Chapter 7 #2
"This deal. The Holloway Group. It's mine.
I sourced it. I built it. If it closes, it modernizes the entire firm.
It secures our future for the next twenty years.
But if I stumble, if I look, even for a second, like a liability, he kills it.
And he hands the company to a board of sixty-year-old men who still think the internet is a fad. "
I watch him. I see the tension in his jaw, the white-knuckle grip he has on the duvet.
I understand him.
It hits me suddenly, forcefully. I know that feeling. The need to build something that's yours. The fear that one wrong move will send it all back where you started.
Ever After, Inc. began in River Bend, with people who knew exactly where they came from and exactly what the world expected of them.
We weren't outsiders to each other. We were outsiders to everyone else.
So we built something together. Fought for every contract.
Earned our place in rooms that assumed we didn't belong there.
Brooks was born into those rooms.
But staying in them takes work.
And I recognize that fight immediately.
"He's wrong."
Brooks looks back at me. "What?"
"Your father. He's wrong. You're not reckless."
Brooks raises an eyebrow. "I seem to recall you calling me 'impulsive' regarding the wedding interruption."
"That was calculated." I meet his gaze. "Stupid but calculated. You assessed the bride, decided she was a risk, and moved to mitigate. That's not recklessness, Brooks. That's risk management. You just had bad data."
A small, genuine smile touches the corner of his mouth. "Bad data?"
"Laurie isn't a gold digger. But your instinct to protect the firm? That wasn't wrong."
He studies me. The silence in the room shifts. It stops being tense and starts being... comfortable. Intimate.
"You're good at this," he says quietly. "The pep talk thing."
"I've talked grooms off ledges you wouldn't believe," I say. "I once had to convince a man that marrying into a family that owned a ferret farm was a sound strategic decision."
He laughs. It's a soft sound, but it breaks the heaviness in the room.
"Go to sleep, Brooks," I say, standing up. "Your father can't audit your foundation if you look like a zombie tomorrow."
"Ivy?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
He says it simply. No sarcasm. No "darling." Gratitude.
A flush of warmth blooms in my chest that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
"Don't get used to it," I say, retreating to the safety of my side of the bed. "I'm billing you for the nursing hours."
I climb back next to the Great Wall of Down. I pull the covers up to my chin, turning my back to him.
"Goodnight, fiancée," he says.
"Goodnight, liability."
I close my eyes.
The room is quiet again. But this time, the sound of his breathing doesn't keep me awake. It's steady. Calm.
And for the first time since I tackled him, I think we might actually survive this.
I drift off to sleep, dreaming of amber lighting and ice packs, and the strange, terrifying realization that the enemy might have a heart after all.
The sun hits me in the face like a physical slap.
I groan, burying my face in the pillow. It takes my brain a solid three seconds to reboot.
Smell of jasmine. High thread count sheets. The Hamptons.
I shoot up in bed.
The room is flooded with morning light. The birds are singing with an enthusiasm that frankly feels mocking.
I look to my right.
The pillow wall has been breached.
The bolster pillow is on the floor. The silk square is halfway across the room. And the space beside me is empty.
Panic spikes in my chest. Where is he?
I scramble out of bed, my heart racing. Did he pass out? Did he wander off? Did Betty eat him for breakfast?
"Brooks?" I call out, my voice cracking with sleep.
"Out here."
The voice comes from the patio.
I grab my silk robe, wrapping it tight around me, and pad barefoot to the French doors. I push them open.
Brooks is sitting at the small iron table on the patio. He's showered and dressed in a navy polo and khaki shorts. He's drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. An actual, physical newspaper.
He looks up as I step out. The bruising on his temple has turned a lovely shade of greenish-yellow, but his eyes are clear.
"Morning," he says. He pushes a second mug of coffee across the table. "I assumed you took it black. You seem like a caffeine purist."
I stare at the coffee. It's steaming. It smells like salvation.
"You're awake," I say dumbly. "And you're... dressed."
"My father is doing his perimeter walk at 8 AM," Brooks says, checking his watch. "It is currently 7:45. Drink up. We have fifteen minutes to look like a happily engaged couple enjoying a slow morning."
I sit down, grabbing the mug with both hands. I take a sip. It's perfect. Strong, hot, and expensive.
"How's the head?" I ask.
"Better," he says. He looks at me over the rim of his cup. "Thanks to the ice. And the tyranny."
"I prefer 'aggressive caretaking.'"
He smiles. "Whatever you call it. It worked."
He reaches into the center of the table and picks something up.
"Also," he says, folding his paper, "I have a gift for you."
I narrow my eyes. "Is it a subpoena?"
"No."
He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and holds out his hand. In his palm sits a small velvet box.
My breath catches. "Brooks. What is that?"
"We're engaged," he says, his voice sliding into that smooth, public-facing register. "Engaged people usually have hardware."
He pauses, then adds, "After yesterday's... miscalculation, I had Marta retrieve something from my safe and have it delivered this morning. I'm hoping for the best."
He flips the box open.
I gasp.
It's a ring. But not just a ring. It's a vintage Art Deco emerald-cut diamond, easily four carats, flanked by baguettes and set in platinum. Stunning. Tasteful. The sort of ring I would have pinned to a dream board I pretended didn't exist.
"It was my grandmother's," Brooks says lightly. "She left it to me. Told me to give it to a woman who could hold her own in a fight."
His gaze lifts to mine, amused.
"I figured you qualified."
I stare at the ring. Then at him.
"You're giving me your grandmother's ring?" My voice drops. "Brooks, this is a family heirloom. I can't wear this. What if I lose it? What if I scratch it?"
"It's insured," he says. "Heavily. And you're not being given anything."
That stops me.
He reaches for my left hand, hesitating just long enough to register. Then he slides the ring onto my finger.
It fits.
Not perfectly snug. Not loose enough to panic. Just... right.
We both look down at it.
"Well," he says. "That's fortunate."
The tightness in my body relents.
"There," he adds, easing back. "Now you're convincing."
Sunlight catches in his eyes, warming their color. For a brief moment, he doesn't look like a man executing a strategy. He looks almost surprised by how effective the ring is at selling the illusion.
"Clause One addendum," he says quietly. "The ring is a loan. It goes back in the safe after Labor Day."
"Brooks—"
"It's a prop," he says, already unfolding his paper again. "A very effective one. Now drink your coffee. My father is coming down the path, and if you don't look adoring in three seconds, we're both fired."
I glance toward the garden gate. Preston Taylor is indeed marching toward us like he's inspecting troops.
I look down at the ring. Heavy. Cool. Impossibly beautiful.
Temporary.
I inhale, set my expression, and lean across the table. Because I am a professional. And because he dared me.
I place my hand over his, letting the diamond catch the light.
"Good morning, Preston!" I call brightly.
Brooks doesn't look up, but the corner of his mouth lifts.
"Showtime," he says.
And God help me, I think I'm starting to enjoy the show.