CHAPTER 19
AUDREY
The elevator doors slide open with a soft, metallic whisper.
Malcolm doesn't step back immediately. He keeps his hands planted on the wall on either side of my head, his chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm that completely contradicts the dark, chaotic energy in his eyes.
I reach up, my fingers brushing against the lapel of his suit jacket. The fabric is rough, but the heat radiating from him is absolute.
"We should probably get out of the elevator," I murmur, my voice sounding entirely too breathless. "Unless your security team monitors the cameras in here."
"Grant monitors the cameras," Malcolm says, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "And Grant knows better than to interrupt."
He finally drops his hands, stepping back to give me space. The cold air of the foyer rushes in to fill the gap between us. I walk out of the elevator, my boots quiet against the concrete floor.
The penthouse is completely dark. The city lights from the living room windows cast long, sharp shadows across the furniture. It feels like a sanctuary. An hour ago, I thought this place was going to turn into a prison. I thought Simon had found the key to dismantle everything.
Instead, Malcolm just reinforced the walls.
I walk toward the kitchen island, dropping my phone onto the marble counter. The screen is cracked from when I dropped it in the boutique, a spiderweb of shattered glass right across the center.
Malcolm walks in behind me. He shrugs out of his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of a barstool, and moves to the refrigerator. He pulls out two bottles of water, sets one in front of me, and opens his own.
"So," I say, leaning against the counter. I trace the crack on my phone screen with my index finger. "I am officially an unemployed woman living in her fake-but-now-real fiancé's apartment."
"You are an architect who is currently restructuring her client base," Malcolm corrects smoothly, taking a drink of water. "And the engagement is real. The contract is void. The legal department at the Tribune verified the dissolution document before we even reached the lobby."
I look up at him. "You really had Grant draft that three days ago?"
"I had him draft it the morning after you moved in."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He sets the water bottle down. He doesn't look away from me, his expression completely unreadable.
"I told you in the elevator, Audrey. If you knew the contract was void, you would have felt obligated to leave.
You were operating under the assumption that you owed me a performance in exchange for your company. I removed the obligation."
"But you didn't tell me you removed it," I point out, crossing my arms. "Which means you wanted me to stay, but you didn't want to ask me to stay."
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
It is a tiny, microscopic reaction, but after spending the last week studying him, I know exactly what it means. It’s a hit. I found the vulnerability he tries so hard to bury under layers of corporate strategy and intimidation.
"I don't ask for things," Malcolm says quietly. "I secure them."
"I’m not an asset, Malcolm. I’m a person."
"I am aware." He steps around the island, closing the distance between us.
He stops just out of reach. "If you were an asset, I would have locked you in a hotel room with a security detail until the engagement party.
I would not have set up an office for you.
I would not have taken you to the Peninsula to be photographed. "
He tilts his head, his dark eyes stripping away my defensive posture.
"I wanted you to stay," he admits, the words sounding like they are being dragged out of his throat. "But I also knew that if I gave you the choice too early, you would run. You were terrified of me."
"I was terrified of the situation," I correct him, dropping my arms. "I was terrified of your family."
"You were terrified of me," he repeats, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "And you had every right to be. I am not a safe man, Audrey."
I look at him. I look at the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the absolute, terrifying control he exercises over every aspect of his life just to keep the people he cares about from getting hurt.
He thinks he is the monster in this story. He actually believes it.
I take a step forward, completely erasing the distance between us. I reach up, my hands resting flat against his chest.
"You bought a private investigator off to protect my mother’s pride," I say, my voice steady. "You threatened your own father to keep him away from me. You let me sleep in your bed for three nights without touching me because you thought I was too exhausted to make a rational choice."
Malcolm stares down at me, his breathing shallow.
"You are the safest man I have ever met," I whisper.
He closes his eyes. A heavy, shuddering breath escapes his lungs, the sound completely raw in the quiet kitchen. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest, and buries his face in the crook of my neck.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, holding him just as tightly.
We stand there in the dark for a long time. The adrenaline of the day finally bleeds out of my system, leaving behind a deep, grounding exhaustion. I listen to the steady beat of his heart against my chest, the rhythm slowing down as the tension leaves his body.
"Are you hungry?" he murmurs against my skin, his voice muffled.
I let out a soft laugh, pulling back just enough to look at him. "Are you offering me leftover pizza again?"
"I am offering to order something that doesn't come in a cardboard box." He drops his hands to my hips, his thumbs brushing against the denim of my jeans. "Unless you prefer the sodium."
"I think I can handle real food tonight."
"Good."
He steps back, picking up his phone from the counter. He orders food from a place in the West Loop—something involving actual vegetables—and then points toward the hallway.
"Go take a shower," he says, his tone shifting back to the calm, authoritative CEO. "You have been wearing those clothes since we left the boutique. You look like you survived a war."
"I did survive a war," I remind him, turning toward the hallway. "And for the record, I left the gold dress in the dressing room. I didn't even get to keep the armor."
