CHAPTER 14
MALCOLM
The first course is a roasted butternut squash soup that tastes like dust.
I eat it anyway, my movements deliberate and unhurried. The silver spoon clicks softly against the porcelain bowl. It is the only sound in the massive dining room.
Preston has not touched his food. He is staring at the heavy, watermarked document resting in the center of the mahogany table.
The proof that Barbara Jennings is no longer a financial liability.
The proof that I anticipated his move, neutralized his private investigator, and effectively neutered his youngest son before the appetizers were even served.
Simon looks like he is going to vomit. He is gripping the stem of his wine glass so tightly his knuckles are white. The blonde receptionist—I believe her name is Chloe, though it is entirely irrelevant—is staring at her soup as if she hopes she can drown in it.
I glance at Audrey.
She is sitting perfectly straight, her shoulders squared beneath the sharp cut of the charcoal suit. She hasn't touched her soup either, but she isn't looking at her plate. She is looking directly at Simon.
It is a terrifying, beautiful thing to witness.
When she walked into the hotel bar three days ago, she was a casualty.
She was mourning the loss of her life. Tonight, she is the executioner.
The vintage diamond on her left hand catches the light from the chandelier every time she shifts her weight, a constant, blinding reminder to the man sitting across from her of exactly what he threw away.
"You always were prone to dramatic gestures, Malcolm," Preston finally says, breaking the silence. He picks up his napkin, dabbing the corner of his mouth with slow, calculated precision. "Buying a woman’s affection by paying off her mother’s debts. It’s terribly cliché."
"I didn't buy her affection," I reply, setting my spoon down. "I removed a vulnerability. There is a difference."
"Is there?" Preston tilts his head, a patronizing smile touching his lips. "She is sitting at this table because you wrote a check. If Simon had written the check, she would still be sitting next to him."
Audrey’s jaw tightens. The muscle jumps just beneath her ear.
Before I can verbally dismantle my father, Audrey speaks.
"If Simon had written the check, Preston, it would have bounced," she says. Her voice is incredibly calm, lacking the defensive panic she had in the SUV an hour ago. "Or he would have used a shell corporation to hide the transaction, and then claimed he owned my mother’s house as collateral."
Simon flinches. "Audrey, that’s not fair."
"It’s a matter of public record," she fires back, not even looking at him. She keeps her eyes locked on Preston. "I didn't come here for a payout. I came here because I am marrying your son. And unlike Simon, Malcolm actually reads the contracts he signs."
A dark, heavy surge of pride settles right in the center of my chest.
She isn't hiding behind me. She is using the shield I gave her, but she is swinging the sword herself.
Preston’s smile vanishes. He is not used to being spoken to with anything other than absolute deference. He looks at Audrey, really looks at her, as if trying to figure out how the quiet, accommodating girl his son brought to dinner a year ago grew fangs.
"You have a sharp tongue, Miss Jennings," Preston murmurs.
"I have a good memory," she corrects him.
The dining room doors open. The household staff enters, moving with silent, practiced efficiency. They clear the soup bowls and replace them with plates of roasted lamb and asparagus.
No one speaks while the staff is in the room. It is a Vance family rule. We do not air our grievances in front of the help. We wait until they leave, and then we aim for the throat.
The moment the heavy wooden doors click shut, Simon leans forward.
"This is insane," Simon says, his voice pitching higher than normal. He looks at me, desperation bleeding into his features. "You don't even know her, Malcolm. You met her three days ago. You’re doing this just to humiliate me."
"I am doing this because she is mine," I say.
The words are a weapon, designed to inflict maximum psychological damage, but as they leave my mouth, I realize they are also the absolute truth.
"She’s using you!" Simon insists, gesturing wildly toward Audrey. "She’s broke. She lost her firm. She’s just trying to get back at me by latching onto your bank account."
"Simon," Preston warns quietly.
"No, Father, listen to me." Simon ignores the warning, his panic overriding his instinct for self-preservation. "She doesn't love him. She’s terrified of him. Everyone is terrified of him. Look at her."
Simon points at Audrey.
"She’s wearing a suit that looks like armor," Simon sneers, his fear morphing into a pathetic, desperate cruelty. "She’s sitting there pretending she’s not shaking.
She knows exactly what you are, Malcolm.
She knows you’re a monster. And the second she gets her company back, she’s going to run as far away from you as she can. "
The silence that follows is absolute.
I don't look at Audrey. I don't need to. I can feel the sudden, rigid tension in her body.
Simon’s words are clumsy and desperate, but they hit the exact, precise nerve I have been trying to ignore since I carried her into my bedroom last night.
She is terrified of me. She is using me for protection. The moment the threat is neutralized, the moment she has her life back, the logical, rational choice will be to leave the penthouse and never look back.
I reach for my water glass, my expression completely blank. I am preparing to issue a threat that will ensure Simon never speaks in my presence again.
"I am not terrified of him," Audrey says.
I stop. My hand hovers over the glass.
I turn my head slowly to look at her.
Audrey is staring at Simon. The anger in her eyes is gone, replaced by a cold, devastating pity.
"I was terrified of you," Audrey tells him, her voice echoing in the quiet room. "I was terrified of saying the wrong thing. I was terrified of wearing the wrong dress. I was terrified of bruising your ego, because every time I did, you punished me by making me feel small."
Simon opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.
"Malcolm doesn't make me feel small," Audrey continues, her voice dropping to a quiet, absolute certainty. "Malcolm makes me feel like I could burn this entire house down, and he would stand in the driveway and hand me the gasoline."
