CHAPTER 17
AUDREY
I am staring at a floor plan for a boutique hotel in the West Loop, trying to figure out how to fit a functional lobby bar into three hundred square feet of usable space.
My pencil hovers over the drafting paper. The graphite leaves a faint, gray smudge where my hand rests. I erase it, brush the shavings away, and try again.
It is two o'clock on a Thursday afternoon. Two days have passed since the lunch at the Peninsula Hotel. Two days since Malcolm threatened to break his brother’s jaw on a public sidewalk.
And for forty-eight hours, absolutely nothing has happened.
The silence is making me paranoid.
I drop the pencil and lean back in the ergonomic chair, rolling my shoulders to release the tension knotting at the base of my neck.
The office Malcolm set up for me is perfect.
It is quiet, the natural light from the massive windows is ideal for drafting, and the dual monitors are currently displaying the three freelance contracts Vivian helped me secure yesterday.
I am working. I am rebuilding. I am doing exactly what I set out to do when I signed the contract.
But my brain refuses to focus on the hotel lobby.
I look down at my left hand. The vintage diamond catches the afternoon light. It doesn't feel heavy anymore. I’ve stopped noticing the weight of it, which is terrifying in its own right.
A soft knock on the open doorframe pulls me out of my thoughts.
I turn my chair around.
Malcolm is standing in the doorway. He is wearing dark trousers and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He is holding two ceramic mugs.
"You've been staring at the same blueprint for forty minutes," he says, walking into the room and setting one of the mugs on my desk. "You are either designing a masterpiece, or you are spiraling."
"I am spiraling," I admit, taking the mug. The coffee is hot, black, and loaded with exactly the right amount of sugar. "The lobby is too small for a bar, but the client insists they need a revenue stream on the ground floor. If I put the bar where they want it, it blocks the fire exit."
"Tell them no." Malcolm leans his hip against the edge of my desk, crossing his arms.
"I can't just tell them no. They’re paying me."
"You are the architect, Audrey. They are paying you for your expertise, not your obedience." He looks at the blueprint, his dark eyes scanning the lines. "If they want a bar, move the reception desk to the second floor. Create a mezzanine level for check-ins. It frees up the ground floor entirely."
I stare at the paper. I trace the lines with my eyes, mentally shifting the structural load.
It works. It actually works perfectly.
I look up at him, narrowing my eyes. "How do you know how to do that? You run a security firm."
"I run a security firm that specializes in threat assessment," he corrects smoothly. "I look at floor plans every day to figure out how to extract people from buildings. I know where the fire exits are."
"Right. Of course." I take a sip of the coffee, letting the heat settle in my stomach. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He doesn't move away from the desk. He stays there, watching me over the rim of his own mug.
The domesticity of the moment is jarring.
We are standing in a penthouse, drinking coffee, discussing floor plans like a normal couple.
We haven't talked about Preston or Simon since the confrontation on the street.
We haven't talked about the fact that I haven't slept in the guest room for three nights.
We sleep in his bed. We wake up together. He goes to his office, I go to mine. It is a terrifyingly comfortable routine.
"Why is it so quiet?" I ask, unable to hold the question back anymore.
Malcolm lowers his mug. "The penthouse is soundproofed."
"I don't mean the apartment. I mean the war.
" I set my coffee down and turn the chair to face him fully.
"It’s been two days since you humiliated Simon in front of the paparazzi.
The photos are everywhere. The blogs are having a field day.
But Preston hasn't done anything. No legal threats. No emergency board meetings. Nothing."
"Preston is regrouping." Malcolm’s expression doesn't change, but the relaxed posture vanishes. "He attempted to freeze my discretionary accounts on Tuesday morning. I countered by threatening to liquidate the division."
My pulse stutters. "You threatened to sell your own company?"
"I threatened to sell the proprietary software his holding company relies on," he clarifies. "It was a bluff, but Preston cannot afford to call it. He backed down. Now, he is waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"For us to make a mistake." Malcolm reaches out, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
The casual intimacy of the gesture makes my pulse skip a beat.
