Chapter 5 Grayson
GRAYSON
Lisbon smells like salt and diesel fuel and, faintly, fish, and I can't stop thinking about my wife. Paulo explains contract revisions in rapid Portuguese. The failing AC rattles in the corner. I should be listening.
But all I can think about is the way Abbie looked when I last left. Half-asleep in our bed, hair tangled across the pillow, eyes tracking me in the darkness like she was memorizing a face she expected to lose.
Two weeks, I told her. The same thing I told her last week. The same thing I've been telling her for months.
"Senhor Valentine?" Paulo is staring at me. "A modifica??o?"
"Sim." I have no idea what I just agreed to. "Send it over for legal review."
I pull out my phone beneath the table and open a photo folder.
I named it "Design References."
It's not design references. It holds Abbie’s sketches and photos. In one she stands before her first billboard, trying not to grin. When the meeting ends, I escape into the hallway.
Ten days later, my phone buzzes between meetings. I glance down, hoping for Abbie, but it’s a calendar reminder instead.
Abbie's birthday - 4 days
I stare at it for a long moment, doing the math. Four days. The signing is in three. I'll be home the night before her birthday, cutting it close, but I'll make it. I promised.
You promised two weeks ago too, whispers the voice in my head that sounds disturbingly like my wife.
* * *
The hotel room is too quiet without her. I've been staying here for two weeks, on and off, and I still haven't unpacked properly. My clothes live in the suitcase. My laptop lives on the desk.
I should call Abbie. It's, I check my watch, midnight here, which makes it late afternoon in Los Angeles? She'd still be working. I don't call. I remember her warning me not to make more promises.
And the thing is, she's right not to. Instead I open my email. Then there's the other email. The one I keep buried in a folder I pretend doesn't exist.
From Richard Montgomery, dated eight months ago:
Grayson. Confirm receipt of wire transfer for the amount discussed. Per our agreement, Abbie is not to know the source of these funds. I trust you'll handle the European project with the discretion we discussed.Richard
Eight months earlier, Richard invited me to dinner at his club.
"Gray. Glad you could make it."
"Richard. Your message said it was important."
"It is. Brandy?"
"I'm fine."
"I've been following VTG's numbers. The European expansion, that's ambitious. Smart, but ambitious."
"We're positioned for it."
"You’re positioned to do it slowly." He leaned forward. "But you don't have to do it that way, Gray. That's what I wanted to discuss."
I knew where this was going. I should have left.
"I'm listening," I said instead.
"A clean investment, structured by our lawyers." He swirled the brandy slowly, watching the legs run down the glass. "The timeline you actually want, not the one you’ve settled for."
"That's generous."
"It's practical. You're married to my daughter. Your success is, in some ways, a reflection of this family." He said it without warmth, without pride. Just fact. "I'd rather see you succeed quickly than struggle unnecessarily."
"And what do you want in return?"
"Return?" He almost smiled. "I want my investment to perform. I want to see the European offices thriving. I want—" He paused, set down the brandy. "I want to feel like part of my daughter's life, Gray. Even if she won't let me in directly. Surely you can understand that."
"Abbie has a rule," I said. "About Montgomery money."
"I'm aware of my daughter's rules."
"She's serious about it. No family money, no family strings. She's told me—"
"I know what she's told you. I know what she's told everyone." Richard's voice stayed level, almost gentle. "But Abbie's rules are about me controlling her. This isn't control. This is investment in her husband's company. She wouldn't even need to know the source."
"You're asking me to hide this from her."
"I'm suggesting that some information creates unnecessary conflict." He met my eyes, steady and certain. "She doesn't need to know, Gray. You know how Abbie is about family money. This can just be between us. Father to son-in-law. The way it should have been from the start."
"She'd be furious if she found out."
"She doesn’t need to know until it’s done." He picked up his brandy again, casual, like we were discussing golf handicaps. "I'm not asking you to lie to her. I'm asking you to protect her from a conflict that doesn't need to exist."
"That's the same thing."
"Is it?" He raised an eyebrow. "You've never kept something from Abbie to spare her feelings? Never made a decision you knew was right without consulting her first? Marriage requires discretion, Gray. This is just... a larger discretion."
"The timeline really would be faster," I said, and I hated how much it sounded like I was convincing myself.
"Faster. Less time at work, more time at home." Richard's voice softened, almost paternal. "You can give her the outcome she deserves without the struggle in between. What's wrong with that?"
