Chapter 9 #2
"The Jersey branch," I say, keeping my expression fixed. "Exit 14. Near the refinery."
Penelope blinks. Her nose wrinkles slightly, as if she smells sulfur. "Oh. How... quaint."
She takes a sip of her mimosa, looking me up and down. Her gaze calculates the cost of my dress, my shoes, my haircut. She stops at the ring on my finger, Brooks's grandmother's ring, and her eyes narrow.
"I heard you were the one who saved Betty's party yesterday," she says. "Word travels fast in the Hamptons. They say you were moving crates in your bare feet. It must be so helpful for Brooks to have a partner who is accustomed to... manual labor."
The insult lands with surgical intent.
Around us, conversation lulls. People are listening. She didn't just call me working class; she called me hired help. She called me a servant in Brooks's world.
Shame heats up my neck, hot and prickly. I open my mouth to respond, to make a joke, to deflect, to use my 'fixer' charm to de-escalate the situation because that is what I do. I smooth things over. I take the hit.
But Brooks beats me to it.
His hand on my waist tightens, pulling me flush against his side. The air around him drops ten degrees. The polite, social mask he wears so well shatters, revealing the man beneath, the one who blackmailed me, the one who built a fortune on ruthlessness.
"Actually, Penelope," Brooks says. His voice isn't loud, but it projects clearly over the terrace, silencing the nearby tables. "It is helpful. Because while Ivy was saving the event, the rest of us were standing around helpless, watching the ice melt."
Penelope's smile falters. "I just meant—"
"I know what you meant," Brooks interrupts, his tone cutting. "You meant to imply that she works for a living. And you're right. She does. She built her own company from the ground up. She creates success instead of inheriting it and waiting for a board meeting to validate her existence."
Penelope recoils as if slapped. The color drains from her face.
But Brooks isn't finished. He turns slightly, blocking Penelope from my view, creating a shield with his body. He looks down at me, and the coldness in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a heat that makes my knees weak.
"Frankly," he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, "I find her ambition incredibly attractive. It's refreshing to be with a woman who brings more to the table than a trust fund."
He lifts my hand, the one with the massive diamond, to his lips. He kisses my knuckles, his eyes locked on mine.
"Don't you agree, darling?"
My heart stops. Then it restarts at double speed, thudding against my ribs like a bird trapped in a cage.
He isn't just playing the part. He is defending me. He is claiming me. He just insulted a woman he has known for twenty years to protect my honor.
I look at Penelope. She looks like she just swallowed a lemon whole.
"Thank you, Brooks," I say softly, my voice breathless. I turn to Penelope and flash her my brightest smile. "He's so supportive. It must be why we work so well together. I handle the logistics; he handles the... difficult personalities."
Penelope flushes a blotchy red that clashes horribly with her pale blue dress.
"Well," she stammers, taking a step back. "I... excuse me. I think I see my mother."
She turns and disappears into the crowd with impressive speed.
Silence hangs over our little circle for half a beat, and then the chatter resumes, louder, sharper, feeding on itself. Heads tilt. Glances linger.
We are the main event.
We are the drama.
Brooks watches her go, his jaw tight. Then he looks down at me. The anger fades from his expression, leaving behind concern.
"You okay?" he asks.
I look up at him. I look at the sharp line of his jaw, the dark eyes that are currently looking at me like I'm the only person on this terrace.
"I'm better than okay," I whisper. "That was..."
"Manual labor?" he teases, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"Hot," I admit. The truth slips out before I can stop it. "That was really, really hot."
Brooks grins. It's not the boardroom smile. It's the burger joint smile. Real. Warm. Dangerous.
He leans in, his mouth inches from my ear.
"Careful, fiancée," he murmurs. "You keep looking at me like that, and I'm going to forget about Clause 4."
A shiver runs through me. I want him to forget it. God help me, I want him to rip the contract up and throw it into the Atlantic Ocean.
"Let's get a drink," he says, pulling back but keeping his arm firmly around me. "I think we earned a mimosa. And I saw some quiche over there that looks suspiciously moist."
As we walk toward the bar, weaving through the crowd that parts for us like the Red Sea, I realize something terrifying.
I'm not pretending anymore. I'm leaning into him because I want to. I'm tucked against his side because he feels safe.
The ring on my finger catches the light. A prop. A contract. A performance we're both being paid to deliver.
I look up at Brooks Taylor, and my chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with saving my company.