Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
brOOKS
My office is designed to intimidate.
It is a glass box suspended forty stories above Manhattan, decorated in shades of slate, charcoal, and aggression. The table is a twelve-foot slab of reclaimed teak that dominates the room with brutal elegance. The view is a panoramic sweep of the city I usually feel like I own.
Today, however, the view is making me nauseous.
I press two fingers against my temple, trying to massage away the headache that has become my constant companion since the "Cherub Incident." My doctor called it a mild concussion. I call it a persistent, rhythmic reminder that my life has been hijacked by a woman in a polyester bridesmaid dress.
I check my watch. 8:58 AM.
She's going to be late.
Satisfaction sparks in my chest. If she's late, she's disorganized. If she's disorganized, I have the upper hand.
The elevator doors at the end of the hall ding.
I turn, ready to deliver my opening line about punctuality.
But the words die in my throat.
I was expecting Ivy. One person, but three people step out of the elevator. They arrive together, aligned, unmistakably intentional.
Mason Kincaid leads the group. He wears a navy suit cut well beyond off-the-rack, a leather briefcase in hand that has seen courtrooms and survived them. He moves with the calm authority of a man who bills by six-minute increments and expects to be paid.
Flanking him on the left is a woman with wild, curly hair and hoop earrings large enough for a parakeet to swing through. She is wearing a vintage leopard print coat and a glare that could peel paint. That must be Savannah Kingston. I recognize her from the website bio.
And in the middle, protected like a high-value witness, is Ivy.
I blink.
Gone is the dirt-streaked, frantic woman in the ruined champagne dress. In her place is... a problem.
She's wearing a white linen sundress that manages to be both demure and distracting. A wide-brimmed hat is held in one hand. Her hair is smoothed back into a sleek, low bun. She looks polished. Expensive. Like she belongs in the Hamptons. Like she belongs in my world.
She catches my eye through the glass wall of the conference room. She doesn't smile. She lifts her chin, just a fraction, as if to say, Try me. I suppress a smirk. God, she's annoying. And unfortunately, she's perfect for the job.
I open the door as they approach.
"You're right on time," I say, abandoning my speech about lateness.
"We like to be prepared," Mason says smoothly, extending a hand. His grip is firm, professional. "Brooks. Good to see you upright."
"Mason," I reply, matching his grip. "I didn't realize you were representing Ms. Sullivan legally. I thought you were just... friends."
"I'm her counsel," Mason corrects, stepping into the room and claiming the head of the table as if he pays the lease. "And this is Savannah Kingston, partner in Ever After, Inc."
Savvy doesn't shake my hand. She looks me up and down, her eyes lingering on the bandage on my temple.
"It looks smaller than I hoped," she says.
"Savvy," Ivy warns.
"What? I'm assessing the damage," Savvy says, breezing past me to take a seat. She drops her purse on the teak table with a thud. "Nice office. Very... villain's lair. Do you have a white cat you stroke while you fire people, or is that in the budget for Q3?"
"I'm allergic to cats," I say, closing the door. "Please, sit."
Ivy takes the chair opposite me. She places her hat on the table and folds her hands in her lap. She looks calm, but the pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat gives her away.
She's scared. Good. Fear keeps people compliant.
I slide a manila folder across the table toward her.
"The agreement," I say. "It outlines the terms of our... arrangement. Eight weeks. Residency at the Eastmoor Estate. Public appearances as required. A strict NDA regarding the origins of our relationship."
Ivy reaches for it, but Mason's hand lands on the folder first.
"We've taken the liberty of drafting a counter-proposal," Mason says, pulling a document from his briefcase. He slides it toward me.
I stare at it. "A counter-proposal? This isn't a negotiation, Mason. This is a surrender."
"It's a contract for services," Mason counters, opening his own copy. "And if you want Ivy to perform those services, you'll agree to our terms. Otherwise, you can go ahead and file that lawsuit. I've already drafted the motion to dismiss based on provocation."
I narrow my eyes. "Provocation?"
"You charged the altar," Mason says simply. "A reasonable person could argue Ivy was acting in defense of the bride. It's a toss-up, Brooks. Do you want to roll the dice on a jury trial? Or do you want to protect the deal?"
I grind my teeth. He's good. I hate that he's good.
I pick up the document. "What are the terms?"
"Clause 1," Mason says. "Compensation."
"The compensation is that I don't destroy her company."
"The compensation," Mason corrects, "is a donation. Upon the successful completion of the contract, Labor Day, you will make a tax-deductible donation of fifty thousand dollars to a charity of Ivy's choice."
"Fifty thousand?" I scoff. "For what? Acting lessons?"
"For hazard pay," Savvy interjects. "She's spending the summer with you and your mother. Honestly, we should have asked for double."
I look at Ivy. She hasn't said a word. She's watching me, her face unreadable.
"Fine," I snap. Fifty grand is a rounding error for the firm. "Next."
"Clause 4," Mason continues. "Scope of Intimacy."
I pause. "Excuse me?"
"We need to define the boundaries of the performance," Mason says, as clinically as if he were discussing zoning laws.
"Hand-holding and arms-linked walking are permitted in public.
Kissing is permitted only when cameras are present or when necessary to maintain the ruse in front of immediate family. "
"No tongue," Savvy adds helpfully.
A vein in my forehead throbs. "I wasn't planning on it."
"Good," Ivy speaks. Her voice is cool, like clear water. "Because if you try to take liberties, Brooks, the deal is off. I am playing a role. I am not a member of your harem."
"You're my employee," I correct her. "And don't worry, Ivy. I don't mix business with pleasure. You're not my type."
"And what is your type?" she asks, tilting her head. "Women who don't tackle you?"
"Women who don't commit felonies," I shoot back. "And women who don't lie to nurses."