Malcolm pauses, his thumb hovering over the screen of his phone.
He looks up at me, a slow, dangerous smile touching the corner of his mouth.
"The dress is being delivered tomorrow morning," he says. "I bought it."
I blink. "You bought it? Why? The engagement party is in two weeks. I can't wear a backless gold dress to a formal Vance family event. Preston will have a stroke."
"That is exactly why you are wearing it," Malcolm replies, his smile widening slightly. "I want him to have a stroke."
I shake my head, unable to fight the laugh that bubbles up in my throat. "You are a menace."
"I am thorough." He gestures toward the hallway again. "Shower. Now."
I walk down the hall, the quiet domesticity of the moment settling over me like a warm blanket.
The master bathroom is massive, all dark slate and glass.
I strip off the jeans and the sweater, turning the water on as hot as I can stand it.
I stand under the spray for twenty minutes, letting the heat wash away the lingering anxiety of the day.
Simon’s face, Vivian’s panicked phone call, the blinding flash of the paparazzi cameras—it all spirals down the drain.
When I step out of the shower, I wrap a thick white towel around my hair and pull on a clean pair of sweatpants and a soft, oversized t-shirt I stole from Malcolm’s dresser.
I walk back out to the living room.
The food has arrived. Malcolm has plated it—actual ceramic plates, not cardboard boxes—and set them on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He is sitting on the edge of the cushions, wearing a fresh t-shirt and loose trousers, looking through a file folder.
I sit down next to him, pulling my legs up onto the sofa.
"What are you reading?" I ask, picking up my fork.
"Security briefs for the engagement party." He doesn't look up from the paper. "Preston hired an outside firm to handle the perimeter. He doesn't trust my division to manage the guest list."
"Can you blame him?" I take a bite of the roasted vegetables. "You basically told him you were going to use the party to humiliate him."
"I told him I was going to set a boundary." Malcolm flips the page. "The outside firm is incompetent. They are using standard RFID scanners for the invitations. I could bypass their system with a magnet and a smartphone."
"Please don't."
"I won't need to. We are on the guest list." He closes the folder, tossing it onto the glass table next to the plates. He turns to look at me, his dark eyes scanning my face. "You look better."
"I feel better." I point my fork at him. "You need to eat. You’ve been running on black coffee and rage since six this morning."
Malcolm picks up his plate. We eat in silence, the quiet hum of the city outside the only background noise. It’s the same domestic routine we established a few days ago, but the underlying tension is completely different. It isn't a performance anymore.
When we finish, I carry the plates to the kitchen sink.
I turn the water on, rinsing the ceramic, when I feel the heavy, solid warmth of Malcolm’s chest press against my back.
He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him. He rests his chin on the top of my head, his hands flattening against my stomach.
I turn the water off, drying my hands on a towel. I lean back into him, letting him take my weight.
"You have a habit of sneaking up on people in kitchens," I murmur, my hands resting over his.
"I don't sneak. I walk quietly."
"It’s terrifying."
"You aren't terrified." He turns his head, pressing a soft kiss to the side of my neck. "You haven't locked a door in this apartment in three days."
"I don't need to lock doors." I turn around in his arms, facing him. I look up into his eyes, the dark, absolute intensity in them making my breath catch. "I know exactly what is in the room with me."
Malcolm’s hands slide from my waist to my hips. He grips me firmly, lifting me effortlessly onto the edge of the marble counter.
He steps between my legs, the physical proximity instantly erasing the quiet domesticity of the last hour.
"Do you?" he asks, his voice dropping to a rough whisper.
"Yes." I slide my hands up his chest, my fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck. "You’re the man who bought a gold dress just to give his father a heart attack."
Malcolm groans, a low, vibration deep in his chest. He leans in, his mouth hovering inches from mine.
"I bought the gold dress," he murmurs, his breath warm against my lips, "because I want to spend the entire night imagining what it is going to look like pooled on the floor of my bedroom."
My stomach drops, a hard, dizzy heat settling low in my stomach.
He doesn't give me time to respond. He kisses me, his mouth claiming mine with a slow, devastating precision. I open up for him immediately, my hands gripping his shoulders to anchor myself as the world tilts on its axis.
He pulls back slightly, his thumbs tracing the line of my jaw.
"We have two weeks until the party," he says, his eyes dark and completely focused. "For the next fourteen days, Preston is going to try to find a way to break this. He will use the media. He will use the board. He will try to make you doubt me."
"He can try." I look at him, the absolute certainty in my chest leaving no room for fear. "He won't succeed."
"No." Malcolm kisses the corner of my mouth. "He won't."
He lifts me off the counter, carrying me out of the kitchen and down the dark hallway.
The war is coming. The Vance family is going to throw everything they have at us to protect their empire.
But as Malcolm carries me into the bedroom and kicks the door shut, I realize I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
I am not the collateral damage anymore.
I am the architect. And we are going to burn their house down together.