She turns her head. She looks at me.
The golden flecks in her eyes are burning. She isn't performing for my father. She isn't performing for Simon. She is looking directly at me, stripping away the lie of the contract in front of the two men who tried to destroy her.
"He isn't a monster to me, Simon," she says softly, her eyes never leaving mine. "He is the only honest man in this room."
My chest physically aches.
The breath leaves my lungs in a slow, ragged exhale. The urge to pull her out of her chair, walk out of this house, and take her back to the penthouse is so violent I have to grip the edge of the mahogany table just to stay anchored to the room.
Preston clears his throat. The sound is sharp, cutting through the heavy intimacy of the moment.
"How poetic," Preston sneers. He picks up his fork, slicing into the lamb on his plate. "A match made in corporate espionage. I suppose I should offer my congratulations."
"Keep them," I say, tearing my gaze away from Audrey to look at my father. "We didn't come here for your blessing."
"Then why did you come?" Preston asks, taking a bite of his food. He chews slowly, his eyes calculating. "You made your point, Malcolm. You proved you can protect her. You proved Simon is incompetent. What is the objective?"
"The objective is the engagement party," I reply.
Simon chokes on his wine. He sets the glass down hard, coughing into his napkin.
"My engagement party?" Simon asks, his voice hoarse. "You’re not coming to my engagement party."
"We are," I correct him smoothly. "It is a Vance family event. As a Vance, I am required to attend. And as my fiancée, Audrey will accompany me."
"Absolutely not," Preston says, dropping his fork. The metallic clatter rings out sharply. "I will not allow you to turn a society event into a circus. The press will be there. The board will be there."
"They will," I agree. "And they will see a united family. They will see Simon celebrating his upcoming nuptials, and they will see me celebrating mine. If you attempt to revoke my invitation, or if you attempt to bar Audrey from the premises, the press will ask questions. And I will answer them."
Preston stares at me. The veins in his neck are bulging again.
He is trapped. If he bans me from the party, the media will assume there is a massive fracture in the Vance holding company, which will tank the stock prices. If he allows me to attend, he has to watch Audrey parade around the room, a living, breathing reminder of his youngest son’s failure.
It is a perfect, inescapable checkmate.
"You are pushing me, Malcolm," Preston whispers.
"I am setting a boundary," I reply. I stand up, buttoning my suit jacket. "We will see you at the party, Father. Make sure the seating chart accommodates us."
I don't wait for him to respond. I look at Audrey and offer her my hand.
She doesn't hesitate. She places her hand in mine, her fingers wrapping tightly around mine. She stands up, the charcoal suit immaculate, her posture flawless.
We walk out of the dining room together.
I don't look back at Simon. I don't look back at Preston. I keep my eyes on the heavy wooden doors leading to the hallway, my hand firmly anchored to Audrey’s.
We walk down the long, silent corridor, past the expensive art and the vaulted ceilings. The butler opens the front doors before we reach them, his face a mask of professional indifference.
The cold night air hits us the moment we step outside.
The SUV is waiting at the bottom of the steps. Grant is standing by the open door, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the estate.
We walk down the steps in silence. I help Audrey into the back seat, sliding in right behind her. Grant shuts the door, sealing us in the dark, quiet interior of the car.
The privacy partition is already up. The SUV pulls away from the massive stone house, the tires crunching against the gravel driveway.
I lean back against the leather seat, exhaling a long, slow breath. The adrenaline of the confrontation is beginning to recede, leaving behind the heavy, undeniable reality of what just happened in that dining room.
Audrey is sitting next to me. She is staring straight ahead, her hands resting in her lap. She is trembling. It’s a faint, almost imperceptible tremor, the delayed reaction to the sheer amount of psychological warfare she just survived.
I reach across the seat.
I don't grab her hand. I slide my arm around her shoulders, pulling her across the leather seat until her side is pressed flush against my chest.
She goes willingly. She turns her face into the crook of my neck, her hands coming up to grip the lapels of my suit jacket. She lets out a quiet, shuddering breath, the tension finally breaking.
"You did perfectly," I murmur, resting my cheek against the top of her head.
"I thought I was going to pass out," she whispers against my skin. "When he brought up my mother’s debt... I thought it was over."
"It’s over," I promise her, my arm tightening around her. "He has nothing left to use against you."
She is quiet for a long moment. The SUV turns onto the main highway, the streetlights casting rhythmic, fleeting shadows across the interior of the car.
"Malcolm?" she asks quietly.
"Yes."
"When Simon said I was going to run away from you the second I got my company back..." She hesitates, her fingers twisting the fabric of my jacket. "Did you believe him?"
I look out the window at the dark city skyline approaching in the distance.
Transparency.
"Yes," I say, my voice rough. "It is the most logical outcome."
Audrey lifts her head. She pulls back just enough to look at my face. The ambient light catches the sharp, fierce determination in her eyes.
"I am not a logical outcome," she says softly.
She reaches up, her hand sliding to the back of my neck. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me down to her.
She kisses me.
It is not the desperate, adrenaline-fueled kiss from the kitchen. It is slow. Deliberate. It is a claim, executed with the same absolute certainty she used to dismantle Simon at the dinner table.
I groan, a low, rough sound that I can't suppress, my hands dropping to her waist to pull her fully across my lap.
The war with my family is far from over.
But as her mouth parts beneath mine, and the cold metal of the vintage ring presses against the back of my neck, I realize I have already won the only battle that actually matters.