Chapter 17 Lindsay
Chapter seventeen
Lindsay
Steve doesn't bring me a stack of resumes. He brings me one woman.
"She passed," he says simply, standing near the doorway like this is a formality. "Every background check. Every reference. Every scenario question."
The woman standing beside him is wearing a plaid jacket over a bright pink blouse, knee-high boots that definitely weren't chosen to blend in, and an expression that suggests she's already decided she can handle whatever this job throws at her.
She meets my eyes without hesitation. No awe. No calculation. No false humility.
"I'm Quinn," she says. "I hear you're allergic to B.S."
Steve winces slightly. I smile.
Quinn perches on the arm of a chair like she's assessing the room more than me. She answers my questions directly. Where she's worked. Who she's said no to. The last client she walked away from—and why.
"I don't manage people who want to be worshipped," she says. "And I don't work for people who confuse money with permission."
Arthur, seated quietly to the side, says nothing. He hasn’t interrupted once.
Steve says nothing.
This is clearly my call.
I lean forward. "If you ever call me ma'am," I tell her, "I'll fire you on principle."
Quinn grins. "Good. If you ever ask me to lie for you, I'll quit."
Something clicks. Clean. Immediate.
When Quinn leaves the room—already discussing logistics with Steve—I realize my hands are steady.
Arthur looks at me.
"You're getting more comfortable," he observes.
"Yes," I say. "I like Quinn. She won't try to change me."
He considers that longer than he considers most things. "You chose well," he says.
Arthur simply stands there, solid, thoughtful, recalibrating his internal systems around a new variable.
"She passed my worst questions," he says finally. "The ones most people fail."
Something warm spreads through my chest.
I smile despite myself.
Arthur said I chose well. Not because he liked Quinn. Because he liked that I did.
***
Quinn moves into the guest house the next morning.
I watch from my window as she supervises her boxes being unloaded from a sleek black SUV. She's not hands-off—she carries smaller items herself, directs the placement of furniture, and checks her watch only once.
I'm struck by how different she is from the staff already working here. They move almost invisibly, creating order without being seen.
Quinn commands attention without asking for it.
She takes up space unapologetically, like someone who knows exactly what she's worth.
When I go downstairs, she's already waiting in the kitchen, tablet in hand, platinum blonde hair catching the morning light.
"First thing," she says without preamble, "we need to discuss boundaries."
I pour myself coffee, grateful for the direct approach. "Whose boundaries? Mine or Arthur's?"
Quinn raises one eyebrow. "Yours. His are already built into the architecture."
I laugh, surprising myself. She's not wrong.
"I'm here to manage your life," Quinn continues, "not reshape it. I need to know what matters to you. What you want protected. What you're willing to share."
The question catches me off-guard. What do I want protected? My first instinct is to say everything—my privacy, my choices, my identity outside of this sudden fortune. But that's not specific enough to be useful.
"I don't want to lose myself," I say finally. "I don't want to become someone who only exists because of money."
Quinn nods, making a note. "That's a good start. Anything else?"
I think about the staff unpacking my suitcases. About the comments on my clothes.
"I want to wear what I want. Even if it's sparkly."
Quinn's mouth quirks upward. "Especially if it's sparkly."
"And I want to go to CAMICon," I add, surprising myself with how firmly I say it. "It's important to me."
Quinn doesn't question this. She simply adds it to her list.
"What about Arthur?" she asks. "What are your boundaries there?"
The question feels more intimate, somehow. I look down at my coffee.
"We're still figuring that out," I admit.
She doesn't press for details, which I appreciate. Instead, she transitions smoothly into logistics—how she'll handle communications, schedule management, security concerns.
"Your personal accounts will be separate from household accounts," she explains. "You'll have complete control over your own finances, but we should discuss investment strategies soon."
I nod, trying to absorb it all.
"And the media narrative?" I ask. "People are going to find out I married Arthur. They'll have opinions."
Quinn's expression turns shrewd. "Let them speculate. We control what we confirm."
There's something reassuring about her confidence. About having someone in my corner who isn't afraid of the noise.
