13. Gwendaly
GWENDALY
T he cold side of the bed feels like a personal insult.
I wake up to the grey, salt-heavy light of a Hamptons morning, the sheets tangled around my legs and a hollow ache in my chest that no amount of deep breathing can fix.
Last night, the air in this house was thick with something raw—something that felt like it belonged only to us.
But as I stare at the empty pillow beside me, I realize the "Ice King" didn't just melt; he evaporated the second the sun started to peak over the horizon.
I wrap myself in my plum silk robe, my skin still hypersensitive from the friction of his touch, and head toward the kitchen. I expect... something. A look. A cup of coffee. Acknowledgment that we just burned the "Kinlow Clause" to the ground on a marble island.
Instead, I find a wall of glass.
Huxley is at the counter, fully dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers. He’s staring at his laptop, a half-empty espresso cup beside him. He doesn’t look up when I enter. He doesn’t even blink.
"Good morning," I say, my voice becomes thin even to my own ears.
"Morning," he replies, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "Coffee’s in the pot. Xyrel sent over the updated logistics for the Savannah terminal. I need you to review the warehouse zoning by noon. The Singapore reps are expecting a summary."
I stop midway to the counter. The air in the room feels like it’s been vacuum-sealed. "Warehouse zoning? Huxley, are we really doing this?"
He finally looks up, and the blue of his eyes is like a dead screen. There’s no trace of the man who growled my name against the back of my neck. "Doing what, Gwendaly? We have a deadline. The board isn't going to wait for us to finish our... breakfast."
"Our breakfast? Is that what last night was? A meal break between negotiations?" I walk closer, my hands trembling as I grip the edge of the marble. "You were real last night. You told me you couldn't think of anything else. Now you’re back to being a manual?"
"Last night was a lapse in judgment," he says, his voice flat and clinical. "A glitch. I believe I made that clear when I got up. We both got caught up in the stress of the guest list. It won't happen again."
"A glitch?" I feel a surge of heat filled with desire and everything to do with pure, unadulterated rage. "I’m not a bug in your software, Huxley. I’m a person. We shared something that wasn't on the spreadsheet."
"And it was a mistake," he counters, his jaw set so tight I can see the muscle jumping. "It complicates the merger. It makes the transition messy. If you want to be a partner in this, Gwendaly, you need to learn to separate the business from the... recreation."
"Recreation?" I laugh sharply. "You are unbelievable. You pin me against a wall, you make me feel like I’m the only thing in the world, and now you’re treating me like a transaction gone wrong?"
"I’m treating you like a professional. I suggest you do the same." He stands up, snapping his laptop shut. "I have a conference call. Don't be late with those zoning drafts. We can't afford any more delays."
He walks past me, and the scent of him—that woodsy, expensive scent that was all over my skin hours ago—lingers just long enough to make my eyes sting. He doesn't look back. He disappears into the east wing, the sound of his door closing feeling like the final seal on a tomb.
I pour a cup of coffee I don't even want. I head to the sunroom, my sanctuary, but the charcoal and canvases feel like mockery now. He gave me this room just to keep me quiet while he manages the "asset."
I’m staring at a blank canvas, my pencil poised but useless, when the sound of a familiar, aggressive engine rumbles up the gravel drive. It’s not a Rolls-Royce. It’s a vintage Porsche—the one that sounds like a growl and smells like the life I used to have.
Bancroft.
I don’t wait for the staff. I’m out the front door before the car even comes to a full stop. Bancroft is stepping out, looking offensively handsome in a cream linen shirt and dark shades. When he sees me, he doesn't just smile; his whole posture relaxes.
"Gwen!" he calls out, opening his arms.
I run to him, I feel like I can actually draw a full breath. He pulls me into a hug that smells like home—woodsmoke and the kind of security that doesn't come with a contract.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, burying my face in his shoulder.
"I’m here to rescue you," he says, pulling back to look at me, his eyes searching mine for the cracks I know are visible. "I heard about the guest list drama. I figured you’d need a weekend away from the Ice King before you actually lost your mind. Pack a bag. We’re going to Montauk. Just us. No tech-bros, no mergers."
"Bancroft, I can't just leave. The ports?—"
"The ports can survive forty-eight hours without you," he interrupts, his hand resting on my cheek. "You look drained, Gwen. And not the 'I’ve been working on blueprints' kind. The 'I’m being erased' kind. Come on. Let's go."
"I... I don't know," I say, glancing back at the glass house.
"I do," a gravelly voice says from the porch.
Huxley is standing there, leaning against the white stone pillar, his arms crossed. He’s back in his suit jacket, the "CEO" mask fully in place, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that suggests he’s been watching from the window.
"Henderson," Huxley says, his voice sinking into a low, chest-deep rumble.
"I wasn't aware we were expecting visitors.
