Chapter 5 #2
The epitome of it, unfortunately.
It would be so soberingly refreshing to find out Elliot Ashwood was one of those rich kids with morals and values, but I highly doubted he was.
I blinked at him, running out of arguments. He knew. Raised his brows like he was certain he’d won—in front of a bunch of people who most definitely had a say in who got to stay after the program ended.
“You’re not mentioning that luxury fashion is miles ahead in that department already.” Camila. My saving grace. “Limited pieces. Made in Italy or France or right here, in this very city. With the highest quality garments. I’m not sure if you know, since you’d never touch that kind of stuff. Right?”
God, I loved her. Badassery personified and not a single filter to take away from it.
Eyes around the table widened, lips pressed tightly together. Oliver, sitting across from her, lowered his head into his hands as if he had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Like he had half expected it and hated being proven right.
“I—”
But Camila wasn’t having it. Whatever argument or excuse or, God forbid, apology Elliot had on the tip of his tongue, she didn’t want to hear it. “Let’s get back to what we’re here for. Gnomes, leaves, romance. What do you think, Maeve?”
It was another clear shot at Elliot. You had your chance; now let someone else have it. To his credit, he raised his hands and took a literal step back, leaning against the wall again to . . . give me that chance, I think?
Or maybe just because the look on Camila’s face was starting to become scary.
But I hadn’t asked for this. I’d stepped into the conference room hoping everyone around the table would immediately forget I existed. I was just here to take notes, observe, and give feedback to Camila later, once we were back in her office.
Elliot had made that feedback round public, earning himself another strike on my list.
I tried not to waver under the pressure. I’d always been opinionated enough, so speaking my mind wasn’t the problem. And I’d spent the better part of the week studying the three themes to prepare for exactly this question.
“I like all of them.” Which earned me an eye roll from Elliot.
His dismissal fueled the trace of confidence in my tone, making me almost sound self-assured.
My voice only wavered slightly. “Whispers of the Arcane is broad in the best sense,” I agreed with Oliver.
“So much variety on the carpet, potentially really fun looks. Still elegant, though. And when I hear The New Romantics, I’m thinking airy ruffles and flirty bows and .
. . well, I’m obsessed. Imagine Daphne Martin in a flowy gown like that! ”
I told myself the murmurs around the room were in agreement and moved on, finally finding my rhythm. Ronnie nodded grandly, fixing her rimmed glasses.
“Meanwhile, The Spirit of Earth focuses more on the details, right? The trickle of a creek, a gust of wind. And what is Ashwood, if not attention to detail?” I hesitated.
Hated giving this to Elliot, but . . . “Might tie in nicely with the sustainability aspect. Without being too on the nose about it.”
The table hummed in whatever not-convinced-but-interested sounded like. And when, twenty minutes later, I watched everyone shuffle out of the room, I still wasn’t sure if I’d said the right thing. If I should ever agree with Elliot on anything, or if doing so would ruin my chances of making it.
Camila and Oliver were still arguing. I could hear them as I leaned against the wall of the conference room they’d just left.
“Hard to believe they’re married, right?”
My eyes shot open, immediately connecting with the blue of his. It wasn’t his voice or the rasp in his throat or the quirk in his lips that made it impossible to look away, though. It was me, unable to compute what he’d just said. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t do that.” Shrugging, he crossed his arms. “They met here. Camila was his boss at the time, so there better not have been any quid pro quo . . .” He raised his brows suggestively.
Unbelievable. In college, my ability to read a room had been described as something close to precognition, and now I couldn’t even pick up on a marriage between my bosses when I was sitting in the same room as them both.
I knew it wasn’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but my head fell back with a groan regardless, and I let my hands wash over my face.
“Hey.” He laughed, a note of concern in the sound. “Don’t worry. If you’re into older men, I wouldn’t recommend Oliver regardless. He’s a pain in the ass. Let Camila deal with him.”
“That’s not—” But I groaned again before I could finish my own sentence. “I’m not into him. I’m just—” Confused about why New York seems so much harder to navigate than campus.
The only thing that would make this worse was opening up to Elliot Ashwood, though. That much I could still tell. If I didn’t want to talk to him about work, I definitely shouldn’t talk to him about my feelings.
