Chapter 6
It took Hunter Ashwood less than a week to decide on a theme. I knew when Camila literally danced into her studio while Oliver passed the glass panel with a sour look on his face. He still sent her a kiss through it regardless.
The Spirit of Earth.
We weren’t told why or what led him to the decision, only that this was it. Elliot’s sustainability idea was never to be mentioned again.
Now, it was past eight, and I was strolling on the archive floor for inspiration, letting my hands delicately run across the hundreds of garment bags hanging on a rail that wove through the entire open floor. A photo of the design was pinned to each bag.
The first item on Camila’s to-do list tomorrow was scouring the archives for potential annual looks.
And because my objective for this internship was still Be better, I was scouring those archives for her now.
So that when she’d get to the office tomorrow, she’d find a preselection of product codes on her desk.
It was worth missing out on seeing my apartment in the sunlight.
It had been a week, and I still hadn’t gotten a chance to do that yet.
When Ashwood hadn’t assigned me a roommate, I thought I’d been lucky, but it wouldn’t have mattered either way; neither of us would’ve been home for much else but sleep anyway.
With a sigh, I came across another one of Camila’s designs, and I was reminded once again of why she’d always been one of Mom’s—and later my—favorites.
The way her lively dresses shifted shape with each gust of wind and changed color with every ray of sunshine.
Light blues, saturated oranges, and hues that evoked sunsets, wispy clouds, or pastel fields of flowers.
Black wasn’t just black; it was the shade of midnight blue when the full moon struck it just right.
Maybe with my focus on the Ashwood Annual, my lens had shifted, but every single one of her designs could be interpreted as nature inspired. They all captured the spirit of the earth in one way or another.
I kind of got why Oliver’s blown kiss had been reluctant this morning.
His designs were sleeker, for that elevated look in everyday life, while Gabriel managed to combine eccentricity with luxury, somehow making it work beautifully. Both were talented. Neither had a portfolio that screamed nature, though.
Some of the Ashwood Originals were intriguing enough to note down the product code. Back when Hunter had still been designing for his late wife Adeline, and every single one of his pieces screamed, I love my wife.
I was standing in front of one now. All the way in the back of the grand studio, I’d found a 1983 original. The 1983 original. My fingers were itching to lower the zipper for a peek inside what had taken Hunter from successful designer to internationally recognized figure of public interest.
These things happened when European royalty wore your dresses. Especially when those royals were equally as loved and resented by the public, who couldn’t decide whether they liked or hated what had been lovingly named The Gown.
A short dress that was anything but gown-y, worn for the first outing of a princess after a very public cheating scandal.
My phone stopped me in my pursuit of the most iconic revenge dress there ever was, and annoyance flashed through me until I checked the caller ID.
“Henry spoke to Kai,” Paula said by way of greeting. My stomach dropped, and The Gown was no longer as interesting as I’d thought it to be. This was about another scandal that affected my life much more thoroughly.
“Ashwood?”
“Obviously.” I could practically hear her eye roll. “They were in the same youth soccer club growing up,” she said.
In the background, Henry corrected, “Camp!”
“Whatever.” But Paula’s amusement died out, in sync with her next breath. Almost a sigh, really. I continued my way through the archive, searching for solace between tulle and silk. “They met for drinks. Talked. Henry brought up his brother, and he didn’t even have to probe.”
“Rare.” Henry again. “Kai Ashwood’s like a rock.
Uses as few words as possible whenever he can.
But he just didn’t stop talking. I almost felt bad.
” He and Paula snickered in unison. “Then I remembered he had a passion for fouling in seventh grade, and although I was younger, I didn’t get off scot-free. Still have a scar somewhere.”
I wanted to laugh but physically couldn’t. “Talking about what?”
“That video,” Paula supplied. “Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker.” Some rattling on the line, a crack before she went on. “Apparently, Elliot’s little leak tanked Ashwood stock so badly, the board ruined Kai’s shot at . . . ?”
“CFO,” Henry filled in.
My brows furrowed. “Which means?”
“Chief financial officer—”
“No. What does it mean for us?” Or Elliot. Or the situation. I wasn’t quite sure what I was even asking at this point, but both Paula and Henry got enough of it to go on.
“Oh. That the board put Elliot up to this . . . interning thing. He’s not doing it because he wants to be there or cares about his reputation.”
“Or finally realized life is more than just philanthropy. Could you tell that Kai Ashwood was absolutely livid when he said that?” Paula added, for a moment forgetting this wasn’t all great news for me.
“Only that Kai doesn’t get livid. He stoically complains about things, then goes back to work like everything’s just dandy,” Henry corrected.
“Sure.” I nodded, finding myself not caring all that much about the intricate inner life of Kai Ashwood. “But what about—?”
“The gist of it is this, Maeve.” I braced for impact at the tone in Henry’s voice.
No more amusement, no more bullshit. I came to a halt, let go of a photo I’d previously scanned.
“The board is forcing Elliot to intern at Adeline Ashwood, hoping it’ll show the public—especially investors—that he’s a changed man.
That he was young and stupid and drunk in that video, and that there’s nothing wrong with their clothes.
That he loves everything they do and finally wants to be a part of the family business, just like the rest of his brothers.
They’re trying to reposition him as humble and regretful, eager to work his way up. ”
So, it hadn’t been Rachel’s decision to change things up this year at all. She probably wanted Elliot, a walking PR nightmare, around less than I did. It was the board that had forced her hand. The board that was well on its way to ruining my life.
Did I even stand a chance when this was Elliot’s image-rehabilitation plan? Nothing would really be rehabilitated if he . . . lost.
Henry had answers, thank God. “But if he doesn’t nail this internship . . . if he doesn’t exceed expectations, stop fucking around, and start getting his act together”—he cleared his throat—“he’ll lose everything.”
“Everything?” Henry always had a knack for the dramatic. “What does that mean? Everything?”
His reputation? His allowance? Cut from infinite to a meager $5,000 a week? At least if there was a plan in place for the possibility of my win—his loss—that meant I did still stand a chance.
The silence on the other end lasted a second too long for my relief to settle, though. I imagined them staring at each other, wincing, wondering how to break the news to me.
Whatever news.
“Billions, Maeve. Think drained bank account, cut out of the will, kicked out of the penthouse. No more access to the resources he currently has at his fingertips.”
Oh.
I blinked into the archive. Let my gaze wander the rails, the bags, the photos clipped onto them. Wondered if I should come here every night for as long as I could because it seemed I wouldn’t see them again after my three months were over.
I’d expected bad. That Elliot might need to prove himself to his grandfather, the board, or the public. That external factors at play had brought him to the intern department of Adeline Ashwood.
But this . . .
Disowned. Losing billions if he didn’t wipe the floor with me.
It gave him a kind of motivation I hadn’t expected; the stakes were much higher than anticipated. He had a reason to manipulate and scheme and fight for this.
Who wouldn’t fight for billions of dollars?
I’d do it for much less: a good salary, health care, and some paid days off to visit my family. Mimi and Pops and Mom’s grave.
I told myself I was doing it for them when I hung up with a quick thank-you, and five minutes later stood in front of Elliot’s office.