CHAPTER 21
MALCOLM
The silence in the penthouse is different tonight.
For the last fourteen days, the quiet in this apartment has been a sanctuary. It has been a space where the Vance holding company does not exist, where Simon’s pathetic attempts at media manipulation are ignored, and where Audrey sits at the kitchen island drinking coffee in my shirts.
But tonight, the silence feels heavy. It feels like the drop in barometric pressure right before a hurricane makes landfall.
I stand by the floor-to-ceiling window in the living room, securing the silver cufflink on my right wrist. I am wearing the same tuxedo I wore to the charity gala, but the context has entirely shifted. The gala was a skirmish. Tonight is an execution.
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my trousers.
I pull it out. The screen displays a secure message from Grant.
Grant (6:10 PM): Perimeter check complete. The outside firm is running the standard RFID scanners at the main gates. Preston has also stationed four plainclothes contractors inside the ballroom. They are armed.
I stare at the text.
Armed contractors at a family engagement party.
Preston is anticipating a physical altercation.
He assumes that when he drops his final piece of leverage on the table tonight, I will react with violence.
He wants me to lose control in front of the board of directors so he can justify stripping me of my position.
He still thinks this is about Vance Security.
I lock the phone and slide it back into my pocket.
A soft rustle of fabric sounds from the hallway.
I turn around.
The breath leaves my lungs in a slow, jagged exhale.
Audrey walks into the living room. The gold silk of the dress moves like water over her skin, catching the ambient light of the city and throwing it back.
The deep V of the neckline exposes the sharp, delicate line of her collarbones.
Her hair is pinned up, completely exposing the long column of her neck.
She stops a few feet away from me. She isn't wearing the defensive, armored expression she wore the night of the family dinner. She looks calm. She looks absolutely, terrifyingly lethal.
"Is it too much?" she asks, her voice quiet in the massive room.
"It is exactly enough," I reply, my voice rougher than I intended.
I cross the distance between us. I don't touch the silk. I reach up, my hands resting lightly on her bare shoulders. Her skin is warm. The faint scent of lilies and vanilla rises from her throat, cutting through the sterile air of the apartment.
"Preston is going to hate it," she murmurs, a small, dark smile touching the corner of her mouth.
"Preston is going to realize that he has entirely lost control of the narrative." I slide my thumbs along the line of her collarbone. "Are you ready for this?"
"I've been ready for two weeks." She looks up at me, the golden flecks in her eyes steady and clear. "Simon thinks this party is his victory lap. He thinks because we haven't retaliated in the press, we gave up."
"Let him think that." I drop my hands from her shoulders and offer her my arm. "The fall is much more devastating when you don't see the ground coming."
She slips her hand through the crook of my elbow. The vintage diamond catches the light, a permanent fixture on her left hand.
We walk to the private elevator. The ride down to the lobby is silent, the anticipation thick enough to choke on.
Grant is waiting by the open door of the SUV. He takes one look at Audrey in the gold dress, gives a microscopic, approving nod, and looks away.
We get into the back seat. The privacy partition goes up, and the car pulls away from the curb, merging into the heavy evening traffic heading toward the North Shore.
I lean back against the leather, resting my arm along the top of the seat behind Audrey’s shoulders.
She doesn't hesitate. She shifts her weight, leaning her side against my chest, her hand resting flat against my thigh.
The casual intimacy of the movement still sends a sharp jolt of possessiveness straight to my core.
Fourteen days ago, she was terrified of me. Tonight, she is using me as a shield, and I am entirely willing to take every bullet fired in her direction.
"Malcolm," she says quietly, looking out the tinted window.
"Yes."
"If Preston tries to corner you again... if he tries to use your position at the company to force you to back down..." She trails off, her fingers tightening slightly against the fabric of my trousers. "Don't let him use me to hurt you."
I look at the side of her face.
She doesn't know. She still thinks Preston’s ultimate threat is my career. She doesn't know that I already traded the security division for the files on her mother. She doesn't know that tomorrow morning, regardless of what happens tonight, the board will likely vote to remove me.
I reach over, my hand covering hers.
"He cannot use you to hurt me," I say evenly. "Because he cannot touch you."
"I know. But I don't want you to lose everything you built because of a fake engagement that turned into a war."
