CHAPTER 13
AUDREY
I am staring at a closet full of clothes I didn't buy.
When I woke up this morning, after Malcolm left for his office, I found three massive garment bags hanging on the rack in the guest suite.
They were delivered by a personal shopper from a boutique on Oak Street.
Inside were tailored trousers, silk blouses, cashmere coats, and five different evening dresses.
None of them had price tags. All of them were exactly my size.
It is a terrifying level of logistical competence. He didn't just buy me a wardrobe; he analyzed my aesthetic, identified my measurements, and procured an entirely new armor for me to wear into battle.
I pull a dark charcoal pantsuit off the rack. It’s structured, sharp, and completely unforgiving.
"If I wear a dress, they’ll think I’m trying too hard," I mutter to the empty room, tossing the suit onto the mattress.
I walk into the en-suite bathroom and turn on the shower. The steam quickly fogs up the mirror, blurring my reflection. I lean my hands against the cold marble of the vanity, taking a slow, deep breath.
Seven o'clock.
It is currently four-thirty. We leave for Lake Forest in an hour and a half.
I press the heel of my hand against my chest, right over my sternum, trying to physically push the anxiety down.
I am going back to the Vance family estate.
I am going to sit at a dining table with the man who stole my company, the woman he replaced me with, and the patriarch who views me as a disposable piece of trash.
And I am going to do it wearing Malcolm Vance’s ring.
I step into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the lingering traces of sleep and the phantom memory of Malcolm’s mouth against mine.
It doesn't work.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel the heavy, possessive grip of his hand on the back of my neck.
I feel the exact moment the contract dissolved and the reality of what we are doing took over.
He isn't faking it. He paid off my mother’s debt, he tracked down a private investigator, and he slept with his arm around my waist like he was guarding a vault.
I turn the water off, wrap a towel around my hair, and step out into the cold air of the bathroom.
I dress quickly. The charcoal suit fits like a second skin.
It is severe, elegant, and completely devoid of the soft, accommodating aesthetic I used to wear when Simon took me to family dinners.
I pair it with black stilettos and a simple silver necklace.
I leave my hair down, letting it fall in loose waves over my shoulders.
I look at my left hand. The vintage diamond catches the harsh bathroom light.
I am not the woman Simon threw away. I am the woman who is going to burn his life down.
I walk out of the bedroom and head down the hallway toward the living room. The penthouse is quiet, but the heavy oak door to Malcolm’s home office is cracked open.
I stop outside the door.
I can hear the low, steady murmur of his voice. He is on a phone call.
"I don't care what the legal department advises," Malcolm is saying, his tone completely flat.
"If the board attempts to freeze the discretionary funds, I will invoke Clause Four of the shareholder agreement and trigger a hostile buyout of the logistics division.
Tell them to back down, or I will dismantle the division by Friday. "
There is a pause. I picture some terrified corporate lawyer on the other end of the line, sweating through his suit.
"Good," Malcolm says. "Have the documents on my desk tomorrow morning."
I hear the click of the phone receiver being placed on the base.
I push the door open slightly and step into the office.
Malcolm is sitting behind the massive mahogany desk. He is wearing a dark gray suit, a crisp white shirt, and a black tie. He looks exactly like the ruthless CEO the media portrays him to be, right up until he looks up and sees me standing in the doorway.
The cold, calculating edge in his eyes vanishes instantly.
He leans back in his leather chair, his gaze sweeping over the charcoal suit, the stilettos, and the loose hair. He doesn't say anything for a long moment. He just looks at me with that dark, possessive intensity that makes my pulse spike.
"You look like you are going to a funeral," he says quietly.
"I am," I reply, walking into the room and stopping in front of his desk. "Simon’s."
A slow, lethal smile touches the corner of his mouth. "The suit is effective."
"Thank you for the clothes." I cross my arms, sharply aware of how expensive the fabric feels against my skin. "Though I’m fairly certain you spent more on this wardrobe than my firm made in its first year."
"It is a business expense." He stands up, buttoning his suit jacket with one hand. "You cannot walk into Preston’s house wearing clothes Simon bought you. It gives him a psychological advantage."
"Simon didn't buy my clothes," I correct him, a defensive edge creeping into my voice. "I bought my own clothes. He just criticized them until I changed into something he preferred."