"The engagement party is in two weeks. He knows we are attending.
He will use the event to orchestrate a public failure.
He wants to prove to the board that you are a liability, and that my judgment is compromised. "
I lean into his touch, my eyes closing briefly. "Is it?"
"Is what?"
"Your judgment." I open my eyes, looking up at him. "You’re risking your entire division for this, Malcolm. You’re picking a fight with a man who holds the purse strings to your family’s empire.
If I mess up at that party—if Simon gets under my skin, or if I say the wrong thing to the press—you lose. "
"I am not going to lose." His thumb traces the line of my jaw. "And you are not going to mess up."
"You have a lot of faith in someone who was crying into a martini a week ago."
"I have faith in the woman who told my father to go to hell at his own dining table." He drops his hand, stepping back from the desk. "Get dressed. We are leaving in thirty minutes."
I blink, thrown by the sudden shift in topic. "Leaving? Going where?"
"To buy a dress for the engagement party."
"I have five dresses in the closet that you bought me," I point out, gesturing vaguely toward the guest suite.
"Those are for dinners and galas," Malcolm says, walking toward the door. "The engagement party requires something specific. It requires a statement."
"And what statement are we making?"
He stops in the doorway, turning his head to look back at me. A dark, predatory smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"That you are the only woman in the room who matters."
**
The boutique on Oak Street is closed to the public when we arrive.
Grant parked the SUV directly in front of the glass doors. A woman in a tailored black suit unlocks the door the moment we step onto the pavement, ushering us inside with a tight, professional smile.
"Mr. Vance. Miss Jennings. Welcome," the woman says, locking the door behind us. "We have prepared the private viewing room in the back."
The store smells like expensive perfume and fresh lilies. Racks of designer gowns line the walls, but the center of the room is completely empty, save for a few velvet armchairs.
Malcolm guides me toward the back of the store. He doesn't look at the clothes on the racks. He doesn't look at the price tags. He walks with the absolute certainty of a man who already knows exactly what he wants.
The private viewing room is massive. A raised pedestal sits in front of a three-way mirror.
"I pulled the options you requested, Mr. Vance," the manager says, gesturing toward a rolling rack holding six garment bags. "All of them are exclusive. None have been photographed on a red carpet this season."
"Leave them," Malcolm says, not looking at her. "We need privacy."
"Of course." The manager bows her head slightly and walks out, pulling the heavy curtain shut behind her.
We are alone.
I look at the garment bags, then at Malcolm. He is standing near the velvet armchairs, his hands in his pockets, watching me.
"You pre-selected the dresses?" I ask, walking toward the rack.
"I gave them parameters."
"Let me guess. Dark colors. High necklines. Armor." I unzip the first bag, pulling the plastic back.
It is a black velvet gown, beautiful but heavy. I push it aside and unzip the second bag. A midnight blue silk dress with long sleeves.
I frown, unzipping the third bag.
I stop.
The dress inside the third bag isn't dark. It isn't armor.
It is a backless, floor-length gown made of liquid gold silk. It is incredibly delicate, the fabric so thin it looks like it would melt if you touched it. The neckline plunges into a deep V, held together by two impossibly thin straps.
It is the exact opposite of everything I have worn since I met him. It isn't severe. It isn't defensive. It is a dress designed to draw every single eye in the room and hold them there.
I pull the hanger off the rack, holding the dress up against my body. I look in the three-way mirror.
The gold silk makes my skin look warmer. It catches the light, shimmering even in the dim viewing room.
"Simon liked pastels," Malcolm’s voice comes from behind me.
I look at his reflection in the mirror. He hasn't moved from the armchair, but his dark eyes are locked on the gold fabric.
"He liked pale pinks and soft blues," Malcolm continues, his voice dropping to a rough, quiet register. "He wanted you to blend in. He wanted you to look like an accessory to his life. He didn't want anyone to notice you."
I swallow hard, my grip tightening on the velvet hanger.
"This isn't an accessory," I whisper.
