5. Vivienne
Vivienne
"Of course, it would rain today," I mutter, staring out the window of the coffee shop as the light drizzle that started during my meeting transforms into a full-on downpour—just my luck. The one day I forget my umbrella is the day the sky decides to unleash biblical floods on Manhattan.
My phone buzzes with a text from Laura: Fischer pitched to Lumina today. Heard through the grapevine, it didn't go well. Gerald kept asking what women on their target demo ACTUALLY want. Your campaign is looking better by the minute.
I smile despite my weather predicament. Maybe my career isn't entirely at my father's mercy after all.
Another message follows: I also heard Daddy Dearest is furious. Tread carefully.
The warning dims my momentary triumph. My father doesn't handle disappointment well, especially when it comes to disrupting his carefully orchestrated plans.
I glance at my watch—almost six. I have an hour to get across town for dinner with a potential client. Canceling isn't an option, but neither is arriving looking like a drowned rat.
"Screw it," I say to myself, gathering my belongings and preparing to make a dash for it. I could find a cab, though that's practically mythical in this weather.
The moment I step outside, the rain intensifies as if personally offended by my presence. Within seconds, my carefully styled hair is plastered to my face, and my silk blouse clings uncomfortably to my skin.
"Fantastic," I sigh, holding my briefcase over my head in a futile attempt to shield myself as I scan the street for an available taxi. The sidewalks are chaos—a symphony of umbrellas and hurried bodies all competing for the same scarce yellow cabs.
I'm about to admit defeat and call an Uber when a sleek black car pulls up directly in front of me. The back door opens, and I find myself staring at none other than Jaxon Hart.
"Get in," he calls over the drumming of rain on the car roof. "Unless you're enjoying your impromptu shower."
I hesitate for a split second, then make a decision based entirely on the state of my ruined blouse and the increasingly transparent nature of the fabric.
"My hero," I say dryly, sliding into the back seat and closing the door behind me. The sudden silence after the roaring rain is almost disorienting.
"This is becoming a habit," Jaxon comments, his eyes taking in my drenched appearance. "You in some state of distress, me coming to the rescue."
"I wasn't in distress," I counter, acutely aware of how close we're sitting, the leather seat still warm from his body heat. "Merely conducting a scientific experiment on the absorbency of silk."
His lips twitch into what might almost be a smile. "Conclusion?"
"Very absorbent. Not recommended for monsoon season." I push wet hair from my face, painfully conscious of my makeup likely streaming down my cheeks. "Thank you, though. For stopping."
He shrugs, the movement drawing my attention to the breadth of his shoulders in his perfectly tailored suit. "I recognized you from the window. Seemed like the decent thing to do."
"Decent? That'll ruin your reputation."
This time, he smiles briefly but genuinely. "I'll deny it if you tell anyone."
The car pulls smoothly into traffic, windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the deluge.
"Where are you headed?" he asks.
"Le Bernardin. Dinner meeting."
"Looking like that?" His eyes flicker over my bedraggled appearance again, lingering a moment too long on the now-clinging fabric of my blouse.
I cross my arms over my chest. "I'll make a stop at Bergdorf's. Nothing a power suit and the store bathroom can't fix."
"We can drop you," he offers. "It's on our way."
"Our way to where?"
"Benefit at the Met. Probably running into some of the same people you had dinner with at your parents' the other night."
The mention of my parents brings back the memory of my father's ultimatum, souring my mood. "Lucky you."
He studies me, those dark eyes surprisingly perceptive. "Something wrong?"
"Nothing worth discussing with someone I've met three times"
"Third time's the charm," he quips. "And we're stuck in traffic for the foreseeable future." He nods toward the gridlocked street ahead. "Might as well pass the time."
I sigh, watching raindrops race each other down the window. "My father's meddling in my career. Again. Trying to take my Lumina account and give it to his golfing buddy's agency."
"Fischer & Sons," Jaxon says, nodding. "They pitched today, right? Word is it didn't go well."
I turn to him, surprised. "How do you know that?"
"Gerald and I spoke earlier about the men's line. He mentioned being disappointed with their creative direction. Said it felt like 'marketing from another century.'"
A bubble of hope rises in my chest. "Did he mention my campaign?"
"He said he's looking forward to your presentation tomorrow." His eyes meet mine. "I might have mentioned how impressed I was with your passion for authenticity in advertising."