Malcolm stops moving.
He looks at me, his jaw tightening slightly. It’s a tiny reaction, but I can see the sudden, violent anger flash in his eyes before he buries it.
"He criticized what you wore," Malcolm repeats, his voice dropping an octave.
"He liked pastels." I look away, embarrassed by the admission. It sounds so pathetic out loud. "He said dark colors made me look too aggressive. He wanted me to look... softer. More approachable for his clients."
"He wanted you to look weak," Malcolm says flatly. He walks around the desk, stopping right in front of me. "He wanted you to look like someone who would hand over the keys to her own company without reading the paperwork."
I flinch. The truth hurts, even when it’s delivered with absolute surgical precision.
Malcolm reaches out. He doesn't touch my face or my hair. He hooks his index finger under the lapel of the charcoal suit, his knuckle brushing against my collarbone.
"You do not look soft today, Audrey," he murmurs.
"I don't feel soft." I look up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I feel like I’m going to throw up."
"You won't." He drops his hand, stepping back to give me space. "Preston’s estate is designed to intimidate. The driveway is a quarter-mile long. The dining room seats twenty-four people. The staff is trained to ignore you unless Preston addresses you directly. It is a theater of power."
"I’ve been there before, Malcolm. I know what it looks like."
"You went there as Simon’s fiancée," he corrects me. "You went there seeking approval. Tonight, you are going there as my fiancée. You are not seeking approval. You are seeking blood."
He turns and walks toward the office door. "The car is waiting downstairs. Let's go."
The drive to Lake Forest takes an hour.
The privacy partition in the SUV is up, sealing us in the quiet, climate-controlled back seat.
The tension in the car is thick, but it’s different from the tension we had on the way to the gala.
It isn't the electric, chaotic energy of two people pretending. It’s the heavy, focused silence of two people preparing for a fight.
I look out the window as the city skyline fades into the wealthy, sprawling suburbs of the North Shore. The houses get larger, the lawns wider, the security gates taller.
We pull onto a private, tree-lined road. The massive wrought-iron gates of the Vance estate loom in the distance.
I press my thumb against the side of my index finger.
Malcolm reaches across the leather seat and covers my hand with his.
I don't flinch this time. I turn my hand over, tangling my fingers with his. His palm is warm, the grip firm and anchoring. He doesn't say anything, but the physical contact is enough to stop the frantic spiraling in my brain.
The gates open automatically as the SUV approaches. We drive up the long, winding driveway, the tires crunching softly against the pristine gravel. The house is a massive, stone-faced mansion that looks more like a fortress than a home.
Grant opens my door before the car even comes to a complete stop.
The cold night air hits me instantly. I step out, the heels of my stilettos clicking against the stone driveway. Malcolm steps out on the other side, buttoning his jacket. He walks around the back of the SUV and offers me his arm.
I take it.
"Remember the rule," he murmurs as we walk up the wide stone steps leading to the massive front doors.
"Transparency," I say.
"No." He stops at the top of the stairs, looking down at me. "The other rule. Do not let them see you bleed."
I nod once.
The heavy oak doors open before Malcolm even reaches for the handle. A butler in a dark suit stands in the foyer, his expression completely blank.
"Mr. Vance," the butler says, stepping aside. "Your father is expecting you in the formal dining room."
We walk into the foyer. The ceiling is at least thirty feet high, dominated by a massive crystal chandelier that casts a cold, brilliant light over the marble floor. The house smells like lemon polish, old paper, and money.
We walk down a long hallway lined with expensive, abstract art. I can hear the faint murmur of voices coming from the dining room at the end of the hall.
My grip on Malcolm’s arm tightens instinctively. He covers my hand with his, a silent reassurance, and pushes the heavy double doors open.
The dining room is massive. The mahogany table is long enough to seat a small army, but it is set for only five people at the far end.
Preston Vance is sitting at the head of the table. He is wearing a dark suit, looking exactly as terrifying as he did at the gala.
Sitting to his right is Simon.
Simon looks up as the doors open.
The smug, arrogant smile he usually wears is completely absent. He looks pale. He looks exhausted. And when his eyes land on me, standing next to his older brother, wearing a charcoal suit and the vintage diamond, he looks genuinely sick.