Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
brOOKS
The first fourteen days of our engagement are a study in armed neutrality.
We exist in the cottage like two rival nations sharing a border. We have routines. We have treaties. We have the Great Wall of Down, which Ivy reconstructs every night with an intensity that borders on aggressive.
We drink coffee together on the patio at 7:30 AM for the staff. We hold hands when we walk to the main house for my mother. We retreat to opposite sides of the room the second the door closes for our sanity.
It is polite. It is professional. It is driving me absolutely insane.
Today is the Annual Mid-Summer Charity Gala. The schedule is packed. The house is full. My mother has opinions.
That alone makes the day volatile.
There are very few things that frighten my mother. Betty Taylor has stared down IRS auditors, hostile board members, and a Somali pirate who once attempted to board our yacht off the coast of the Seychelles. She criticized his footwear until he left.
So finding her standing in the middle of the Eastmoor ballroom at two o'clock, looking visibly pale and clutching a linen napkin like a lifeline, is... concerning.
I stop in the doorway. "Mother?"
She turns. Her eyes are wide. "She left, Brooks. She just... left."
"Who?"
"Colette. The planner." Betty gestures vaguely to the chaos around her with a trembling hand.
"I offered her a gentle critique regarding the placement of the raw bar, shellfish in direct sunlight is a lawsuit waiting to happen, and she threw her clipboard into the hydrangeas and drove off in her Fiat. "
I look around the ballroom.
It is four hours until the gala begins. Three hundred of New York's wealthiest donors are currently dressing for the occasion. And the ballroom looks like a crime scene.
Crates of unboxed glassware are stacked precariously near the door. Tables are half-set. A ladder is standing in the middle of the dance floor with no one on it. A group of waiters is standing in the corner, looking leaderless and checking their phones.
"She took the schedule," my mother whispers, horrified. "She took the vendor list. Brooks, I don't know where the band is supposed to load in. I don't know where the ice sculpture goes."
"Okay," I say, stepping into the room. My brain shifts into crisis mode. "We can fix this. I'll call my assistant. We'll get the staff organized."
"Your assistant is in the city," Betty snaps, regaining some of her fire. "And these caterers don't report to you. They reported to Colette. It's a disaster. It's a humiliation. The Times style section is sending a photographer."
She sinks onto a gold Chiavari chair, looking suddenly small. "I'll have to cancel," she says. "I'll have to call the committee and claim a gas leak."
"You are not canceling," a voice says from the doorway.
I turn. Ivy is standing there.
She's wearing cutoff denim shorts and an oversized white button-down shirt that I recognize immediately because it belongs to me.
She must have stolen it from the closet this morning.
Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot, held together by a pencil.
She is holding a half-eaten apple in one hand and her phone in the other.
She looks completely out of place among the crystal chandeliers and limestone. And she looks absolutely magnificent.
"Ivy," I say. "Go back to the cottage. It's a war zone in here."
"I know," she says calmly, taking a bite of the apple. "I saw Colette peeling out of the driveway. She nearly took out a topiary. I assumed there was a vacuum in leadership."
She walks into the room, her eyes scanning the chaos. She doesn't look panicked. She looks... bored. Like she's seen worse.
"Mrs. Taylor," Ivy says, swallowing her apple. "Where is the master binder?"
"Colette took it," my mother says tragically.
"Rookie mistake," Ivy murmurs. She walks over to the stack of crates. She runs a hand over a table setting. She checks the position of the sun through the French doors. Then, she turns to us.
The shift is instantaneous. She straightens her spine. Her expression sharpens. The "fake fiancée" mask falls away, replaced by something far more intimidating: The General.
"Okay," Ivy says, her voice projecting clearly across the cavernous room. "Here's what's going to happen. Mrs. Taylor, go upstairs, take a Xanax, and get your hair done. You are the face of the event. You cannot be seen sweating near a crate of stemware."
My mother blinks. "But—"
"Go," Ivy commands. It's not a request. "I need you radiant at 6:00 PM. I'll handle the floor."
Betty looks at me. I nod. "Go, Mother."
Betty stands up, smooths her skirt, and, miraculously, obeys. She flees the room as if escaping a burning building.
Ivy turns to the huddle of waiters. "You three," she points. "Front of house? Or catering?"
"Catering," one of them stammers.