Shouldn't you be in a deposition? I hear the SEC is currently combing through your tech-sector allocations. It’s a bad look, Bancroft—spending your weekend in the Hamptons while your compliance team is on a shredding spree. "
"It’s a preliminary inquiry, Kinlow. My lawyers have it handled," Bancroft snaps back. "I’m under no restrictions, and my firm is still more solvent than your cold-hearted conglomerate."
Bancroft doesn't flinch. He steps in front of me, his posture shifting into something protective. "I’m here for Gwen, Kinlow. Something you clearly don't know the first thing about. She’s coming with me for the weekend."
"She has work to do," Huxley says, his eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying intensity. "She’s a partner in this merger, remember? Not a vacationer."
"She’s a human being, not a line item on your balance sheet," Bancroft counters, his voice rising. "Look at her. She’s stressed, she’s pale, and she’s miserable. If you had an ounce of actual blood in that machine you call a heart, you’d see that."
"My heart isn't your concern, Henderson. Her legal obligations are."
"Legal obligations? Is that what you call it now?" Bancroft lets out a mocking laugh. "You bought her signature, Kinlow. You didn't buy her soul. And you definitely didn't buy her time."
Huxley walks down the steps, moving with a slow, predatory grace that makes my pulse spike for all the wrong reasons. He stops just a few feet from Bancroft, the two of them standing like gladiators in the salt-heavy air.
"Gwendaly is staying here," Huxley says in a low, dangerous vibration.
"Gwen is coming with me," Bancroft says, stepping closer. "Unless you want to make a scene in front of the staff. I’m sure the press would love a story about the 'happy couple' having a domestic in the driveway."
I look between them—the safe harbor and the storm. Bancroft is offering me an escape, a chance to be "just Gwen" again. Huxley is offering me... what? A warehouse zoning report and a cold shoulder?
"I’m going," I say, my voice steadying.
Huxley turns to me, his eyes flashing with something that looks suspiciously like hurt before it’s buried under a layer of ice. "Gwendaly, don't be reckless. We have the Singapore call."
"I’m being autonomous, Huxley. Remember? Rule One? You stay in your office, and I stay in my life." I look at Bancroft. "Give me ten minutes to pack."
"Take twenty," Bancroft says, his eyes never leaving Huxley’s. "I’m not going anywhere."
I head back into the house, my heart hammering. As I reach the stairs, I hear the bickering resume, their voices sharp and cutting.
"You think you’re so much better for her, don't you?" Huxley’s voice is a low snarl.
"I know I am," Bancroft replies. "I don't need a contract to make her smile. I don't need a merger to make her feel seen. I’m the man she actually wants, Kinlow. You’re just the one she has to tolerate."
"Is that right?" Huxley asks.
I reach my room and start throwing clothes into a bag, my mind a mess. I should feel relieved. I should be happy that Bancroft is here. But as I examine at the ruby ring on my finger, I feel a strange, hollow ache that is irrelevant with the contract.
I head back down twenty minutes later, my bag over my shoulder. The driveway is quiet now, the tension so thick it’s practically visible. Huxley and Bancroft are standing by the Porsche, both of them looking like they’ve just finished a brutal round of negotiations.
"Ready?" Bancroft asks, reaching for my bag.
"Ready," I say, but I look at Huxley.
He doesn't look at me. He’s staring at Bancroft, a muscle jumping rhythmically in his cheek, the only sign of the rage boiling under his professional mask. "Wait," Huxley says, his voice stopping us both.
Bancroft sighs, turning around. "What now, Kinlow? Do you need her to sign a permission slip?"
"No," Huxley says, stepping forward. He looks at me then, and for a second, the mask slips. I see the man from the kitchen—the one who was terrified of losing control. "If you’re so sure you’re the better choice, Henderson, let’s prove it. In a way that even a 'venture capitalist' can understand."
Bancroft narrows his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
Huxley gestures toward the private tennis courts at the back of the estate. "A game. Three sets. Winner takes Gwendaly’s attention for the evening. If you win, she goes to Montauk with you, no questions asked, no reports. If I win, she stays here, and you leave."
I freeze. "Huxley, I’m not a trophy! You can't gamble with my time!"
"It’s not a gamble, Gwendaly," Huxley says, his eyes locked on Bancroft. "It’s a demonstration of capability. Unless, of course, Henderson is afraid of a little competition on a court that doesn't involve stock options."
Bancroft looks at me, then back at Huxley. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. He drops my bag and starts unbuttoning his cuffs.
"You're on, Kinlow," Bancroft says. "I’ve been wanting to humble a tech-bro all morning. Get your racquet. I’ll meet you on the court in five."
Huxley nods once, his expression turning into something sharp and predatory. He looks at me, and the heat in his gaze is enough to make my knees weak.
"Go wait in the sunroom, Gwendaly," the words were a vibration against my skin, rough and grounding all at once. "This won't take long."
He turns and walks toward the courts, his stride purposeful and aggressive. Bancroft follows, looking just as determined.
I stand in the driveway, my bag at my feet, watching the two men I’ve spent my life navigating prepare to fight over me like I’m a piece of disputed territory.