. It is the first genuine smile I have seen from her since she walked into the bar two nights ago. It completely alters her face, softening the sharp edges and making the physical ache in my chest return with a vengeance.
"So," she says, clearing her throat and stepping back to pick up her coffee. "What’s the agenda for today? Do we have to go to another gala and ruin someone else’s life, or do I get to stay in sweatpants?"
"You get to stay in sweatpants," I reply, stepping back to give her space. "I have meetings at the firm until three. After that, I have a conference call with the board of directors to address the sudden spike in media attention regarding my personal life."
"Are they going to fire you for being engaged to a liability?"
"They can't fire me. I own fifty-one percent of the voting shares in the security division." I pick up my empty mug and carry it to the sink. "They will complain. I will ignore them. It is our standard operating procedure."
Audrey leans against the counter, watching me. "And what am I supposed to do all day? I don't have a job anymore. I don't have a car. I am essentially a very well-paid hostage."
"You are a consultant," I correct her. "And as a consultant, you need an office."
I dry my hands on a towel and point toward the hallway leading to the guest wing.
"The room next to yours was a secondary guest suite. I had Grant’s team clear out the furniture this morning.
There is a drafting table, a dual-monitor computer setup, and a secure internet connection.
If you want to start rebuilding your firm, or taking on freelance clients, you have the resources to do it. "
Audrey freezes.
The coffee mug in her hand tilts slightly. She stares at me, completely caught off guard.
"You set up an office for me?" she asks, her voice barely audible.
"I told you yesterday that I do not own your professional time." I walk back to the island and pick up my tablet. "If you are going to destroy Simon, you need to be financially independent when this contract ends. You can't do that sitting on a couch watching television."
She doesn't say anything. She just looks down the hallway, then back at me.
For a woman who uses words as a weapon, the absolute silence from her is deafening. She is trying to process the fact that I didn't just give her a place to hide; I gave her a place to work.
"Thank you," she finally whispers.
"Don't thank me, Audrey. It’s a tactical advantage. A working woman is less likely to murder her fake fiancé out of sheer boredom."
She lets out a short laugh, shaking her head. "You really can't just accept a compliment, can you?"
"I accept measurable results." I check the time on the tablet. It is seven-thirty. "I need to leave for the office. Grant will remain in the building. If you need anything, call him. Do not leave the penthouse without security."
"I know the rules, Malcolm."
I stop at the edge of the kitchen. I look back at her.
She is standing in the morning light, wearing my grandmother’s ring, drinking coffee I made for her, in an apartment she refused to leave.
I am a very selfish man.
I turn and walk toward the private elevator before the urge to cross the room and touch her overrides my logic entirely.
The ride down to the lobby is quiet. I spend the twenty minutes in the back of the SUV reviewing the security protocols for the upcoming week. Preston is quiet this morning, which means he is planning something. My father does not absorb a public humiliation without a counterattack.
When I arrive at the Vance Security headquarters in the Loop, the atmosphere in the building is tense.
The receptionist sits up straighter when I walk through the glass doors. The junior analysts in the bullpen avoid eye contact. The rumor mill is already operating at maximum capacity.
I bypass my private office and walk directly to the secure conference room at the end of the hall.
Grant is waiting for me inside. The heavy soundproof door clicks shut behind me.
"Sir," Grant says, handing me a sealed blue folder. "The sweep you requested on Simon’s recent communications is complete."
I take the folder. I don't sit down. I open it and scan the top sheet of paper.
"He bypassed the block on her phone using a third-party application," Grant explains, his voice low. "He left two voicemails. We intercepted the audio files."
"I know. She told me." I flip to the second page. "What else?"
Grant hesitates. He crosses his arms, his massive frame tense. "Simon didn't just call Audrey last night. After he left the museum, he made a phone call to a private investigator. A man named Russo. He operates out of the South Side. He specializes in corporate espionage and blackmail."
I stop reading. I slowly close the folder, the heavy cardstock snapping shut with a sharp sound.
"Simon hired Russo?" I ask quietly.
"Yes. He wants Russo to dig into Audrey’s background. He is looking for leverage. He wants to find something he can use to prove the engagement is a fraud, or something he can use to force her to drop the legal claim against his holding company."
A cold, absolute calm settles over me. It is the same calm I felt when I bought the condemned building back from the city three years ago. It is the calm before the execution.
Simon is a coward, but he is a desperate coward. He realizes he is losing control of the narrative, and he is trying to find a weapon to use against the woman living in my house.
"Grant," I say, tossing the blue folder onto the conference table.
"Sir?"
"Find Russo." I walk toward the door, my voice dropping to a dead, hollow register. "I want to know where he sleeps, where he eats, and who pays his bills. And then, I want you to arrange a meeting."
"A meeting with Russo?" Grant asks, his brow furrowing slightly. "To buy him off?"
"No." I place my hand on the heavy steel handle of the door. "To explain to him what happens to people who look into my fiancée’s past."
I open the door and step out into the hallway.
The game of chess is over. Simon just flipped the board.
And now, I am going to break his hands.