Chapter 5
“Push the meeting to Tuesday,” I say into the phone, not looking away from the screen. The cursor glides across the render as I adjust the weight of a beam by half an inch.
On the other end, Matthew, my senior project manager, exhales. “That might be a problem, sir. The London contractors say the steel shipment’s been delayed, three, maybe four days. Customs hold-up at the port.”
I lean back slightly, eyes narrowing at the numbers on the structural model. “And they told you this when?”
“About an hour ago. They’re trying to reroute through Rotterdam, but…”
“No,” I interrupt, calm but clipped. “Tell them I want revised specs and a new delivery estimate by tomorrow morning. If they can’t manage that, we’ll move the contract to Vitruvian. They know how to meet a deadline.”
Matthew hesitates. “Understood. I’ll relay the message.”
“Do that,” I say, already glancing back at the load distribution chart.
A knock, sharp and deliberate, interrupts me.
“Hold on,” I murmur into the phone, my gaze shifting to the door as it swings open.
“Your fiancée is here to see you, sir,” Nadia announces.
I nod once, gesturing for her to let Abigail in. “Thank you, Nadia.”
Abigail steps inside, graceful as ever, draped in something pastel and perfectly composed, even for an unplanned visit.
“Of course, sir,” Nadia replies, closing the door behind her.
Before Abigail can speak, I raise a hand, signaling her to wait while I finish my call with Matthew.
“And make sure they understand this isn’t a suggestion.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line clicks off. I set the phone down and refocus on the screen, fingers returning to the keyboard, until a quiet throat-clear breaks through the silence.
I grit my teeth before looking up. Abigail’s standing there with her head cocked, that pointed little look that says Really? Did you forget I’m here?
It’s not that I forgot. I just have a deadline to meet, and whatever wedding crisis she’s here to unload, I don’t have the time or patience for it.
“Can I help you, Abigail?”
It’s only been two days since that damn dinner with Abigail and Blair, but it feels like an eternity.
It’s odd. Never in my life have I felt such intrigue toward someone, yet Blair inspires it so effortlessly.
For the most part, I keep myself busy to ensure my thoughts remain away from that forbidden territory, but somehow, I always seem to fail in doing so.
“Calvin?”
The sharp sound of Abigail’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I jerk my head up to find her glaring at me from across my office.
“Did you hear me?” she asks, arms crossed, her foot tapping in irritation.
“What is it, Abigail? I really don’t have time for this today.”
“Well, when do you have time?” she says, irritated.
“I feel like I’m the only one putting in any effort here.
I’m the one handling all the wedding details, dealing with my parents, managing the press, and you’re just…
here. Present in body but absent in spirit.
I know this is just a business arrangement, but you still need to put in some effort, so you don’t appear so… disinterested.”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose to stave off the growing tension. “I know. I’ve been distracted with work.” And your little sister.
“I get it. I do.” She continues, “But you’re not even trying.
We agreed on this. You promised we’d both make an effort to make this look real, and right now, you’re making me look like a fool.
I look like I’m constantly chasing after you while you’re only invested in your business.
” That’s not entirely true. I do put in the effort, but again, I am a busy man running a multi-million dollar empire, I don’t have time to go wedding shopping or whatever she’s upset about right now.
“I need a little more effort on your end. I need you to try. To give me something… anything.”
She’s being a tad bit dramatic again, but she’s also right.
Abigail has taken on most of the responsibility for this charade, managing the wedding preparations, fielding questions from her parents, and handling the public appearance of our so-called engagement.
I finance it, but I can’t be bothered with any of the technicalities.
“You’re right. I’ll do better,” I say, softening my voice to ease the tension between us. “What do you need from me?”
Abigail leans forward, her eyes narrowing. “Well, for starters, you can stop avoiding my sister. Blair thinks she upset you somehow. She’s mentioned it to me a couple of times. So, can you please take care of that?”
My brow furrows. Blair thinks she upset me? How? We’ve barely had a handful of interactions, and none of them were confrontational. Then it hits me.
The kitchen, a few days ago.
“I didn’t know she felt that way,” I admit. The kitchen encounter didn’t upset me in any way. On the contrary, it made me realize how dangerous it is to be so close to her. “She hasn’t done anything wrong. I’ve just been…”
“Distracted, I know, but please try to get along with her. She’s young, but she’s not stupid.
