Chapter 12
Daniel
The investor meeting drags on for three excruciating hours. Still, for most of it, all I see is a blurred image of numbers on the projection screen and hear voices discussing quarterly projections fading into echoes.
What I can actually see is Bailey’s angry face this morning. Honestly, it was cute seeing that slight pout on her lips and her creased eyebrows, but there was nothing attractive about the truth beneath it. This is serious.
I’m protecting her, I tell myself. But am I?
“Daniel?” Richard Larsson’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Your thoughts on the European expansion?”
I force myself to focus, rattling off the prepared response about market analysis and strategic positioning.
The words come automatically, lacking depth to me.
When the meeting finally ends, I loosen my tie and check my phone, finding twelve missed calls from Lottie.
That’s never a good sign, but I don’t have time for her pestering this morning, so I ignore her.
However, she corners me in the hallway before I can escape. “We have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The London investors.” She’s walking fast, heels clicking against marble. “They want an in-person pitch. Tomorrow.”
I stop walking. “Tomorrow? That’s impossible.”
“Forty-eight hours, technically. Cassidy’s article spooks them, and they want reassurance that you’re stable enough to handle their investment.” She turns to face me, arms crossed. “You need to go. And you need to bring Bailey.”
“Lottie—”
“People believe the story when they see you together. The photos from the gala and the Forbes shoot worked. You need her there.”
I hate being managed or feeling like a puppet in my own life, but she’s right, and part of me wants Bailey there anyway, even if I’ve spent the last two days trying to convince myself otherwise.
“Fine. I’ll ask her.”
“Don’t ask. Tell her. She signed up for this, remember?”
“Whatever.”
I find Bailey in her workspace an hour later, hunched over her laptop. She doesn’t look up when I approach. I wipe my palms on my trousers before I even realize they’re damp.
“Investor summit. London. You’re coming.”
Bailey’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. “You mean for the girlfriend act?”
“Bailey—”
“When do we leave?” She still won’t look at me.
“Tomorrow morning. Six AM.”
“Fine.” She closes her laptop slowly. “Is that all, Mr. Williams?”
The formal address feels like a slap in the face. I want to tell her it’s not an act anymore. That every moment with her is real, terrifyingly real. That I’ve been pushing her away because I’m terrified of how much she has gotten under my skin.
Instead, I say, “You knew what you signed up for.”
Her eyes finally meet mine. The hurt in them nearly breaks my resolve.
“Yes. I did.” She stands, gathering her things. “I’ll be ready.”
She walks past me without another word, leaving me standing alone in her workspace like an idiot.
***
The flight to London is torture.
We’re in first class, separated from other passengers by privacy screens and expensive curtains. Bailey sits by the window, earbuds in, pointedly ignoring me while I try to work on my laptop.
Her sleeve brushes against my arm when she shifts her position. The contact is brief, probably accidental, but it sends electricity shooting through me. I catch her citrus and floral scent and have to grip my armrest to keep from reaching for her.
“You’re staring,” Bailey suddenly says without removing her earbuds or opening her eyes.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” She finally looks at me. “Is there something you need, Mr. Williams?”
The formality is killing me. “Stop calling me that.”
“It’s your name.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I?” She pulls out her earbuds. “Because you’ve been treating me like an employee for two days. I’m just following your lead.”
“Bailey—”
“Save it. We have a job to do in London. Let’s focus on that.”
She turns back to the window, effectively ending the conversation. The rest of the flight passes in tense silence.
London Heathrow is chaos. The moment we step into the terminal, cameras flash. Reporters shout questions about our relationship, about Cassidy’s article, about whether the rumors are true.
I feel Bailey tense beside me. Instinctively, I take her hand and pull her close, using my body to shield her from the worst of it.
“You didn’t have to,” she murmurs as security clears a path.
“Yes, I did.”
Our car is waiting. We slide into the back seat, and I keep her hand in mine longer than necessary. She doesn’t pull away.
The investor presentation is scheduled for 2 PM at their offices in Canary Wharf. Bailey changes into a pretty, yet corporate, burgundy and wine dress. I can’t stop watching her as we enter the building.
The boardroom is full of skeptical British investors who’ve read every word of Cassidy’s hit piece.
I can see the doubt in their eyes as they assess me.
I begin the presentation regardless, clicking through slides about our projected growth and market expansion.
