CHAPTER 18
MALCOLM
The dull thud of the phone hitting the carpet is the only sound in the room.
I don't look at the device. I look at Audrey.
The color has completely drained from her face.
She is standing perfectly still, her hands hovering inches from her sides, the gold silk of the dress pooling around her feet.
The fierce, defiant energy she possessed thirty seconds ago has vanished, replaced by the hollow, vacant stare of someone who has just watched the floor drop out from under them.
I close the distance between us in two strides.
"Audrey." I grip her upper arms. Her skin is ice cold.
She blinks, her eyes slowly focusing on my face. "He has the contract. Vivian said... she said he leaked it to the Tribune. The entire thing. The consulting fee, the non-disclosure clauses, the residential requirement."
Her breathing accelerates, shallow and erratic. She looks past my shoulder, staring at the three-way mirror as if the reflection belongs to a stranger.
"Everyone knows," she whispers. "Preston knows. The board knows. The media knows I’m just a prop."
"You are not a prop." I tighten my grip slightly, forcing her to look back at me. "Breathe."
She shakes her head, a frantic, disjointed movement. "Simon won. He found the one thing that proves I’m exactly what his father said I was. I’m a broke architect who sold herself for a payout. It’s over, Malcolm. The narrative is gone. We can't spin a legal document with our signatures on it."
"We don't need to spin it. We need to bury it."
I drop my hands from her arms, turn around, and pick up her phone from the carpet. The screen is cracked, but the call with Vivian is still active.
I press the phone to my ear. "Vivian."
"Malcolm?" Vivian’s voice is sharp, the panic still evident but laced with a heavy dose of lawyerly aggression. "Tell me you have a crisis management team on standby, because the Tribune just published the PDF online. It has Audrey’s signature. It has your signature."
"I have a team," I reply, my voice completely flat. "Where did the leak originate?"
"I don't know. The article cites an 'anonymous source close to the Vance family'. But Simon gave the exclusive quote confirming the document is real. He’s playing the victim. He’s saying you manipulated a vulnerable woman to get back at him."
A cold, absolute rage settles in the center of my chest. It isn't the hot, reactive anger of a normal man. It is the surgical, calculating fury of an enforcer who has just identified a target.
"Are you at your office?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Stay there. Do not speak to the press. Do not issue a statement on Audrey’s behalf." I walk toward the heavy velvet curtain separating the viewing room from the rest of the boutique. "I will handle Simon."
"Malcolm, wait," Vivian says, her voice dropping. "Audrey’s copy of the contract was in my apartment. I kept it in my safe. I checked the safe ten minutes ago. The document is gone."
I stop moving.
The pieces of the puzzle snap into place with brutal clarity.
Russo didn't find the contract. Simon didn't hire a corporate spy to hack my servers. He didn't need to. He just needed someone to walk into a mid-level associate’s apartment and take a piece of paper.
"Has your apartment been compromised?" I ask.
"No forced entry," Vivian replies, her voice tight. "But my landlord has a master key, and he’s been trying to force me out to raise the rent for months. If Simon’s people offered him enough cash..."
"Understood. Do not go back to your apartment tonight. Grant will arrange a secure hotel suite for you."
I end the call and slide the phone into my pocket.
I turn back to Audrey.
She is standing exactly where I left her. She has wrapped her arms around her waist, the thin straps of the gold dress digging into her shoulders. She looks incredibly fragile, completely exposed in a dress that was meant to be a declaration of war.
"He broke into Vivian’s apartment," she says. It isn't a question. She heard my side of the conversation.
"He paid someone to access the safe," I correct her.
"It doesn't matter how he got it." She lets out a short, bitter laugh, looking down at the vintage ring on her left hand. "He has it. The whole city has it. We’re a joke, Malcolm. The Devil of Chicago and his paid escort."
I cross the room. I don't stop until I am standing directly in front of her.
"Take the dress off," I say quietly.
She flinches, the words hitting her like a physical blow. She looks up at me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She thinks I am giving up. She thinks I am telling her to take off the armor because the war is lost and she is no longer required to fight.