She picks up on things, and I don’t want her feeling uncomfortable.
She means the world to me,” she says softly.
I can tell Abigail cares about her sister, which only makes this whole situation worse.
Abigail and I aren’t in love, but I am aware of the fact that she’s doing me a favor.
The last thing I want to do is to hurt her.
“I’ll deal with it,” I reply. “Is that all?”
She eyes me carefully as if weighing whether to press further.
She knows better than to push her luck. After a tense pause, she simply nods, her expression softening slightly.
“That’s all. Just… make sure we’re both putting in the effort, Calvin.
We can’t afford for this to fall apart,” she says, smoothing out the front of her designer dress before heading toward the door.
As she leaves, she murmurs, “Don’t forget we are having dinner with my parents on Sunday. ”
I grimace. “I haven’t forgotten.” It’s the last thing I want to do, but it’s my responsibility nonetheless. I want her to know I’m taking this seriously.
“And,” she adds, pausing at the door, “I have an appointment earlier that day, so I won’t be able to pick up Blair. Would you please just give her a ride? And I’ll meet you guys at my parents’ place later.”
An undoubtedly bad idea, but what choice do I have, aside from saying yes? “Sure, I can do that.”
She smiles, satisfied. “Thanks. I’ll see you later, then.”
“Abigail?” I call out. “Don’t forget about the business dinner with the Whitmores tonight. I don’t need to remind you how important this is to me.”
“I haven’t forgotten. I’ll be on my best behavior,” she assures me as she waves and walks out of the office.
As soon as the door closes behind her, I exhale a long breath and lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples again. This is getting out of hand. Blair is supposed to be off-limits, and yet every time I think about her, I want to forget all the reasons I should stay away.
And with Abigail’s words ringing in my ears, I know I can’t avoid Blair forever. It’s time to make things right.
Even if it’s the worst thing I could do.
“Are you ready?” I ask Abigail as the car rolls to a stop in front of the Whitmores’ townhouse.
“Yes, just give me a second,” she says, using her phone camera to reapply her lipstick.
I nod and step out, the evening air cool against my face.
The driver pulls away toward the corner to wait while I round the car.
By the time I open her door, Abigail’s already slipped her lipstick back into her clutch.
I offer my hand, and she takes it, her fingers cool and delicate in mine as she steps out.
The Whitmores’ home is the kind of place that speaks softly but carries history. Brick glowing under gaslight, ivy climbing the iron railing like it’s been there for generations. Old Boston money doesn’t shout, it whispers, and you learn to listen.
The butler opens the door before we reach the top step. “Good evening, Mr. Stirling, Miss Miller.”
I nod in greeting and step aside for Abigail to enter first. She glides past me, poised in her pale blue silk dress that skims her knees, a single strand of pearls catching the light at her throat.
Her smile is flawless, practiced, the kind that looks warm until you notice it never reaches her eyes.
“Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore,” she says smoothly. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you both.”
Mrs. Whitmore elegantly rises from her seat in the drawing room, silver hair swept into a chignon. Her husband, tall, broad-shouldered, still commanding despite his age, stands beside her.
“The pleasure is ours, my dear,” Vivian says, kissing Abigail’s cheeks with graceful warmth. “Please, no need for formality, call us Vivian and Jameson.”
Jameson extends his hand to me after pressing a courtly kiss to Abigail’s knuckles. “Calvin, welcome to our home. We’ve been looking forward to this dinner. Come, sit.”
The dining room gleams beneath candlelight, mahogany polished to a mirror finish, crisp linens, and fine silver catching the glow.
We take our seats, Abigail beside me. The first course arrives, a lobster bisque so smooth it could pass for silk, and conversation drifts as easily as the music humming from the next room.
“So,” Vivian begins, stirring her soup with a faint smile, “how did you two meet?”
Abigail glances at me, our silent cue. We’ve rehearsed this. Twice.
“Well, it actually started at the office,” she says, smiling at Jameson. “We were both heading to the same meeting, and the elevator got stuck between floors.”
I nod, adding smoothly, “It wasn’t for long, just long enough to talk.”
