7. Gwendaly
GWENDALY
T he drive from the city to the Hamptons usually feels like an escape.
Today, it feels like the slow, pressurized ascent of a roller coaster before the drop.
I spend the two-hour ride pretending to be fascinated by the passing scenery of the Long Island Expressway, but really, I’m just trying to avoid looking at the man sitting three inches away from me.
Huxley is a wall of expensive wool and terrifying focus. He hasn’t looked at me once since the paparazzi swarm back in Manhattan. He’s been glued to his tablet, his thumb flicking through reports with the kind of speed that suggests he’s absorbing data through his pores.
The Rolls-Royce turns onto a private gravel drive that seems to stretch for miles.
Tall, meticulously trimmed hedges wall us in, hiding whatever lies ahead.
Then, the green opens up to reveal a structure of glass, white stone, and sharp angles that makes my architect’s heart skip a beat before my pride kicks it back down.
"Welcome to the Gilded Cage," I mutter as the car pulls into a circular drive that could double as a helipad.
"It’s called Southward Reach," Huxley says, finally looking up. He taps his screen to black and slides it into his leather sleeve. "And it’s a house, Gwendaly. Not a prison. Try to remember that when the domestic staff is carrying your fifteen suitcases in."
"Fourteen," I correct, my chin tilting up. "The fifteenth is my drawing table, and it requires delicate handling. If your people scratch the mahogany, I’m billing your personal venture fund."
The driver opens the door, and the air that hits me is filled with the scent of salt and overpriced hydrangea.
The estate is a masterpiece of modern minimalism, but it’s cold.
There are no family photos in the foyer.
No scuff marks on the baseboards. It looks like a high-end gallery that’s waiting for a shipment of actual human life to arrive.
Huxley leads me through the sprawling foyer, his stride confident and familiar. I follow, the click of my heels echoing off the white marble like an erratic heartbeat. He stops in the center of a living area that’s large enough to host a small gala.
"The west wing is yours," he says, gesturing toward a set of double doors. "I’ve had your things moved into the master suite there. It has a private terrace and a view of the dunes. I figured you’d want the light for your... whatever it is you do."
"I design infrastructure, Huxley. Not that you care about the terminology.
" I walk to the window, staring out at the Atlantic.
The waves are crashing against the shore with a violence that matches my internal state.
"So, what’s the plan? Do we sit on opposite ends of this museum and wait for the press to call? "
Huxley moves into my peripheral vision. He doesn't stand close enough to touch, but I can feel the grounding warmth of him, a constant, low-frequency hum.
"There are ground rules, Gwendaly. If we’re going to survive ten weeks of forced proximity without one of us ending up in a shallow grave, we need a system. "
I turn, leaning my hip against the back of a white bouclé sofa. "Oh, I love a good system. Please, enlighten me. Is there a spreadsheet for how many times I’m allowed to breathe your air?"
He ignores the sarcasm, his expression remaining as stoic as the stone pillars holding up the ceiling.
"Rule one: My office is off-limits. I don’t care if the house is on fire or if you’ve run out of charcoal pencils.
You don't go in there. The data I handle is sensitive, and frankly, you’re too nosy for your own good. "
"Rule one is 'don't touch your toys.' Got it," I say, ticking a finger in the air. "Anything else, Captain Control?"
"Rule two: No drama. Nicholas is already stressed enough. The market is watching us like hawks. Every time we step out that front door, we are the picture of a stable, united front. You don't roll your eyes at me in public, and you don't talk to the help about the 'Kinlow Clause.'"
"And in private?" I ask, stepping closer, my voice breaking to a dangerous, silky hum. "Can I tell you exactly how much I loathe the way you breathe in private?"
Huxley’s eyes darken. For the first third of a second, I think I’ve finally pushed him past his clinical detachment. His gaze drops to my mouth, and the air between us suddenly feels heavy, like it’s been replaced with liquid gold.
"In private," he says, in a low, gravelly vibration that makes my toes curl in my Louboutins, "you can say whatever you want. As long as you remember who’s paying the bill for your father’s legacy."
The spark of attraction—or maybe just pure, concentrated friction—is extinguished as quickly as it started. He turns away, checking his watch again.
"I have a call with London. Dinner is at eight. Don’t be late. I hate cold food and tardy women."
He disappears toward the east wing before I can think of a comeback sharp enough to draw blood. I’m left standing in the middle of a room that costs more than a small country, feeling like a stranger in a beautiful, hollow world.
I spend the next hour prowling through the house.
It’s a habit I have when I’m overwhelmed—I need to understand the structure of my environment before I can exist in it.
I explore the professional-grade kitchen, the temperature-controlled wine cellar, and the gym that looks like it belongs to an Olympic athlete.
Finally, I find myself in the library. It’s the only room in the house that feels like it has a soul. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves made of dark walnut, and the air smells of old leather and vanilla. It’s quiet here. Grounded.
I walk along the shelves, my fingers trailing over the spines of first editions and technical manuals. Near the back corner, tucked behind a rolling ladder, there’s a small, recessed alcove that looks like it hasn't been dusted in years.
I reach back, thinking I’ve found a hidden bar or a safe. Instead, my hand brushes against the edge of a heavy, ornate frame.
I pull it out.
It’s a portrait. Not a photograph, but an oil painting, executed with a level of detail that feels almost intrusive.
The woman in the painting is stunning—blonde, blue-blooded, and wearing a look of effortless, aristocratic entitlement.
She’s draped in silk, her hand resting on a greyhound’s head, her eyes looking directly at the viewer with a chilling, knowing smile.
I recognize the face from the tabloids of five years ago. This is Louise. The woman who was supposed to be the Kinlow bride before she vanished to London.
Huxley’s ex-girlfriend. The woman who allegedly broke the machine’s heart—if he ever had one to begin with.
I stare at her face, since I signed that contract, I feel a cold shiver. The painting isn't just hidden; it’s preserved. It’s tucked away in the back of the library like a secret shame or a lingering obsession.
"Checking the competition already, Gwendaly?"
I whirl around, the heavy frame nearly slipping from my fingers. Huxley is standing in the doorway, his silhouette blocking out the light from the hallway. He’s discarded his suit jacket, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular, tanned forearms.
He doesn't look angry. He looks... weary. I see a flicker of something in his eyes that isn't data. It’s pain.
"I was just looking for something to read," I say in a more breathless way than I’d like. I gestured toward the painting. "She’s beautiful. Why is she hidden behind the history section?"
Huxley walks into the room, his footsteps silent on the thick rug. He stops in front of me, his gaze dropping to the portrait for a fraction of a second before snapping back to mine.
"She’s in the past," he says, his voice like a closing door. "And as I told you, Rule One: Don't go looking for things that don't belong to you."
He reaches out and takes the frame from my hands. His fingers are warm, but his touch is firm as he slides the painting back into the darkness of the alcove.
"Dinner in twenty minutes," he says, his voice now devoid of any emotion. "And Gwendaly? If you go looking for ghosts, don't be surprised when you find yourself haunted."
He turns and walks out, leaving me in the shadows of the library. My heart is pounding, and the diamond on my finger feels heavier than ever.
I didn't just find a portrait. I found the glitch.
Huxley Kinlow isn't a machine. He’s a man who’s still living in the shadow of a woman he couldn't acquire. And as I stand there in the dark, I realize that this summer isn't just a business merger.
It’s a battlefield. And the first shot was just fired.