"Malcolm, I—"
"Take the dress off, Audrey, and put your clothes back on," I interrupt, my voice dropping to a rough, absolute register. "Because we are leaving this boutique, and we are going to the Tribune building."
She blinks, the tears freezing in her eyes. "What?"
"Simon wants a public spectacle." I reach out, my knuckles brushing against the soft skin of her cheek. "I am going to give him one. But I am not going to let the press photograph you in a dress that looks like a celebration while you are shaking."
I drop my hand and step back, giving her the privacy of the velvet screen.
"Get dressed," I order. "We have ten minutes."
**
The ride to the Tribune Tower takes exactly eight minutes.
Grant drives with a controlled, aggressive speed, weaving through the late afternoon traffic on Michigan Avenue. The privacy partition is down. The interior of the SUV is silent, save for the low murmur of the police scanner on Grant’s dashboard.
Audrey is sitting next to me. She is back in her jeans and the oversized sweater. She hasn't said a word since we left the boutique. She is staring out the window, her thumb pressing rhythmically against the side of her index finger.
I pull my phone out and dial the private number for the editor-in-chief of the Chicago Tribune.
He answers on the second ring. "Malcolm. I assume you are calling about the article."
"I am calling to inform you that I am currently three blocks away from your building," I say, my voice devoid of any inflection.
"You have five minutes to assemble your editorial board in the main conference room.
If you do not, I will file an injunction against your publication for receiving and distributing stolen legal documents, and I will tie your legal department up in litigation for the next decade. "
"The document was provided by a verified source, Malcolm. It’s a matter of public interest."
"It is a stolen contract." I look out the window as the gothic architecture of the Tribune Tower comes into view. "Five minutes, David."
I hang up the phone.
Audrey turns her head to look at me. The panic in her eyes has receded, replaced by a cautious, desperate curiosity.
"What are you going to do?" she asks quietly.
"I am going to change the narrative."
The SUV pulls up to the curb in front of the massive stone building. There are no paparazzi here yet. The story broke less than an hour ago; the media circus is currently focused on the Vance holding company headquarters, not the newspaper that published the leak.
Grant opens the door. I step out, offering Audrey my hand.
She takes it. Her grip is tight, her knuckles white.
We walk through the revolving doors and cross the busy lobby. The security guards at the front desk recognize me immediately. They don't ask for identification. They simply badge us through the turnstiles.
We take the elevator to the executive floor.
When the doors open, David, the editor-in-chief, is waiting in the hallway. He is a man in his late fifties, wearing a wrinkled shirt and a look of deep, professional exhaustion. He looks at me, then at Audrey, his eyes lingering briefly on the vintage diamond on her finger.
"The board is in the conference room," David says, gesturing down the hall. "But I have to warn you, Malcolm. The story is already live. We can't retract it without proof that the document is a forgery."
"I am not here to ask for a retraction," I reply, walking past him.
I push the glass doors of the conference room open.
Six people are sitting around a long, polished oak table. They stop talking the moment I walk in.
I don't sit down. I stand at the head of the table, keeping Audrey firmly by my side. I place both hands flat on the wood, leaning forward slightly. The physical dominance of the posture is deliberate.
"You published a contract stating that my engagement to Audrey Jennings is a financial transaction," I say, my voice echoing in the quiet room.
A woman near the end of the table—the senior legal counsel for the paper, if I remember correctly—clears her throat. "Mr. Vance, the signatures on the document have been verified. The transfer of funds to Miss Jennings' escrow account has been confirmed by our sources. It is a legitimate contract."
"It was a legitimate contract," I correct her.
I reach into the inside pocket of my suit jacket. I pull out a folded piece of paper and toss it onto the center of the table.
It lands with a soft slap.
David walks over and picks it up. He unfolds it, his brow furrowing as he reads the text.
"What is this?" the legal counsel asks.
"That is a legal dissolution of the contract," I say smoothly. "Signed and notarized by my personal attorney three days ago. The consulting fee has been returned to the Vance Security operating fund. The non-disclosure clauses have been voided."