***
Henry finds me in the garden.
I'm sitting on a stone bench, scrolling through the CAMICon schedule on my tablet.
"Are you really going to CAMICon?" Henry asks, approaching cautiously.
I look up, surprised to see him. He's been keeping his distance since the wedding announcement, which I can't blame him for.
"I'm planning to," I say. "Why?"
He sits beside me, leaving space between us. "Dad always says no."
"To CAMICon specifically?"
Henry shrugs. "To stuff like that. He says it's not worth the logistics."
I study him for a moment. His posture is careful, controlled—so much like Arthur's it makes my chest ache a little.
"What part of CAMICon interests you most?" I ask.
His face brightens instantly. "The New Age of Legends panel. They're announcing the expansion pack. And doing a live demo."
I can't help smiling. "I love Legends. I'm planning to go to that panel too."
Henry stares at me like I've suddenly started speaking his language. "You play?"
"Level 84 mage," I confirm. "I specialize in elemental hybrids."
"No way." His entire body shifts toward me, skepticism forgotten. "What's your username? We could party up!"
We're deep in conversation about spawn points and rare item drops when Arthur appears at the garden entrance. He pauses, watching us, his expression unreadable.
Henry notices him first and falls silent mid-sentence. His posture straightens automatically.
"Henry has homework," Arthur says, not unkindly but definitively.
Henry nods, already standing. "We'll talk more later?" he asks me, hopeful.
"Definitely," I promise.
When Henry disappears inside, Arthur remains at the entrance, observing me. I wonder what he sees—his new wife, sitting in his garden, planning to take his son to an event he wouldn't approve.
He turns and goes back inside.
***
Quinn finds me in my room that evening, knocking once before entering with her tablet.
She sits on the edge of my bed uninvited, which I find I don't mind. There's something refreshingly direct about Quinn's presence that makes formality seem unnecessary.
"Can I ask you something?" she says, setting her tablet aside.
I nod.
"Why did you marry him?"
No judgment. Just curiosity.
The question isn't rude coming from her, just straightforward. Still, I feel my face warm.
"It's complicated," I start.
Quinn snorts. "It usually is. But there's always a core reason. The real one, underneath all the practical justifications."
I think about Arthur's steadiness. His certainty.
"He makes me feel safe," I admit finally. "Not because he's rich or powerful. Because he's... solid. When everything else started spinning out of control, he was the one fixed point."
Quinn nods, accepting this without judgment.
"And why do you think he married you?" she asks.
This question is harder. I take my time answering.
I've wondered it myself, late at night when the house is quiet and I'm alone with my thoughts.
"Henry likes me," I say eventually. "And I'm... uncomplicated."
Quinn laughs, a sharp, genuine sound. "You wear rhinestones to breakfast."
I smile despite myself. "True."
"Arthur could have married anyone," Quinn points out. "Someone who already knows when to shut up and smile." She gestures around at the muted elegance of my room.
"But he chose you," she continues. "The lottery winner with the sparkly handbag who talks to his son about video games."
I haven't thought of it that way before. I assumed Arthur chose me because I was safe, familiar—a known quantity.
"Maybe he's tired of people who make sense on paper," Quinn suggests. "Maybe he wants someone who makes life less predictable."
The idea is startling. Arthur thrives on predictability. On control. On systems that function precisely as designed.
"I don't think so," I say slowly. "Arthur doesn't like surprises."
Quinn stands, retrieving her tablet. "Are you sure about that? Because from where I'm standing, he just married one."
She leaves me with that thought, closing the door quietly behind her.
I stare at the ceiling, turning her words over in my mind. Could Quinn be right? Could Arthur have chosen me not despite my differences, but because of them?
My wedding ring catches the light as I turn my hand, the simple band gleaming against my skin. I haven't taken it off since the ceremony.
Maybe this marriage is more complicated than I thought. Maybe Arthur is more complicated.
Arthur Dupree doesn’t make impulsive decisions.
Which means whatever he saw in me… he expects me to live up to.