It isn't fake.
The words sit heavy on my tongue, but I don't say them.
Not yet. She needs to walk into that ballroom tonight believing that she is an equal partner in this operation.
If she knows the extent of what I have already sacrificed, she will feel guilty.
Guilt causes hesitation, and hesitation tonight will be fatal.
"I am not going to lose anything that matters," I promise her.
The SUV slows down as we approach the massive iron gates of the Vance estate.
The scene outside the mansion is chaotic.
There are at least three times as many cars as there were for the family dinner.
A red carpet has been rolled out across the stone driveway, flanked by velvet ropes.
The press is contained behind the ropes, their cameras flashing in a continuous, blinding strobe.
Grant pulls the SUV up to the main entrance.
"Stay close to me," I murmur, my hand sliding from hers to rest on the small of her back.
"Always," she replies.
Grant opens the door. The noise of the crowd hits us instantly. Shouts from photographers, the low hum of the valets coordinating the vehicles, the sharp winter wind cutting through the courtyard.
I step out first, buttoning my jacket, and turn back to offer Audrey my hand.
She steps out of the car.
The reaction is identical to the gala, but magnified by a factor of ten. The gold silk catches the floodlights, shimmering like liquid fire against the dark stone of the mansion. The photographers go absolutely feral.
"Malcolm! Over here!"
"Audrey! Who are you wearing?"
"Is Preston Vance inside?"
I ignore them. I keep my hand anchored firmly on Audrey’s bare back, guiding her up the red carpet. She doesn't flinch. She keeps her chin high, her expression a perfect mask of untouchable elegance.
We reach the top of the stairs. The two security contractors at the door hold up their RFID scanners.
I don't slow down. I look directly at the larger of the two men.
"Put the scanner down," I say, my voice cutting through the noise of the press behind us.
The contractor hesitates, his eyes darting to Grant, who is standing right behind my shoulder. The contractor lowers the scanner and pulls the heavy oak door open.
We step into the foyer.
The interior of the house is suffocatingly opulent. The floral arrangements from the dinner have been replaced by massive, cascading displays of white roses. The string quartet has been upgraded to a full chamber orchestra playing in the main ballroom.
I guide Audrey toward the entrance of the ballroom.
The room is packed. The entire board of directors for the Vance holding company is here. The mayor is here. The elite of Chicago are holding crystal flutes of champagne, waiting for the spectacle to begin.
And standing on the raised dais at the far end of the room, looking like a king surveying his court, is Preston Vance.
Simon is standing next to him, wearing a black tuxedo that looks identical to mine. The blonde receptionist is clinging to his arm, wearing a white gown that looks entirely too much like a wedding dress.
"They look ridiculous," Audrey whispers, her breath warm against my neck.
"They look desperate," I correct her.
We walk into the room.
The crowd doesn't part for us this time. They turn to look, their eyes tracking the gold dress, the vintage ring, and the absolute lack of hesitation in our posture.
Preston sees us.
His smile doesn't falter, but the grip on his champagne glass tightens. He leans over and whispers something to Simon. Simon looks up, his eyes locking onto Audrey.
The color drains from my brother’s face. He looks at the gold dress, and the realization hits him with the force of a physical blow. He wanted her to blend in. I put her in gold to ensure she is the only thing anyone looks at.
"Malcolm."
A voice cuts through the ambient noise of the ballroom.
I turn my head.
Richard Sterling, the chief financial officer of the Vance holding company, is standing a few feet away. He is a man who survives entirely by attaching himself to whoever holds the most power in the room. Tonight, he is clearly unsure who that is.
"Richard," I say smoothly.
"We weren't entirely sure you would attend," Richard says, his eyes darting nervously to Audrey. "Given the... tensions reported in the press."
"The press reports what it is paid to report," I reply. "Audrey and I wouldn't miss a family celebration."
Richard swallows hard. "Preston has requested a brief meeting with the board members in the library before the toasts begin. He asked that you join us."
I look at the dais. Preston is no longer standing there. He has retreated to his sanctuary.
It is the same tactic he used at the dinner. He wants to separate us. He wants to pull me into a room full of men whose paychecks he controls, isolate me, and force a confrontation while Audrey is left unprotected in the ballroom.