Audrey shifts slightly next to me. She doesn't speak, but I can feel the shock radiating from her body. She didn't know about the dissolution. I had Grant draft it the morning after she moved into the penthouse, right before I bought Russo's silence.
David looks up from the paper. "If the contract is void... why did Simon Vance leak it?"
"Because Simon Vance is a desperate man who realized he lost the woman he loves to his older brother," I say, delivering the lie with absolute, terrifying conviction.
"He found an outdated draft of a contract we initially created to protect Audrey’s assets from his aggressive legal maneuvers during their breakup.
He leaked it because he wants to embarrass us. "
The room is silent. The journalists are calculating the angles.
"You expect us to believe that you drafted a fake engagement contract just to protect her assets?" David asks skeptically.
"I expect you to print the truth." I stand up straight, looking directly at the editor-in-chief. "The contract was a shield. The engagement is real."
I turn my head and look at Audrey.
She is staring at me. The golden flecks in her eyes are wide, completely overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the manipulation I am executing in front of her.
I reach out, my hand sliding around the back of her neck. I pull her forward, my thumb resting against her jawline.
"Tell them, Audrey," I murmur, my voice dropping to a register meant only for her, though the entire room can hear it. "Tell them why you signed the contract."
She swallows hard. She looks at the journalists, then back at me.
She understands exactly what I am doing. I am giving her the narrative. I am giving her the power to kill Simon’s story with a single sentence.
"I signed it," Audrey says, her voice steady and clear, "because Simon locked me out of my own company, and I was terrified. Malcolm offered me a way to fight back."
She pauses, her fingers reaching up to grip the lapel of my suit jacket.
"But the contract was a mistake," she continues, her eyes never leaving mine. "Because you can't put a non-disclosure agreement on someone you actually love."
The silence in the conference room is deafening.
It is the perfect quote. It is romantic, defiant, and completely destroys Simon’s image as the victim.
David looks at the dissolution paper in his hand, then at the two of us standing at the head of the table. He is a journalist. He knows a better story when he sees one.
"We will run an update to the article," David says quietly. "We will include the dissolution document and Miss Jennings' statement."
"You will run it on the front page," I correct him. "And you will issue a formal apology for publishing stolen private property."
"Agreed."
I don't wait for the rest of the board to speak. I drop my hand from Audrey’s neck, take her hand, and walk out of the conference room.
We walk back to the elevator in silence. The doors close, sealing us in the steel box as we descend to the lobby.
Audrey lets out a long, shaky breath, leaning back against the wall of the elevator. She looks at me, her expression a mixture of exhaustion and disbelief.
"You voided the contract three days ago," she says softly.
"Yes."
"You didn't tell me."
"If I had told you, you would have felt obligated to leave the penthouse." I turn to face her, the adrenaline of the confrontation slowly draining from my system. "I needed you to stay."
She looks down at her hands. The vintage diamond is still there, heavy and permanent.
"So," she murmurs, a faint, ironic smile touching her lips. "I’m not a consultant anymore."
"No." I step closer, boxing her in against the wall of the elevator.
I rest my hands on the metal paneling on either side of her head.
"You are not my consultant. You are living in my apartment.
You are rebuilding your client base. And you just told the largest newspaper in the Midwest that you love me. "
She looks up at me, the irony fading from her face.
"I lied to the newspaper," she whispers.
"I know."
I lower my head, my mouth hovering inches from hers. The air between us is thick, heavy with the reality of what we just did. We didn't just survive Simon’s attack. We locked ourselves into the lie permanently. There is no going back now.
"But you didn't lie to me," I murmur, my lips brushing against hers.
"No," she breathes, her hands sliding up my chest to grip my shoulders. "I didn't."
I kiss her as the elevator hits the ground floor.
The war is still raging outside these doors. Preston will be furious. Simon will be humiliated.
But as I pull her against me, feeling the absolute, undeniable reality of her body in my arms, I know they have already lost.