"You didn't," I say, narrowing my eyes.
"I did." He leans back, entirely too comfortable with his interference. "Is that a problem?"
"I don't need your help," I say automatically.
"Need? No. But why turn down an ally?"
The question hangs between us as the car inches forward through the congested streets. He's right, of course, but accepting help has never been my strong suit—especially from someone who represents everything I've been trained to be wary of: male, wealthy, powerful, with unclear motives.
"Why would you help me?" I ask directly. "What's in it for you?"
"Maybe I just enjoy watching you succeed against the odds." When I give him a skeptical look, he continues, "Or maybe I find your father as insufferable as you do."
"You barely know him."
"I know the type." His expression darkens momentarily. "Men who mistake control for love. Who think they own their children's futures."
The accuracy of his assessment catches me off guard. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."
"My father was cut from the same cloth as yours," he says, looking out at the rain-streaked city. "Everything was about legacy, appearance, control. Especially with Andrew."
The mention of his brother—my ex—creates a strange intimacy in the confined space of the car. "Andrew always seemed to thrive on that pressure."
"He was better at playing the game," Jaxon agrees. "I refused to even learn the rules."
"Hence the rebellion? The music, the lifestyle?"
His smile turns bitter. "Is that what Andrew told you? That I was just rebelling?"
"Something like that," I remember Andrew's dismissive tone whenever he spoke of his younger brother. Jaxon's just doing it for attention. He'll grow up eventually.
"The music wasn't rebellion," Jaxon says quietly. "It was escape. Freedom. The only thing that was ever truly mine."
There's a raw honesty in his voice that catches me off guard. Jaxon Hart, stripped of the carefully constructed public persona—just for a moment, just within the confines of this rain-soaked car.
Our eyes meet, and something electric passes between us—perhaps recognition of kindred spirits trapped in worlds not entirely of our making.
The car jerks to a halt, breaking the moment. Outside, the rain continues its assault, transforming the city into a blur of neon reflections on wet asphalt.
"We're not going anywhere fast," the driver announces. "Accident ahead. Might be fifteen, twenty minutes."
Jaxon glances at his watch. "I'm already late. You'll definitely miss your dinner at this rate."
I groan, pulling out my phone to text my apologies. "Third time I've had to reschedule with them. They'll think I'm not taking them seriously."
"What if you joined me instead?" Jaxon suggests unexpectedly. "The Met benefit has half the marketing executives in the city attending. Better networking opportunity than a one-client dinner."
"In these clothes?" I gesture to my still-damp attire.
"We'll stop at Bergdorf's first. My treat."
"I don't need your charity, Jaxon."
"Not charity. Investment." His eyes hold a challenge. "Unless you're afraid of being seen with me?"
"Afraid?" I arch an eyebrow. "Of what? Your notorious charm? Sorry to disappoint, but I'm immune."
"Prove it," he counters, a half-smile playing at his lips. "One event. Professional networking only. I introduce you to people who might actually value your talents, no strings attached."
I should say no. It's too complicated, too potentially scandalous. But the thought of making connections beyond my father's influence is too tempting to resist.
"Fine," I agree. "One event. But I pay for my own dress."
"Deal." He extends his hand, and I take it to seal our agreement.
The moment our skin touches, a current seems to pass between us. His hand is warm and strong, and the calluses on his fingertips are evidence of years of playing guitar. We both hold on a beat too long before letting go.
The car finally begins moving again, navigating around the accident scene. We ride in charged silence until reaching Bergdorf's, where Jaxon instructs the driver to wait.
"Thirty minutes enough time?" he asks as we rush through the rain toward the entrance.
"For a woman to find a gala-appropriate dress? You clearly don't shop with many women."
"I make it a point not to," he says, holding the door open. "Meet you back here in forty-five?"
I nod, already scanning the floor for something suitable. We separate, and I throw myself into the task with more enthusiasm than a simple networking event warrants.
Forty minutes later, I'm transformed. The sales associate worked miracles, helping me select a midnight blue gown with a tasteful slit and classic silhouette. My hair is dried and swept into an elegant updo, my makeup is refreshed, and a pair of silver heels complete the ensemble.
When I return to our meeting point, Jaxon is waiting, scrolling through his phone. He looks up as I approach, and his expression changes—eyes widening slightly, phone forgotten in his hand.
"You clean up well, Clarke," he says, voice rougher than before.
"You sound surprised."