"Great. The raw bar needs to move to the north wall, away from the windows. Ice it down now. If I see a lukewarm oyster, you're fired. Go."
They scramble.
"You in the vest," she points to another guy. "Find the banquet captain. Tell him I need the table schematic. If he doesn't have one, tell him to draw it on a napkin and bring it to me in five minutes."
"Yes, ma'am."
Ivy turns to me. She walks over, tossing her apple core into a nearby trash can with the accuracy of a sniper. "Brooks," she says. "I need your phone."
"Why?"
"Because families like yours don't change vendors," she says, already moving. "They inherit them. Florists, caterers, bands. Passed down like fine china. Someone in there will have what I need."
I unlock my phone and hand it to her. She starts scrolling through my contacts.
"Who does your mother use for florals?"
"Bellmont's. They've done the estate for fifteen years."
She finds the number and dials. I watch her face shift as someone answers.
"Hi, this is Ivy Sullivan calling on behalf of the Taylor estate.
I'm checking on the delivery status for this afternoon's event.
" A pause. Her jaw tightens. "I see. And when did this happen?
" Another pause. "Right. I'll be in touch. "
She hangs up and looks at me. "Their truck broke down an hour ago. They weren't going to call until they had a solution."
"What do you need me to do?" I ask.
She looks up at me. Her eyes are bright with adrenaline. There's a faint smudge of something on her cheekbone. "I need you not to lift anything," she says immediately. "Those crates of glassware are in the way, which is a problem. But you are a bigger one."
I blink. "I'm capable of moving a crate."
"Your doctor said light duty for another week," she says, flat and unamused. "And you're wearing loafers, not steel-toed boots. You supervise."
I glance toward the crates anyway. Old habit.
Her hand snaps out and presses lightly against my chest. Not hard. Just enough to stop momentum. "No," she says. "You direct. You delegate. You use your terrifying Taylor voice and make other people very efficient."
I hesitate. "Then what am I doing, exactly?"
She points without looking. "You're finding the AV team. You're telling them that if they tape down one more cord with duct tape instead of gaffer tape, I will personally end their careers with an HDMI cable. And then you're standing there to make sure they believe you."
I stare at her. "That seems aggressive."
"It's the biggest event of the season," she says. "They expect it."
She turns away, lifting my phone to her ear.
"Hi, this is Ivy Sullivan calling on behalf of Betty Taylor.
Yes. We have a situation with the hydrangeas.
I don't care what the contract says. If you don't have fresh stems here in an hour, Mrs. Taylor will make sure you never work in this zip code again. Wonderful. See you soon."
I watch her for a beat longer than necessary. I should be irritated. I manage a billion-dollar portfolio. I do not take orders from professional stand-ins with smudged cheekbones. But as she pivots to correct a lighting technician about the amber wash, something settles into place in my chest.
It isn't annoyance. It isn't the concussion. It's the realization that the room is moving because she told it to.
None of this is in the contract. The contract says hold his hand, attend events, be convincing.
It doesn't say commandeer a three-hundred-person event because the florist's truck broke down.
She could have done the minimum. She could have stood in the corner looking engaged and let the staff sort it out. But she's treating this like it's hers.
I tug my sweater sleeves down, square my shoulders, and head for the AV team. Supervising. Exactly like I was told.
For the next three hours, I am not a venture capitalist. I am infrastructure.
I don't lift anything heavier than a clipboard. I don't climb ladders. I station myself at choke points, redirect traffic, clear paths, and intercept problems before they reach Ivy.
I run interference when my father tries to wander in. "Dad, not now," I say, steering him by the elbow toward the door. He raises an eyebrow but retreats. Ivy shoots me a grateful look from across the room.
It is a masterclass in measured momentum.
She's everywhere without rushing, issuing instructions that land cleanly and stick.
She diffuses arguments between the caterers and the house staff with charm edged by logic sharp enough to cut glass.
She improvises without hesitation. Extra linens become camouflage for unsightly cords, a broken centerpiece becomes a cocktail arrangement, a temperamental band leader is somehow persuaded to set up ten minutes early and thanks her for the privilege.
She is relentless. She is precise. She is brilliant.
At 5:15 p.m., the room is unrecognizable. Amber lighting washes the limestone walls in a warm, honeyed glow. Tables are arranged in neat rows. The band sound-checks a soft jazz number. The air smells of expensive flowers and expectation.