6. Huxley
HUXLEY
T he silence in the Luckett Global conference room is artificial.
It’s the kind of quiet that only costs tens of millions of dollars in soundproofing and NDAs.
I stand by the window, adjusting my cufflinks, watching the reflection of the heavy hitters behind me.
My father, Robert, is checking his Patek Philippe with the kind of clinical detachment he’s used to build our dynasty.
Nicholas Luckett is sitting at the center of the table, looking like a man awaiting a verdict.
Then the doors open, and Gwendaly enters.
She’s wearing a tailored black suit that looks like a direct challenge to the white one she wore earlier. It’s mourning attire for a corporate execution. Her eyes find mine instantly—amber, sharp, and currently radiating a temperature that could flash-freeze the glass of water in front of me.
"You're thirty seconds early," I note, checking my own watch. "I’m impressed, Gwendaly. I thought you might still be drafting a protest letter."
"I decided a signature was faster," she says, her voice as smooth as polished stone.
She doesn't look at the lawyers. She doesn't look at her father. She walks straight to the chair across from mine and sits, crossing her legs with a slow, deliberate grace that tells me she’s fully aware of how much power she still holds in this room.
"Let’s get the 'Clause' out of the way, Huxley. I have a summer to dread."
Robert slides the thick stack of papers toward the center of the table. "The terms are exactly as discussed. The acquisition of the Luckett debt is contingent upon the public execution of this engagement. Summer in the Hamptons. High-profile appearances. A September wedding."
"And the addendum?" Gwendaly asks, her eyes narrowing as she looks at my father.
"The Savannah project remains yours," I interject, pulling her attention back to me. I like it when she looks at me, even when she looks like she’s mentally calculating the best way to dispose of my body.
"I don't have the time or the interest to micro-manage your blueprints, Princess. I just want the logistics to work."
"Don't call me that," she snaps. "In this room, I’m the Chief Structural Designer of Luckett Global. If you want a Princess, go buy a Disney Plus subscription."
I smirk. It’s a reflexive response to the way she bristles. "Noted. Chief Designer. Sign the paper, and we can get to the part where we pretend to like each other for the cameras."
The head of our legal team, a man who looks like he hasn't seen the sun since the nineties, hands her a heavy, gold-plated fountain pen. I watch her as she takes it. Her fingers are long, her nails painted a deep, blood-red that matches the rubies in the ring she’s already wearing.
She reaches for the final page.
I see it then. Just as the tip of the nib touches the paper, her hand gives a tiny, involuntary tremor. It’s a microscopic shake, gone in a heartbeat, but it’s there. The steel she’s been projecting has a crack.
For a split second, a sharp, unexpected pang of guilt hits me. It’s a foreign sensation—a glitch in the system. I’m essentially buying this woman’s life to secure a shipping lane. I’m using her family’s legacy as leverage to force her into my house.
"Gwendaly," I say in a low growl.
She freezes, the pen hovering. She looks up, her expression a mask of icy composure. "What, Huxley? Do you have more fine print? Or do you want to remind me again how much I’m worth on the secondary market?"
"Just sign it," I say, the guilt hardening into a defensive wall. "The car is waiting downstairs."
She scrawls her signature—a jagged, aggressive series of lines—and pushes the folder toward me. I sign mine without hesitation. My signature is a series of sharp, precise slashes.
"It’s official," Robert says, standing up. "The Kinlow Clause is active. Nicholas, a pleasure doing business with you."
Nicholas Luckett stands, looking at his daughter with a pained expression. "Gwen..."
"I’ll see you at the Hamptons house, Dad," she interrupts, standing up so quickly her chair scrapes against the floor. She grabs her clutch and heads for the door. "I’m sure Huxley has an itinerary for me to memorize."
"I do," I say, falling into step beside her as we exit the room. The lawyers and fathers stay behind, already discussing the stock market's reaction.
The hallway is long, lined with the history of the Luckett family. Every portrait we pass seems to be judging me. Gwendaly is walking so fast I have to lengthen my stride to keep up.
"You’re vibrating," I say as we reach the elevator bank. "If you keep this up, you’re going to shatter before we even hit the FDR Drive."
"I am perfectly fine," she says, her voice tight. She hits the down button three times. "I’m just excited to start my new life as a corporate accessory. Isn't that what every girl dreams of?"
"You're not an accessory. You’re a partner."
"A partner usually has a choice, Huxley. I have a bill of sale."
The elevator doors slide open. We step inside, and the silence is immediate. I watch her in the mirrored walls. She’s staring straight ahead, her jaw set so hard I can see the muscle jumping in her cheek. She looks like she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will.
"Listen," I start, reaching out to touch her arm.
"Don't," she says, flinching away before I can make contact.
She turns to me, her eyes flashing with a raw, honest pain that stops me cold.
"Don't try to be nice now, Huxley. It’s insulting.
You got what you wanted. You got the ports, you got the debt, and you got the girl.
Just play the part and stay out of my way. "
The elevator chimes as we hit the lobby. I want to say something—to tell her that I didn't want it to be like this, that I actually respect the hell out of her blueprints—but the doors open, and the world is waiting.
The lobby of Luckett Global is usually a quiet, dignified space. Not today.
Through the glass front doors, I see the swarm. It’s a wall of cameras, microphones, and aggressive-looking men in trench coats. Word has leaked. The Kinlow-Luckett merger isn't just a business story anymore; it’s the lead on every gossip site in the city.
"Ready for your close-up, Princess?" I ask, my voice gravelly.
Gwendaly takes a deep breath. I watch her spine straighten, her chin tilt up, and her mask of "Crown Princess" perfection click back into place. It’s the most impressive transformation I’ve ever seen.
"I’ve been ready since I was born, tech-bro," she says. "Try to keep up."
I reach for her hand. This time, I don't ask. I wrap my fingers around hers, feeling the cold metal of the ring between us. Her hand is still shaking, just a little, but she squeezes back with a strength that surprises me.
We step through the doors.
The first flashbulb goes off like a lightning strike, momentarily blinding me. Then comes the second. Then a hundred more, a strobe-light effect that turns the Manhattan sidewalk into a battlefield.
"Huxley! Over here!"
"Gwendaly, is it true?"
"Is it a September wedding?"
The shouting is a dull roar. I pull her closer to my side, my arm moving around her waist to guide her toward the waiting Rolls-Royce. The cameras catch every detail—the ivory suit, the charcoal armor, and the way our hands are locked together.
The world now knows. There’s no going back.
As the driver closes the door on us, the flashbulbs continue to pop against the tinted glass. Inside the car, it’s suddenly, terrifyingly dark and quiet.
Gwendaly pulls her hand away from mine as if she’s been burned. She looks out the window at the chaos we just left behind.
"It started," she whispers.
"Yeah," I say, watching the way a stray tear finally escapes and tracks down her cheek. I want to reach out and wipe it away, but I know better. "It started."
The car pulls away from the curb, and as the prying eyes of the city fade into the distance, I realize that the "Iron Signature" wasn't just on a contract. It was on us.