"No." Malcolm takes his hands out of his pockets. He walks slowly toward me, stopping just behind my shoulder. His reflection towers over mine in the mirror. "That is a declaration."
He reaches around me, his large hands resting over mine on the hanger. The heat of his chest presses against my back.
"Put it on," he murmurs, his breath brushing against my ear.
I don't argue.
I step behind a heavy velvet screen in the corner of the room. I strip off my jeans and the sweater, my hands trembling slightly as I carefully step into the gold silk.
The dress fits perfectly. It is terrifyingly unforgiving, clinging to the curve of my hips and the dip of my lower back. The thin straps rest lightly on my shoulders. I don't wear a bra; the cut of the dress makes it impossible.
I take a deep breath, push the velvet screen aside, and step up onto the pedestal.
Malcolm is standing a few feet away.
When he sees me, he completely stops moving.
The absolute stillness of his body is the loudest reaction I have ever seen from him. His eyes drop from my face, tracing the deep V of the neckline, following the line of the silk as it pools around my bare feet.
The air in the room starts to feel too thick to breathe.
"Turn around," he says. His voice is a harsh, broken rasp.
I turn slowly, looking over my shoulder into the mirror.
The dress is completely backless. The silk dips dangerously low, exposing the entire length of my spine.
Malcolm steps onto the pedestal behind me.
He doesn't look at my reflection. He looks directly at my bare back. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of my spine, from the nape of my neck all the way down to the edge of the silk resting just above my hips.
I gasp, my eyes fluttering shut. The contrast between the cold air in the boutique and the burning heat of his touch sends a violent shiver through my entire body.
"He is going to lose his mind," Malcolm whispers, his mouth pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to my bare shoulder blade.
"Simon?" I ask, my voice breathless, my hands gripping the edge of the pedestal to keep my balance.
"Yes." Malcolm’s hands slide around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest. "He is going to look at you, and he is going to realize that he never actually had you."
I open my eyes, looking at our reflection in the mirror.
We look devastating together. The dark, immaculate cut of his suit against the brilliant, liquid gold of my dress. He looks like a shadow wrapping itself around a flame.
"Are you sure about this?" I ask quietly, leaning my head back against his shoulder. "If I wear this, everyone will be looking at us. Preston won't be able to ignore it."
"I want them looking." Malcolm meets my eyes in the mirror. "I want Preston to see exactly what I am bringing into his house. I want him to understand that the rules have changed."
He turns me around on the pedestal, his hands gripping my waist firmly.
He doesn't kiss me. He just looks down at me, his expression fierce and completely devoted.
"We are taking the dress," he says.
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes loudly in the pocket of my jeans, which are sitting on a chair near the velvet screen.
The sound shatters the heavy intimacy of the room.
I step off the pedestal, the gold silk whispering against the floor, and walk over to the chair. I pull the phone out of my pocket.
It’s Vivian.
She knows I’m with Malcolm. She wouldn't call unless it was an absolute emergency.
I hit accept, pressing the phone to my ear. "Viv? What’s wrong?"
"Audrey." Vivian’s voice is shaking. It isn't her usual chaotic, fast-paced lawyer tone. She sounds terrified. "Where are you?"
"I'm at a boutique on Oak Street. What happened?"
"You need to turn on the news. Right now."
I frown, looking back at Malcolm. He is already reaching for his phone, sensing the shift in my posture.
"Vivian, what is it?" I demand, my heart rate spiking.
"It’s Simon," Vivian says, her breath hitching over the line. "Audrey... Simon just gave an exclusive interview to the Tribune. He didn't just leak the story about your mother’s debt."
The blood drains from my face. "What did he say?"
"He told them the engagement is fake." Vivian’s voice drops to a frantic whisper. "He told them Malcolm is paying you to ruin the family. He released a copy of the contract, Audrey. He has the contract."
The phone slips from my fingers, hitting the carpeted floor with a dull thud.
I look at Malcolm.
The gold dress starts to feel like a shroud.
The silence is over. The war just went nuclear.