The numbers are solid, and the strategy was devised by the best in the country, but I can still feel their skepticism.
“Mr. Williams,” one of them, an older man named Whitmore with silver hair and sharp eyes, interrupts. “These projections are impressive, but we’re more interested in the creative vision behind your brand.”
“Of course.” I gesture to the next slide. “Our design team—”
“Actually,” Whitmore leans forward, “we’d like to hear from Ms. Rodgers. She created these visuals, didn’t she?”
Bailey stiffens beside me. “I—yes, but—”
“Walk us through your process,” says Cindy, another investor. “What were you thinking when you designed these slides? What story are you telling?”
I see Bailey’s hesitation, see her glance at me. I give her the slightest nod.
She stands, moving to the front of the room. These bastards want to put her on the hot seat so they’d have something to gossip about later, but I trust my girl. She’s got this down to a science.
“When Mr. Williams asked me to create these materials,” she begins, “I wanted to tell a story about transformation. This isn’t just corporate growth to me, but it’s evolution.
” She clicks to the next slide, showing a series of interconnected circles that I’d thought were just decorative.
“These are the stages of investment. Each circle builds on the last and creates a pattern of stability and innovation.”
“Interesting,” Whitmore says. “And the color palette?”
“Blue for trust, gold for aspiration. However, I used gradients instead of solid colors because your investments aren’t static; they’re fluid and adaptive. The gradient suggests movement, progress.”
Hmm. That makes so much sense.
Cindy nods slowly. “You’ve clearly thought this through. What about the typography?”
Bailey launches into an explanation of font psychology and visual hierarchy, which has every person in the room leaning forward.
She discusses how serif fonts convey tradition, while clean lines imply modernity.
How the spacing creates breathing room that allows complex information to feel accessible.
I watch her own the room. Skeptical investors start nodding, asking follow-up questions, and engaging with genuine interest. She’s not just answering; she’s teaching them to see design as a strategy, not just decoration.
Pride swells in my chest so intensely it almost hurts. This brilliant, beautiful woman is changing everything.
When she finishes, twenty minutes later, Whitmore has dissolved in smiles. “Ms. Rodgers, that was remarkably insightful. Mr. Williams, you’ve clearly surrounded yourself with talented people.”
“I have,” I say, unable to keep the warmth from my voice. “Bailey is one of the best designers I’ve ever worked with.”
Cindy stands. “I think we’ve seen enough. Pending final review, we’re prepared to move forward.” She looks between us. “You’re both attending the reception tonight, yes?”
“Reception?” Bailey asks.
“Cocktails at the Shard. Six PM. It’s informal, but all the major players will be there.” Whitmore checks his watch. “We’d like to continue this conversation in a more relaxed setting.”
“Of course,” I say, ignoring Bailey’s glare. “We’ll be there.”
Bailey’s smile is tight. “Actually, I wasn’t planning to attend—”
“Oh, but you must come,” Cindy insists. “I want to hear more about your animation work. Daniel mentioned you have other creative projects?”
“I—yes, but—”
“Then it’s settled. Six PM. Don’t be late.”
He turns away before I can say anything else, the meeting dissolving into small talk and shuffling feet. I gather my things slowly, buying myself a breath or two before Bailey and I step into the hallway behind him.
The elevator ride down is silent until we’re alone.
“You were incredible,” I say the moment the doors close.
“I was doing my job.” But her cheeks flush with pleasure, betraying her.
“You did more than your job. You won them over completely.”
“They were testing me.”
“And you passed with flying colors.” I turn to face her fully. “Bailey, you were brilliant up there.”
She finally meets my eyes. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t act like everything is fine between us, Daniel, because it’s not.”
It’s a warning, but hearing her use my first name makes my heart skip a beat.
The elevator dings just then. We step out into the lobby, and cameras flash immediately.
Reporters shout questions. I take Bailey’s hand instinctively, pulling her close as security clears a path. In the car, the silence returns.
Back at the hotel, we head to our adjacent rooms in the penthouse. Bailey opens her room’s door, then pauses.
“I’m not going to the reception.”
“Bailey—”
“They were just being polite. They don’t actually want me there.”
“They absolutely want you there. Cindy was serious about hearing about your other work.”
“I don’t have anything appropriate to wear.”
“Then we’ll find something.” I glance at my watch. “We have three hours.”