8. Jaxon #2
"Isn't that exactly what we're doing?" she counters.
Before I can respond, Mrs. Patterson appears in the doorway. "Mr. Hart, Lily's asking if she can come down now. She heard the crew leaving."
"Of course," I reply, setting down my untouched coffee.
Lily bounces into the kitchen moments later, looking like she's about to burst with restrained curiosity. "Did they ask about me? Did you tell them about my unicorns? Will I be on TV?"
"Whoa, slow down," I laugh, ruffling her hair. "No, we didn't talk about your unicorns, and no, you won't be on TV. Remember our agreement? Your privacy is important."
Her face falls slightly. "But what if I want to be on TV? Just a little bit?"
"When you're older," I promise, kneeling to her level. "Right now, there are too many people saying too many things that aren't kind or true. Our job is to protect you from that."
She considers this, then nods solemnly. "Like how those people at the gates yelled questions about Mom leaving? Those weren't kind questions."
My stomach twists. "You heard that?"
"From my window," she admits. "They said Mom abandoned me. But that's not true, right? She's just on her journey. She'll come back someday."
I glance helplessly at Vivienne, unsure how to navigate this minefield of a child's hope versus a harsh reality.
Vivienne kneels beside me, her voice gentle but honest. "Sometimes adults make choices that are about them, not about the amazing children in their lives. That doesn't make those choices right or fair."
Lily's eyes fill with tears. "So she's not coming back?"
"I don't know, sweetheart," Vivienne says. "But I know this: her choice says nothing about how lovable or wonderful you are. That's all about her, not you."
I watch, amazed, as Lily processes this painful truth with remarkable composure. Then she looks between us. "But you guys won't leave, right?"
The question hits like a physical blow, especially knowing the temporary nature of our arrangement. Six months. That's all we've promised each other.
"I'm not going anywhere," I tell her firmly, meaning every word. Whatever happens with Vivienne, with Dean, with anything else—Lily is my priority now.
Vivienne hesitates only a fraction of a second. "We're a team now," she says, her hand finding Lily's. "All three of us."
The moment feels weightier than any of our practiced affection for the cameras. There's something real happening here, something neither of us anticipated when we entered this arrangement.
"Can I come to the fancy dinner tonight?" Lily asks, mood shifting with the remarkable resilience of childhood. "I could wear my sparkly dress from Christmas."
"Not tonight," I say gently. "This one's for grown-ups only. But how about we plan something special next weekend? Just the three of us?"
"Promise?" Her eyes narrow, skeptical of adult promises.
"Double promise," Vivienne says, holding up her pinky. "Pinky swear, which is the most serious kind."
Lily hooks her tiny finger around Vivienne's, then demands I join the sacred pact as well. The three of us connected by this small, ridiculous, somehow profound gesture.
After Lily returns upstairs with Mrs. Patterson to continue her art project, Vivienne and I stand in awkward silence, both aware of the commitment we just made to a child who has no idea our relationship has an expiration date.
"We need to be careful," I say finally. "With Lily. She's already lost too much."
"I know." Vivienne looks troubled. "I shouldn't have promised... I just couldn't bear to disappoint her."
"It's not just you," I admit. "I'm guilty of the same thing. The line between real and pretend keeps blurring."
She meets my eyes. "We need better boundaries."
"Agreed."
Neither of us moves to establish what those boundaries might be.
The moment is interrupted by my phone ringing—Luke again, reminding us we have three hours until the charity dinner, our first official public appearance as an engaged couple.
"I should start getting ready," Vivienne says, clearly grateful for the interruption. "Laura says these things take longer than you'd think."
"Before you go," I say, reaching into my pocket. "There's something we need to address."
Her eyes widen as I pull out the ring box. "Jaxon..."
"For appearances," I clarify quickly, though something in me bristles at the reduction. "We'll be expected to have this part figured out by tonight."
