4. Edda
Chapter four
Edda
The borrowed dress pinches under my arms every time I reach for my wine glass, which is often. The Heritage Foundation cocktail reception is exactly as insufferable as I expected.
Crystal chandeliers scatter light across a room full of people who have never worried about rent. I stand near the bar pretending I belong here, while my feet scream inside heels that cost more than my monthly electric bill.
Bennett is somewhere across the room.
I feel him like a shift in pressure before a storm rolls in, that quiet change in the air that makes everything feel slightly off balance.
We arrived together thirty minutes ago. He introduced me to four people whose names I immediately forgot, then got pulled into a conversation with a city councilman about permits, zoning variances, and other things that make me want to stab myself with a cocktail fork.
I take another sip of wine. It is good wine. I hate that I notice.
“The dress doesn’t fit.”
The voice comes from my left. I turn to find a woman in her fifties, silver hair pinned into a perfect chignon, her smile polished in a way that never quite reaches her eyes.
I recognize her from the news immediately: Diana Cassel, city council member, environmental advocate, and the woman who has been turning my shop into a prop in her ongoing war against Thornhill Development.
“I’m sorry?” I say, even though I heard her perfectly clearly.
“The dress,” she repeats, gesturing lightly with her champagne flute. “It’s clearly borrowed. The hem is off by a fraction, and the waist isn’t sitting right. You’re a size smaller than whoever it belongs to.”
I set my wine glass down on the bar behind me.
“I’m Edda Rowley.”
“I know who you are.”
Diana’s smile tightens at the edges. “Bicycle shop owner. Heritage preservation consultant. The convenient fiancée.”
She tilts her head, letting her gaze linger like she is assessing damage potential rather than a person.
“Which one are you tonight?”
“All of them, I suppose.” My tone stays even. “I contain multitudes.”
A faint laugh slips from her, soft and unimpressed.
“I’m sure you do.”
She steps closer, just enough to make the space between us feel intentional. Her voice drops, smooth and precise.
“This arrangement you’ve found yourself in with Bennett Thornhill, whatever you think it is, it has an expiration date.”
I don’t react. Not outwardly.
“Men like him don’t keep women like you.”
The words land exactly where she wants them to. The sting spreads through my chest, familiar, practiced, like my body recognizes the shape of disappointment before my mind catches up. Not enough. Temporary. Disposable.
I’ve heard versions of it my entire life. You learn how to swallow it whole and keep your face steady.
“Women like me,” I repeat. “You mean women who work for a living? Women who build things instead of buying them? I’m not sure what category you’re putting me in, Councilwoman, but I’m sure it was meant to land as an insult.”
Diana’s expression flickers, just once. Controlled, but not quite fast enough to hide it.
“I’m trying to help you,” she says. “Bennett Thornhill doesn’t just develop property. He strips it down, rebuilds it, and leaves whatever doesn’t fit behind. Buildings, neighborhoods, people. When he’s finished with you, there won’t be much left of who you are.”
"My shop is heritage protected. The designation is filed independently of Thornhill Development. My consulting contract is at a fair market rate, fully documented."
I reach for my wine and take a slow sip, steadying myself before I continue. "Whatever you think is happening here, you're missing a few pages."
"Am I?"
Diana glances across the room. I follow her gaze to where Bennett stands with a group of donors.
He’s watching us.
His expression gives nothing away, but something in the set of his shoulders holds tension, controlled and deliberate, like he’s restraining himself from stepping in or stepping forward. Waiting, maybe. Calculating.
"He’s very good at making people feel special," Diana says lightly, almost conversational. "Important. Like they matter to him. And then he moves on to the next acquisition."
I don’t respond. I can feel Bennett moving through the crowd now, cutting a path toward us with a deliberate focus that makes people drift aside without understanding why.
“You should take my offer,” Diana says quietly. “Full relocation package. New unit, better foot traffic, setup costs covered. No strings. Cleaner than whatever he’s given you.”
“I already said no.”
“You should reconsider before the strings start tightening.”
Bennett arrives at my elbow. He does not touch me, but I feel him anyway, the heat of him, the solid presence close enough that if I leaned back even slightly, I would hit him.
He greets Diana with the same controlled politeness he uses in boardrooms.