I changed the subject. “Is he really a pain in the ass, though? Or are you just one in his?”
“Okay, ouch.” He clutched his chest but didn’t seem very wounded by my words. Amused, maybe. Surprised, definitely. At least I wasn’t the only one anymore.
“I’m just saying.” I shrugged. Considered. Decided, Fuck it. “After that video, I’m not sure you’ll find a single person walking these halls who does like you.”
His huff was no longer amused, and his eye roll didn’t feel playful. He stalked over to the table and maneuvered himself on top of it, like he was readying himself for a conversation that might take a while. I wasn’t interested in that, just wanted to let him know that I knew.
“That video.” He hummed, just vague enough that it made me wonder whether we were talking about the same one. “And the articles that followed and the paparazzi who couldn’t wait to get a scandalous shot of me in the weeks following it—”
“Can you blame them?”
He didn’t have to think about it. “Very much so. They ruin lives, Maeve.”
“I mean, you’re an Ashwood shitting on your own company. What did you think was gonna happen?”
Elliot laughed, the sound dry. I’d wondered how long a conversation like this might stay civil, and I think we’d just reached the breaking point.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to push past it yet.
“I was a stupid, drunk, seventeen-year-old boy who didn’t know he was being recorded.
I didn’t think anything was going to happen.
I certainly didn’t think it would get leaked five years down the line, making it such a big deal that leaving the house without being swarmed was impossible.
I’m not particularly fond of paparazzi or the crowd of people they usually come with. ”
My lips parted. He was faster.
“But I’m sure things, people, and situations in my life are far more complex than yours at Hall Beck University. Or Thornfield High. I don’t expect you to understand.”
And just like that, I’d lost the upper hand. To a cruel smirk and lazy drawl, his head tilted like he was begging me to take the bait. I was damn close to snatching it out of his grasp and vigorously shaking it, just because he was so confident in his superiority.
I don’t expect you to understand.
Well, fuck you, Elliot Ashwood. I barely managed to swallow the insult, but I couldn’t hold my tongue twice in the span of three seconds. I knew it was hypocritical when I said, “You need to stop reading about me.”
“Only if you do the same.” My silence confirmed his guess. “You know, I think it’s my new favorite pastime. How are your grandparents back in Texas, Maeve?”
Something in my gut twisted. Nerves or anxiety—outright fear, maybe. Because if he knew this much about me already—college, school, Mimi and Pops at home—Elliot had another advantage in all of this.
Sure, I’d combed through dozens of articles about him, too.
But half of the information inside of them was probably accidentally false or purposely misleading.
Nowhere had it said he was seventeen in that video, for example.
He’d looked younger, sure, but not underage.
It wasn’t an excuse, but it sure as hell made it more understandable.
And while I was force-feeding myself fake news, his sources of information about me were personal.
My CV, cover letter, portfolio, probably. Things I’d written and created. Things I’d handed him on a silver platter when I’d applied to Adeline Ashwood.
I didn’t think Elliot cared much about privacy laws.
I swallowed thickly, glad for the distance between us. “I’m sure you have better things to do than google me.”
If I could trust my ability to read people right now, I’d say the words made him uncomfortable, worried, anxious. But I couldn’t even interpret my own feelings, so I didn’t try with his.
“Probably.” The word lingered between us, and I’d expected some follow-up. Nothing, though. He just jumped off the table and took a few steps toward me instead of leaving, the way he should’ve. “You didn’t have to do that, by the way.”
At least this time, I knew what he was talking about. I’d been worrying about the same thing for the past thirty minutes.
“Sustainability isn’t a bad idea.” The room was empty, we were by ourselves, and I was whispering. Why? Not sure. “The Ashwood Annual is just not the place to try it out that obviously.”
“You’re right.” He shrugged, maybe wanting to say more and changing course at the last second. “Still. You didn’t have to admit to it in front of them. You probably shouldn’t have.”
Because he wasn’t exactly well-liked around here, and in three months, our performances would be measured against each other’s, and that little win might just tip the scales in his favor.
“I know,” I admitted.
Now I just needed to figure out why I’d said it anyway. And how to make up for it.