"And if she asks where the money came from?"
"She won't. Abbie doesn't want to know the details of your financing. She wants to know that you're building something remarkable together. Give her that. Let me help you give her that."
I thought about the timeline. Then the promise I’d made.
"Okay," I said. "Let's talk structure."
Richard smiled.
"I'll have my people send the paperwork tomorrow."
I chose convenience over her trust. I chose easier over honest.
And I told myself it was for her.
I close the email and tell myself I’ll explain after the signing. After her birthday.
I keep saying "after." I keep pushing it forward.
Eventually, "after" is going to run out.
* * *
I'm halfway through a drink when the knock comes. It's midnight. I'm sitting at the desk in the dark, laptop closed, watching the lights of Lisbon spread out below my window.
The knock comes again. Soft. Almost hesitant.
"Housekeeping doesn't come at midnight," I say to the door, not moving. "And if you're lost, the ice machine is down the hall."
"Gray." The voice is familiar. Wrong, but familiar. "It's me."
Delaney. I put down my glass. I agreed to this promotion when Constance called in a favor. She shouldn't be at my door at midnight.
"What do you need?" I ask through the door.
"Can you open up? It's... I need to talk to you."
Her voice shakes. I open the door. Delaney stands in the hallway in a hotel robe, hair loose, eyes wet.
"What the hell—"
"I just need to talk to someone. Please, Gray. Five minutes."
"In the hall." I don’t move back. "Whatever this is, we can discuss it in the hall."
"I can't... please. I'm falling apart and I don't have anyone else here and I just need—"
She reaches for me. Her hand lands on my chest, fingers curling into the collar of my shirt, and for a split second I'm so surprised that I don't react.
I remove her hand. Not gently, efficiently, the way you'd remove something that doesn't belong.
Her fingers are cold against mine as I peel them away from my shirt and push her hand back toward her body.
"No. Not ever. Get away from my room."
"Gray—"
"Now."
"I wasn't... I didn't mean—"
"I don't care what you meant. I don't care what you're dealing with or who you need to talk to. You don't come to my hotel room at midnight in a robe. You don't touch me. You don't cross that line. Ever."
"I'm Abbie's sister—"
"Which makes this worse, not better. Go back to your room. We'll pretend this didn't happen. But if you try anything like this again, you're on the first flight back to Los Angeles."
"I wasn't trying to... God, Gray, I just needed someone to talk to. Do you know what it's like being alone in a foreign city while everyone else celebrates? I thought we were friends."
"We're not friends. We're colleagues. And colleagues don't show up at midnight like this."
"You're being cruel."
"I'm being clear. There's a difference."
"My mother will hear about this. About how you treated me when I was vulnerable and scared and just needed—"
"Your mother can hear whatever version of this story you want to tell her."
"She'll believe me. She always believes me."
"Then let her. I'll tell her exactly what happened, the robe, the time, your hand on my chest. All of it. See which story she finds more convincing."
"You're supposed to be family."
"Family doesn't do this. Whatever game you're playing, whatever you think is going to happen here. It's not. I love your sister. That's not going to change because you showed up crying at my door."
"You can't fire me. My mother—"
"Watch me."
I close the door. I listen until her footsteps retreat and another door closes. I should call Abbie. Her number sits at the top of my recent calls.
Tell her, says the voice in my head.
After, I tell myself. After the signing. After the birthday. After I'm home and can explain everything properly, face to face, the way she deserves.
I should fire Delaney now. But. Constance will start a family war, right before Abbie’s birthday. The signing is three days away. I tell myself I need Delaney’s administrative work until then.
After the signing, I’ll fire her. Then I’ll tell Abbie. I just pour another drink and tell myself everything will be fine in four days.
* * *
The calendar on my laptop marks the signing in red. Two days now. Abbie's birthday in three.
The signing has become a fight over an exclusivity clause. Paulo brings another coffee. I haven’t slept.
She'll understand, I tell myself. She knows how important this is. She knows I'm doing this for us.
I think about celebrating Abbie’s award. A grand gesture to make up for this. She'll see that I never forgot. That even when I was drowning in Lisbon, she was the only thing that mattered.
Call her, says the voice in my head. Call her now. Tell her you love her. Tell her about Delaney. Tell her about her father's money before she finds out another way.
My phone buzzes. Paulo, with another question about contractor certifications.
I answer it.