“Councilwoman Cassel. I did not expect to see you here.”
“I am a member of the Heritage Foundation board,” Diana says. Her smile tightens at the edges. “I have been for twelve years. Where did you think I would be?”
"I try not to think about you at all."
Bennett reaches past me to set down an empty glass. His arm brushes mine on the way through. The contact is brief, almost incidental, but my body reacts anyway, like a spark caught in still water.
"Miss Rowley was just telling me about the restoration plan she developed for the Brennan Building," he adds, voice even. "The one you tried to tear down in 2019."
Diana’s expression tightens. "That was a zoning dispute."
"That was a seventy-year-old landmark you wanted to turn into parking spaces," Bennett replies, tone steady, controlled. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to. The man standing beside Diana suddenly discovers something far more interesting on the opposite side of the room.
"Edda caught structural damage in the foundation that your engineers missed entirely," he continues. "The city preservation office still uses her documentation as a reference standard."
I didn’t know that. I didn’t know he knew that.
The realization settles in heavier than expected, and I keep my expression steady while my thoughts scramble to catch up.
Diana studies me with something close to reassessment. “Impressive credentials for a bicycle shop owner.”
“I’m a bicycle shop owner who pays attention.” I hold her gaze without blinking. “You should try it sometime.”
The silence stretches, tight and uncomfortable.
Then Diana inclines her head, something like respect flickering across her expression, before she turns and walks away. Her heels strike the marble floor in precise, measured clicks, like she’s marching out of a negotiation she didn’t win.
I exhale slowly. My hands are still shaking, so I press them flat against my thighs, forcing them steady. Bennett is still beside me, close enough that I catch cedar and leather, and something deeper underneath, clean and distinctly him.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say quietly.
“Do what?”
“Defend me. I can handle Diana Cassel.”
“I know you can.” He doesn’t look at me. His attention stays on the room, tracking faces, reading intent like it’s second nature. “That wasn’t about defending you. It was about making sure she understands what she’s dealing with.”
“And what is she dealing with?”
Now he looks at me.
His eyes are that flat blue I have been trying not to think about, the color of deep winter water. Something in them tightens my breath before I can stop it.
“Someone I underestimated,” he says. “She shouldn’t make the same mistake.”
I don’t know what to do with that. Or with the way it lands in my chest, warm and unsettling at the same time, completely unrelated to the wine.
So I do what I always do when I can’t sit with something like this.
I deflect.
“The Brennan Building documentation. How did you know about that?”
"I read your file."
"You have a file on me?"
"I have a file on everyone who negotiates with me." His mouth twitches, almost a smile. "Yours was more interesting than most."
"Because I threatened to sue you?"
"Because you were right."
He reaches past me again, and his hand grazes my hip, light enough to pass for accidental. Except nothing Bennett Thornhill does is accidental.
"You told me I missed something," he says quietly. "You were correct. That’s rare."
The reception continues around us, a blur of champagne, polite laughter, and people who do not matter. I am painfully aware of his proximity, the way his presence seems to warp the air between us. My heart does something inconvenient in my chest, and I mentally order it to behave.
“We should circulate,” I manage. “That is what we are here for. The arrangement.”
“The arrangement.” He repeats it like he is testing the shape of it in his mouth, weighing it. “Yes. The arrangement.”
His hand settles at the small of my back as he guides me back into the crowd, steady and unhurried, like this is second nature. Like I am.
The next hour dissolves into introductions, donor names, and polished conversations with people who look at me like I do not belong in rooms like this until they hear what I have to say.
Bennett introduces me each time with deliberate precision, my full credentials delivered like he is setting the record straight, one person at a time. I watch expressions shift in real time, dismissal softening into reluctant interest, then something closer to respect.
I tell myself it should not matter. That I do not need their approval.
And still, I do not step away from it.
Especially not when I feel him watching me like I am not just part of the arrangement at all.
By the time we leave, my feet are numb, and my face aches from smiling too long. All I want is to kick off these borrowed heels and drink cheap beer in my apartment above the shop.
The car is already waiting outside, a black sedan with tinted windows. Bennett opens the door for me without a word.
I slide into the leather seat and lean my head back, letting my eyes fall shut. The city lights smear across the window as we pull away from the curb.