"We're getting off track," Mason interrupts, tapping the paper. "Clause 4, Section B. Private accommodations. You stated she would be staying in the guest cottage?"
"Yes."
"And the sleeping arrangements?"
I hesitate. I haven't checked the guest cottage since the renovations started. My mother's text just said, The cottage is ready for you and your guest.
"It's a fully furnished cottage," I say dismissively. "I assume there are bedrooms."
"We require a separate room for Ivy," Mason says. "With a locking door."
"Fine," I say, waving a hand. "Done. Whatever. Is there anything else, or can we sign this and get on the road? The traffic to the Hamptons is already building."
"One last thing," Mason says. His voice drops, losing its legal polish and becoming something harder. Something protective. "Clause 9. The Exit Strategy."
"I already told her. We break up after Labor Day. I sign the waiver."
"We want the waiver signed now," Mason says. "Held in escrow by a third party. To be released to Ivy automatically on September 5th, provided she has fulfilled the contract terms."
I lean back in my chair. "You don't trust me."
"I don't know you," Mason says. "And the version of you I saw at the wedding was.
.. impulsive. I'm not letting my client work for two months with a sword hanging over her head.
Sign the waiver now. Put it in escrow. If she breaches the contract, you get it back and you can sue her.
If she does the job, she gets it and she's free. "
I look at the three of them.
They are a wall. A united front. They have thought of everything. They have protected her from every angle.
A strange, sour pang hits my chest. Jealousy? No. Annoyance.
I don't have people like this. I have a board of directors who wants to replace me and a mother who treats me like a show pony. If I were in Ivy's position, no one would be sitting in a conference room fighting for my "Scope of Intimacy" clauses.
"You have good friends, Ivy," I say quietly.
She looks at Mason and Savvy, and for a second, her mask slips. A soft, genuine smile touches her lips. It transforms her face. It makes her look... radiant.
"I know," she says.
She turns back to me, the mask sliding back into place. "Do we have a deal, Brooks? Or are you going to call your lawyer?"
I look at the contract. It's bloated with liabilities and emotional riders. In any other deal, I'd redline the hell out of it.
But it secures the asset. It's the most expensive insurance policy I've ever purchased, and I'm about to pay the premium.
I pull a Montblanc pen from my pocket.
"We have a deal."
I sign the bottom of the page with a sharp, aggressive scrawl and slide the document to Ivy.
She picks up the pen. Her hand hovers over the paper. This is it. The moment she sells her summer. The moment she binds herself to me.
She takes a deep breath, signs her name in a looping, artistic script, and sets the pen down.
Ivy Sullivan.
The ink is wet. The trap is sprung.
"Welcome to the firm," I say, standing up.
Savvy stands up too, grabbing her purse. "If you make her cry," she says pleasantly, "I will bribe your housekeeper to put shrimp tails in your curtain rods. You won't find the smell for months."
"Noted," I say.
Mason stands and shakes my hand again. "Take care of her, Brooks. She's the best person we know."
"I'll try not to break her," I promise.
"Try not to let her break you," Mason replies, a cryptic look on his face.
They leave. The room goes quiet.
It's just me and Ivy now.
She stands up, picking up her hat. She looks small against the backdrop of the city skyline, but she's standing tall.
"So," she says. "The Hamptons."
"The Hamptons," I agree. "My driver is downstairs. Your bags are in the car?"
"Yes."
"Then let's go. We have a lunch reservation in Southampton at one. My mother will be there."
Ivy pales slightly. "Today? I thought I had time to... acclimate."
"Trial by fire, darling," I say, moving toward the door. I pause as I pass her, leaning in close. She smells like vanilla and terror. "And don't forget Clause 4."
She stiffens. "Which part?"
"Hand-holding is permitted."
I reach out and take her hand. Her fingers are cold. Mine are warm. The fit is... irritatingly good.
I pull her toward the door.
"Showtime, fiancée."
We ride the elevator down in silence. The mahogany doors of the lobby open, and the humidity of the New York summer hits us instantly.
My black SUV is waiting at the curb. My driver, Tony, opens the back door.
I usher Ivy inside. She slides across the leather seat, arranging her dress carefully. I climb in after her.
"Eastmoor, Tony," I say. "And take the LIE. I want to get there before noon."
"You got it, Mr. Taylor."
Normally I'd take the helicopter from the West Side helipad—thirty-five minutes, door to tarmac. But the neurologist was specific about altitude restrictions post-concussion, so I'm stuck on the Long Island Expressway like a civilian.
The partition slides up. We are alone in the cool, leather-scented dark of the car.
Ivy lets out a long breath, slumping against the door. "Okay. Phase one complete. No lawsuits filed."
"Yet," I remind her, pulling out my phone to check emails.
"You're charming," she mutters, looking out the window as the city starts to blur by.
I ignore her, scrolling through the updates from the office. But I can't focus. I'm hyper-aware of her presence next to me. The rustle of her linen dress. The way she's tapping her finger against her knee.
My phone buzzes.
Mom
Is she appropriate? The last girl you brought home wore denim.
I glance at Ivy. The white dress. The sleek hair. The posture that suggests she's ready for war or a cocktail party, whichever comes first.
I type back.
Brooks
She's perfect.
I lock the phone. It's the truth, more or less. I don't need a debutante; I need a strategist. I need a fixer.
I lean my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes. The headache is still there, a dull throb pulsing in my temples. It's going to be a long drive. A long summer.
But as the car merges onto the highway, speeding toward the Hamptons, a strange sensation blooms in my chest. It's not panic about the deal. It's not the anger of the assault.
It's anticipation.
The highway stretches ahead, bright and relentless. In the rearview mirror, Manhattan shrinks to nothing. I should feel in control. I don't.