11. Gwendaly
GWENDALY
T he storm outside is making a violent mess of the Hamptons. Rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the estate, blurring the Atlantic into a grey, angry smear. It matches my mood perfectly.
"Huxley!" I shout, my voice echoing off the cold walls.
Footsteps thud down the hallway—heavy, purposeful, and entirely too calm.
He appears in the doorway, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal those forearms that have been living rent-free in my head since the yacht.
He looks like he just stepped out of a high-stakes negotiation.
"You're loud for someone who claims to value peace," he says, leaning against the frame.
"I value autonomy, Huxley. This?" I slap the spreadsheet. "This is a hostile takeover of my personal life. Why are there forty-two names on here from the Singapore Trade Federation? This is exactly what I told my father would happen. I’m not a bride. I’m a ransom payment, and you’re just the one counting the bills. "
He walks over, his presence closing the gap between us until I have to tilt my chin up to maintain eye contact. "It’s a strategic list, Gwendaly. We need the Singapore block to approve the port transition. Their absence would be a red flag to the investors."
"A red flag?"A short, incredulous laugh breaks from my lips.
"We are getting married. Not launching a new operating system.
I wanted my Aunt Clarice from Savannah and the designers from my firm.
I don't want a boardroom in tuxedos watching me say 'I do' to a man who probably has an exit strategy written into the vows. "
"Clarice is on there. Page four."
"Next to the CEO of a mining conglomerate? She’ll be terrified!" I crumble the paper in my fist.
Huxley’s expression hardens. The clinical detachment he usually wears like armor starts to crack, revealing a simmering heat beneath.
"You think I want this? You think I’m thrilled about inviting five hundred people I don't like to watch me tie my entire legal and financial future to a woman who spends her nights insulting my lifestyle? "
"Then cancel it! Call Robert. Tell him the machine is broken."
"We’re past that, and you know it. The stocks are already climbing based on the 'narrative' we sold.
If we pull back now, Nicholas loses the terminals.
Your family legacy becomes a footnote." He takes another step, pinning me between him and the marble island. "I’m trying to keep this building standing, Gwendaly. While you’re busy trying to set the curtains on fire. "
"Maybe the curtains need to burn!" I shove his chest, but he doesn't budge. He’s solid, a wall of heat and defiance. "I’m sick of playing the part. I’m sick of the rules, the office restrictions, and the way you look at me like I’m a problem you haven't quite figured out how to solve yet."
"You are a problem,"he says slowly, as if he’s measuring the cost of each one. The air between us goes static, charged with a tension I can’t quantify. "You’re unpredictable, you’re stubborn, and you’re the first person in ten years who has actually managed to make me lose my temper."
"Good! At least you’re feeling something other than the projected ROI!"
The rain outside intensifies, a deafening roar that swallows the silence of the house. We’re breathing the same air now, our faces inches apart. I can see the gold flecks in his blue eyes, the way his jaw is clenched so tight it looks carved from granite.
"You think I don't feel anything?" Huxley asks, his voice barely a whisper over the storm. "You think I built that studio for you because it was a 'strategic move'? I did it because I couldn't stand the way you looked when you thought no one was watching. Like you were starving."
"I am starving, Huxley. For something real. Not this... this gilded cage."
"Is that what this is? A cage?" He reaches out, his fingers catching my chin, forcing me to look at me. "Because I don't see a prisoner. I see a woman who knows exactly how much power she has over me and is enjoying every second of using it."
"I have no power over you. You own the contract."
"Screw the contract," he says.
He moves so fast I don't have time to think. One hand grips my waist, the other slams against the wall behind my head as he pins me back. The impact isn't painful, but the intensity of it is enough to make my knees go weak. He’s hovering over me, a dark, looming presence that feels more honest than anything he’s said in a boardroom.
"You want to talk about autonomy?" he asks, his breath hot against my lips. "Let’s talk about how I can't think about anything else but the way you felt when we danced. Let’s talk about how I’m supposed to be running a merger, but all I’m doing is wondering when you’re going to stop fighting me and start admitting that you feel it too. "
"I don't feel anything but rage," I lie, my voice trembling.
"Liar," he says.
He leans in closer, his nose brushing mine. I can feel the vibration of his heart against my chest—fast, frantic, and entirely uncalculated. The bickering is gone. The guests, the ports, and the legacies have vanished into the grey roar of the rain outside.
Huxley’s gaze is glued to mine, his pupils blown wide. His composure hasn't just cracked; it’s shattered.
"If I kiss you right now," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over mine, "is that a violation of Rule Two? Or is it the only real thing that’s happened in this house since we got here?"
I should push him away. I should remind him of Bancroft, of the merger, of the fact that he bought my signature. But my hands find the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric as I pull him closer.
"I think the system is crashing, Huxley," I whisper.
He doesn't reply. He just closes the final inch of space, his hand sliding from the wall into the curls at the back of my neck, tilting my head back as his mouth finally crashes into mine.
The way the world feels like it’s finally making sense, and the terrifying realization that I never want him to let go.