I open the box, revealing my grandmother's ring—a three-carat emerald-cut diamond in a platinum setting with smaller diamonds flanking it. Simple by today's standards, but timeless.
"It's beautiful," she breathes, genuine appreciation in her voice.
"It was my grandmother's," I explain. "The only woman in the Hart family who married for love rather than advantage, according to family legend."
A strange expression crosses Vivienne's face. "Are you sure you want to use this? It seems...significant."
"It's sitting in a safe otherwise," I say, echoing my earlier explanation while avoiding the more complicated truth: that something about Vivienne makes the ring feel less like a prop and more like a possibility.
She hesitates, then extends her left hand. Rather than simply handing her the ring, I find myself taking her hand, sliding the platinum band onto her finger with a ceremony that feels unnecessary yet essential.
The ring fits perfectly, catching the light as if it belongs there.
"Thank you," she says softly, flexing her fingers as if testing the weight of it. "I'll take good care of it."
"I know you will." Our eyes meet, and that electric current runs between us again, stronger now.
I clear my throat, stepping back. "I should check in with Luke about tonight's security. The press will be aggressive after the interview airs."
"Right." She nods, professional mask sliding back into place. "I'll be ready by six-thirty."
As she leaves the kitchen, I notice she's already unconsciously twisting the ring with her thumb, a gesture so natural it makes my chest tighten with emotions I have no business feeling.
Six months, I remind myself. This arrangement has a clear timeline, a defined purpose. Developing any genuine attachment would be foolish.
Yet watching her walk away, my grandmother's ring glinting on her finger, I can't help feeling that something fundamental has shifted between us—something neither of our carefully constructed boundaries prepared us for.
The charity dinner is being held at the Waldorf Astoria, with a guest list that reads like a who's who of Manhattan's elite. As our car pulls up to the red carpet, I feel Vivienne tense beside me.
"Your parents will be here," I realize aloud. "This is their circle."
"Yes." Her voice is tight. "First time seeing them since our engagement announcement."
I take her hand, running my thumb over the ring. "We're in this together, remember? Partners."
She gives me a grateful smile, genuine beneath the polished exterior.
She looks stunning tonight—a black gown with a plunging back, hair swept up to expose the elegant line of her neck.
The necklace I helped her with earlier glimmers at her collarbone, drawing attention to the graceful curve of her shoulders.
"You look beautiful," I tell her, the words escaping before I can censor them.
Her cheeks color slightly. "You clean up pretty well yourself, Hart."
The car stops, and immediately the flashes begin—cameras documenting our arrival from every angle. Luke has coached us thoroughly on this moment: emerge together, my hand at the small of her back, pause for photos but keep moving, limit questions to pleasantries only.
As we navigate the gauntlet, I'm surprised by how naturally we fall into step together. Vivienne handles the attention with practiced ease, her smile warm but reserved, her body angled toward mine in subtle indication of our connection.
"Mr. Hart! Ms. Clarke! Over here!"
"Jaxon! When's the wedding date?"
"Vivienne! Did your father approve of the engagement?"
The questions fly at us from all sides. We ignore most, offering only brief, polite responses to the less intrusive ones. My hand never leaves the small of Vivienne's back, the contact grounding us both through the chaos.
We're nearly at the entrance when a familiar voice cuts through the din.
"Mr. Hart! A question about Lily's mother—has she contested the custody arrangement?"
I feel my jaw tighten. Beside me, Vivienne's smile never falters, but I feel her stiffen.
"No questions about my ward," I say firmly, continuing to move forward.
"Sources say Shannon Johnson has engaged a lawyer," the reporter persists. "Is it true you're hiding her communications from Lily?"
Something snaps in me. I stop, turning to face the reporter—a weasel-faced man with a recorder thrust toward us.
"My niece is eight years old and has lost her father," I say, keeping my voice level despite the rage building inside me. "She is not a topic for your gossip column. She is a child deserving privacy and respect—concepts you might want to familiarize yourself with."