“Oh yes,” she continues, “and we realized we had so much in common. He’s surprisingly funny when you’re trapped with him, though I might’ve made fun of him a little.”
“I deserved it,” I admit with a hint of a smile. “She challenged me. Kept me on my toes.”
Abigail laughs softly. “And by the time the elevator started moving again, we both knew something had shifted. It was silly, really, but it felt… right.”
Vivian sighs contentedly. “I like that. Real chemistry in unusual circumstances.”
“Exactly,” Abigail agrees, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “A stuck elevator, a little teasing, and as they say, the rest is history.”
Their laughter blends with the gentle clink of silverware. The scene looks perfect from the outside: two families sharing warmth, charm, and the illusion of love.
When dessert arrives, Jameson leans back, folding his napkin beside his plate. “Calvin,” he says, “join me in the study for a drink?”
“Of course.”
His study smells of leather and bourbon. He pours us each a glass, then gestures to the shelves of books and framed city plans.
“You’ve got vision,” he says. “And I respect that. But tell me, what makes this project different from the others that have come and gone?”
I take the glass but don’t drink yet. “Because it’s not just about height or profit. It’s about creating something that outlasts us. A mark that says we were here, and we built something that mattered.”
He studies me over the rim of his glass. “You talk like a man who’s already made his mark.”
I smile faintly. “Maybe I have. But I’m not done yet.”
That earns a nod. “Confidence suits you, Calvin. I’ll look over the proposal again. You may hear from me soon.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
By the time we get back to the penthouse, it’s quiet. Abigail mutters something about needing a shower and disappears up the stairs.
I head for the kitchen, pour a glass of Hennessy, and let the city’s lights wash over me through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The burn of the drink settles in my chest.
Then I feel it, a shift in the air. Soft footsteps, the faint rustle of fabric.
Blair.
She steps softly into view, hair up in a messy bun, an oversized T-shirt hanging off her frame.
It’s clearly not hers, a man’s shirt, and it should mean nothing, but I somehow feel the need to walk to her and rip the shirt from her body.
It’s irrational, and honestly worrisome, that I’m having such a visceral reaction to a simple piece of fabric.
I set my glass down, leaning lightly against the counter. “The fridge is all yours.”
Her neck catches my attention, the column of it delicate and pale.
Her long legs shift slightly as she reaches into the fridge, just enough to make the shirt cling and hint at curves I shouldn’t notice.
A faint impression of nipples presses through the cotton.
My stomach twists, and my dick decides it wants to make an appearance. Fuck no, you fuck.
She hasn’t noticed, or maybe she has. Her cheeks are pinker than before, her gaze darting nervously to the floor. I try to keep my expression neutral, but inside I’m a storm. Forbidden, wrong, impossible, but damn if I’m not mesmerized.
“Uh… how was dinner?” she asks.
I clear my throat, forcing calm into my tone. “It went well. Better than expected.” My eyes flick to hers, catching that slight flutter of lashes, the way she’s unaware of the effect she has.
“Abby told me it was an important dinner, so I’m glad it went well,” she says in a low lingering voice. She toys with the rim of her glass, fingertip gliding in slow, lazy circles. The motion shouldn’t be distracting, but it is.
The light catches her just right, her hair loose, mouth faintly glossed, skin soft and flushed. I should look away. I don’t.
She lifts her gaze, catching me staring, and that flush deepens and spreads down her neck.
My body reacts before my mind can reason with it. A tight pull in my chest. Heat under my skin, dangerous and unwelcome. My jaw tightens. There’s something reckless about her. Something I shouldn’t want to touch but do anyway.
And it makes no sense. Not to me. Not with her.
I drag my eyes up from her mouth to her eyes and just… study her, try to understand why I react the way I do around her.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, soft but direct.
I should answer. I don’t. Instead, I tip the glass back, finishing what’s left of my drink. The Hennessy hits my throat, hot, grounding.
When I lower it, I’m already walking away. “Good night, Blair.”
Her brows pull together, confusion flickering across her face. “Uhh… O-okay, good night.”
I keep walking, every step an effort not to look back.
Because I know exactly what I’d find if I did: those eyes, that mouth, that temptation I have no business wanting.