5. Vivienne #2
"Not surprised." His eyes travel slowly from my face to my shoes and back again. "Impressed."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his appreciation. "Shall we?"
Outside, the rain has lightened to a drizzle. Jaxon's driver holds an umbrella as we make our way to the car, his hand hovering near the small of my back but not quite touching—a gesture both protective and respectful of boundaries.
Once inside the car, the atmosphere between us has shifted.
The physical awareness that's been humming beneath our interactions since that first night at the charity gala intensifies in the confined space.
His cologne—something woodsy and expensive—fills my senses.
Our knees nearly touch across the leather seat.
"About tomorrow's presentation with Lumina," he says, breaking the tension. "What's your concept?"
Grateful for the professional topic, I outline my campaign for him—the authenticity angle, the focus on real women, and the strategy for expanding into new demographics.
"It's good," he says when I finish. "Really good. Gerald would be a fool to go with Fischer instead."
"Tell that to my father."
"Your father doesn't control Gerald Lumina."
"No, but he controls my apartment lease, my professional connections, and apparently my freedom if I don't start 'being responsible.'" I mimic my father's pompous tone.
"What does that even mean to him? 'Being responsible'?"
"Marrying the right sort of man," I say bitterly. "Taking my place in society. Producing the next generation of Clarkes to continue the dynasty. You know, the usual patriarchal playbook."
Jaxon is quiet for a moment. "And what do you want?"
The simple question catches me off guard. Few people have ever asked me that directly.
"To build something of my own," I say finally. "To succeed or fail based on my own merits, not my father's influence. To make decisions without his shadow looming over every choice."
"Worth fighting for," he says, nodding. "Even if it means making unconventional alliances."
Our eyes meet, and I know he's referring to Luke's suggestion of a fake relationship. The idea should be absurd, yet sitting here with him, it suddenly doesn't seem so far-fetched.
"Speaking of unconventional," I say carefully, "have you thought more about your manager's proposal?"
"I have." His expression turns serious. "It's manipulative, calculated, and probably ethically questionable."
"But?"
"But I'll do anything to keep Lily," he admits. "She's been through enough abandonment already."
The simple honesty of his answer touches something in me. This isn't the playboy rockstar the tabloids portray. This is a man fighting for a child who needs him.
"And you think I'm the solution?" I ask.
"I think we might be each other's solution." His eyes hold mine. "You need freedom from your father. I need stability for Lily's sake. Together, we create a narrative that serves us both."
Put that way, it makes perfect, pragmatic sense. Yet there's nothing pragmatic about the way my pulse quickens when he looks at me.
"It would be complicated," I say.
"Undoubtedly."
"People would ask questions, dig into our past. The connection to Andrew—"
"All part of the story," he interjects. "Healing old wounds. Finding unexpected connection. The media loves that shit."
I can't help but laugh. "You've thought this through."
"I'm motivated." His expression sobers. "But I won't pressure you. It has to be your choice, on your terms."
The car slows as we approach the Met, where photographers and reporters line the entrance for the benefit. The rain has stopped, leaving the steps glistening under the spotlights.
"We've arrived," the driver announces. "Sir, there's press on the north entrance as requested."
Jaxon nods, then turns to me. "Last chance to back out. Once we're seen together at this event, people will talk."
I look out at the flashbulbs and microphones, then back at Jaxon. "Let them talk."
He smiles—a real smile that transforms his face from merely handsome to devastating. "Ready, Ms. Clarke?"
"Ready, Mr. Hart."
The driver opens the door, and Jaxon exits first, then extends his hand to help me out. As I emerge, his hand settles at the small of my back, a gesture I am growing to love which sends an inexplicable thrill through me.
Flashbulbs explode immediately; voices call Jaxon's name. I recognize several tabloid reporters among the press line.
"Mr. Hart! Over here!" "Jaxon, who's your date?" "Is this a new relationship?"
He navigates us smoothly toward the steps, smiling but not stopping for questions. We've almost made it past the press line when a particularly aggressive photographer steps directly in our path.
"Mr. Hart! Is this a response to potential custody petitions? Trading your Playboy image for a family man to keep your niece?"
Jaxon freezes beside me, his body tensing. I feel the fury radiating from him, and I see his jaw clenching as he struggles to maintain composure.
The photographer presses on, "Sources say you're unfit to raise a child. Any comment on—"
"Mr. Hart and I would appreciate some privacy," I interrupt, stepping slightly in front of Jaxon. "This is hardly the venue for such questions."
"And you are?" the reporter asks, recorder thrust toward my face.
What happens next seems to unfold in slow motion. I feel Jaxon's struggle for control beside me. I see the vulture-like gleam in the reporter's eyes. I think of Lily, vulnerable and already abandoned by too many adults in her short life.
And at that moment, I make a decision that would irreversibly change the course of our lives.
"I'm Vivienne Clarke," I say clearly, my voice carrying to surrounding reporters. "Jaxon's fiancée."
The words hang in the air for a suspended moment before chaos erupts. Flashbulbs explode like stars going supernova, and questions are shouted from every direction. Beside me, Jaxon's hand tightens on my waist, his surprised intake of breath audible only to me.
"When did this happen?" "How long have you been together?" "Does this have anything to do with Lily's custody case?"
Jaxon recovers quickly, pulling me closer to his side. "If you'll excuse us," he says smoothly, "my fiancée and I are already late for the benefit."
With practiced ease, he guides me up the remaining steps and through the museum doors, leaving the media frenzy behind us. The moment we're inside, he steers me to a quiet alcove away from other guests.
"Fiancée?" he says quietly, eyes searching my face. "That wasn't part of the plan for tonight."
"I improvised," I reply, heart still racing from my impulsive declaration. "That reporter was about to turn this into a story about Lily. I just... redirected the narrative."
"To us," he says, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
"To us," I confirm, the full weight of what I've done beginning to settle on my shoulders. "I'm sorry if I overstepped. I can go back out there and tell them I was joking—"
"No," he interrupts, taking both my hands in his. The gesture feels startlingly intimate. "No, don't apologize. It's exactly what Luke wanted. What we both needed, if we're honest."
"So we're doing this?" I ask, suddenly breathless. "For real?"
"For real," he confirms, his thumbs tracing circles on my wrists. "A mutually beneficial arrangement. A strategic alliance."
But the way he's looking at me—intense, appreciative, almost hungry—makes "strategic" feel like the least appropriate word for whatever is developing between us.
"We should probably discuss terms," I say, trying to maintain some semblance of professional distance despite the electricity crackling between us. "Expectations. Boundaries."
"Tomorrow," he promises. "Tonight, we play the happy couple for our audience." He glances toward the main hall where the benefit is in full swing. "Think you can manage that, Clarke?"
I straighten my shoulders, meeting his challenge with one of my own. "I'm a professional, Hart. I can play any role required."
His smile turns predatory. "We'll see about that."
As he guides me toward the ballroom, his hand warm against the bare skin of my back, I wonder if I've just made the smartest decision of my life—or the most dangerous.
And I'm not entirely sure which outcome I'm hoping for.