14. Huxley
HUXLEY
T he sweat rolling down my spine is cold, but the blood in my veins is pure, jagged fire.
The tennis court is a sun-bleached stage, and I am playing like a man possessed.
Every serve is a targeted strike; every return is a refusal to yield.
Across the net, Bancroft Henderson is breathing hard, his cream linen shirt sticking to his back, his jaw tight with the realization that he’s outmatched.
He’s good—he’s the kind of guy who played varsity at Princeton and never let anyone forget it—but I am playing for something that doesn't exist on a scorecard.
I’m playing to erase the way he looked at her in the driveway.
"Forty-love," I bark out, my voice sounding like gravel under a boot. I bounce the ball once, twice, the rhythm a hollow echo in the heavy afternoon heat.
Bancroft wipes his forehead with his forearm, his eyes narrow and full of resentment. "You’re really going to do this, Kinlow? You’re going to act like she’s a trophy you won in a raffle?"
"I'm acting like a man of unshakable word," I reply.
I toss the ball high, my body uncoiling with a precision that feels like a machine finally finding its purpose.
The racquet connects with a sharp crack , and the ball streaks across the court, an unreturnable ace that clips the corner of the line.
Game. Set. Match.
I don't feel the thrill of victory. I feel a dark, suffocating possessiveness that I can’t quantify. I don't wait for a handshake. I drop the racquet on the court and head toward the gate, my lungs burning, my pulse a rhythmic thud in my ears.
Gwendaly is standing by the sunroom entrance, her arms crossed, her plum silk robe catching the breeze.
She looks like a queen watching two peasants brawl in the dirt.
Behind her, the glass walls of the studio I built her glint in the sun—a reminder that I am the one who provides the sanctuary, not Henderson.
Bancroft catches up to me at the gate, his chest heaving. "That was a lucky shot, Kinlow. Don't think for a second that winning a game means you’ve won her."
"I don't need luck, Henderson. I have the law, the capital, and the signature." I stop, turning to face him. I’m taller than him, and right now, I feel like I’m made of iron. "And I have her. In this house. Under my name."
"You have her body in a house you bought," Bancroft spits, stepping closer. "But she’s miserable. Can’t you see that? Or is 'unhappy' not a metric you track on your dashboard?"
"She was fine until you showed up to remind her of a life she can't afford anymore," I counter.
We reach Gwendaly, who hasn't moved an inch. Her expression is unreadable, a mask of mahogany perfection drawing me toward the inevitable need to shake her until the "Crown Princess" facade breaks again, just like it did last night.
"The match is over," Gwendaly says, her voice cool and level. "I assume the 'demonstration of capability' is finished?"
Bancroft ignores me and walks straight to her.
He reaches out, his hand moving toward her face.
I freeze, my vision tunneling. He doesn't touch her cheek; instead, he tucks a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers lingering in her hair for a second too long. It’s a gesture of such casual, practiced intimacy that it makes my stomach turn.
"Gwen," Bancroft says, his voice softening into that 'safe harbor' tone that I despise. "You don't have to stay here. I don't care what he says about contracts. We can fight the legal side. Just come with me."
The sight of his hand in her hair is a system error I can’t bypass. It’s not logical. It’s not part of the merger strategy. It’s a raw, animalistic territorial instinct that bypasses my brain and goes straight to my throat.
I step between them, my shoulder nearly clipping Bancroft as I force him to back away. I grab Gwendaly’s wrist—the one wearing the ruby—and pull her toward me. It’s not a gentle move. It’s a claim.
"The weekend is over, Henderson," I say in a low, dangerous vibration. "You lost the match. Now get off my property before I have security escort you to the gate."
"Huxley, stop it," Gwendaly says, her voice sharp with warning. She tries to pull her wrist back, but I don't let go. I can't.
Bancroft looks at my hand on her wrist, then up at my face. He looks disgusted. "You're a pathetic excuse for a man, Kinlow. You think you can hold onto her by force? She’s going to leave you the second the ink is dry on the port transfer."
"She’s not going anywhere," I growl. "She’s a partner. She’s a Luckett. And as of last week..." I pause, the words tasting like iron and obsession. I look Bancroft dead in the eye, making sure he hears the finality in my tone. "She’s a Kinlow now. Remember that."
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. Bancroft’s eyes widen, then drop to Gwendaly, looking for a denial that doesn't come. She’s staring at me, her mouth slightly open, her amber eyes wide with a mixture of shock and something I can’t name.
"Is that true, Gwen?" Bancroft asks, his voice trembling. "Is that what you are now? Just a Kinlow asset?"
Gwendaly looks at Bancroft, then back at me. She looks down at my hand still gripping her wrist, the ruby ring glinting in the harsh afternoon light. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to. The silence is the loudest answer I’ve ever heard.
Bancroft shakes his head, a look of pure pity crossing his face. He turns and walks toward his Porsche without a backward glance. The sound of his engine starting is a violent roar in the quiet afternoon, followed by the screech of tires as he tears down the gravel drive.
He’s gone. The rescue is over.
I finally let go of Gwendaly’s wrist. My hand is shaking—not from the tennis, but from the sheer force of the rage still pulsing through me. I turn toward the house, needing the cold air of my office, needing to find a spreadsheet that makes sense.
"A Kinlow?" Gwendaly’s voice stops me.
I turn back. She’s standing in the same spot, her robe fluttering in the wind. She looks like I’ve just slapped her, but her eyes aren't filled with tears. They’re filled with a terrifying, cold clarity.
"That’s what you told him?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper. "After last night? After everything? You didn't tell him I was your fiancé, or your partner, or even your friend. You told him I was a Kinlow. Like you bought the patent on my soul."
"I was ending the conversation, Gwendaly. He was overstepping."
"He was caring about me!" she shouts, her voice finally breaking. "Which is clearly a concept you find 'illogical.' You didn't win that match to keep me, Huxley. You won it to prove you could own me. You’re just like your father. You don't want a wife; you want a monopoly."
"That’s not what I meant," I say, but the words feel hollow.
"I don't care what you meant. I care about what you said." She takes a step back, her expression hardening into a mask of pure disdain. "You want me to be a Kinlow? Fine. I’ll be the version of a Kinlow you deserve. I’ll be cold, I’ll be efficient, and I’ll be a 'strategic partner' until the day the contract ends.
But don't you ever—ever—touch me like you did last night again. "
She turns and marches into the sunroom, slamming the glass door behind her.
I’m left standing on the lawn, the sweat drying on my skin, the ruby ring she’s wearing feeling like a brand I’ve seared onto both of us. I won the match. I kept the girl. I secured the narrative.