Chapter 2 #3
Eve rolls her eyes, but there’s fondness beneath the exasperation. “Let me just finish showing our new team member around. I’ll be right there.”
After Flora leaves, Eve turns to me. “The roof is this way. Great view of the river. Also a convenient place to dispose of bodies, just FYI.”
“Duly noted,” I reply dryly. “Planning my demise already?”
“I like to be prepared,” she fires back without missing a beat.
I watch her pick up her coat. “So tell me about the Serastra 70,” I prod. “I’ve heard it was quite the comeback story.”
Eve’s eyes light up despite herself. This is clearly a project she cares about. The passion transforms her face, and for a second, I glimpse the woman beneath the armor—someone who genuinely loves what she does.
“It was Thalvyn’s flagship for years. Old money, old world luxury. Think mahogany and brass, not carbon fiber and LED lighting. But the previous management let it languish while chasing trendier designs.”
We step out onto the rooftop, and the cold January wind ruffles Eve’s hair, sending a few strands dancing across her face.
She tucks them behind her ear with an impatient gesture, pulling her coat tighter around herself against the winter chill.
The view is indeed spectacular—the river gleaming in the distance, the city sprawling around us like a concrete jungle under the pale winter sky.
“We had a perfect relaunch campaign ready,” she continues, leaning against the railing despite the cold.
“Market research, target demographic analysis, event planning—the works. And then, the night before implementation, one of our competitors launched the exact same campaign. Word for word, image for image.”
“And you think someone on your team leaked it.”
Her dark eyes flash with intensity that’s almost hypnotic. “I know someone did. The question is who.” She studies me, head tilted slightly. “That’s why you’re really here, isn’t it? Your brother suspects someone on our team.”
I maintain a neutral expression. “I’m here to help with the Serastra campaign. That’s all you need to know.”
“Right.” She pushes away from the railing with a scoff, clearly eager to get back inside where it’s warm. “And I’m secretly a mermaid. Well, tour’s over, Poseidon. Time to get back to work. I have a list of ideas for the new campaign direction.”
Back at the department, Eve reluctantly shares her ideas. Her new concept for the Serastra is brilliant—positioning it as heritage luxury for a new generation, playing on nostalgia while updating the experience for modern billionaires. The visuals are striking, the copy compelling.
But I can’t help myself.
“The tagline needs work,” I say, pointing to her mockup. “‘Where Tradition Meets Tomorrow’? It’s been done to death. And this color palette is too somber. You’re selling luxury, not a funeral.”
Eve’s nostrils flare. “The palette evokes old-world craftsmanship and stability. It’s deliberate.”
“It’s boring,” I counter. “And your event concept is too stuffy. Yacht buyers want to feel young and alive, not like they’re attending their grandfather’s retirement party.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had suddenly become an expert on maritime marketing,” she snaps, color rising in her cheeks. “Please, enlighten us with your vast experience selling multimillion-dollar vessels.”
I lean back in my chair, enjoying her petulance more than I probably should. “I’m just saying, if you want to resurrect a classic, you need to make it feel relevant. This approach is too conservative.”
“Conservative sells to our target demographic!”
“Your target demographic is dying out,” I point out, enjoying how the flush of anger makes her cheekbones even more pronounced. “You need to attract the next generation of wealth without alienating your base.”
Eve looks like she wants to stab me with her designer pen. She takes a deep breath, her chest rising in a way that momentarily distracts me. “Fine. You have better ideas? Let’s hear them, genius. Dazzle me with your vast expertise.”
I lean forward, meeting her challenge head-on. “Heritage with an edge. Classic structure with modern materials. Host the relaunch on the yacht itself—not some stuffy ballroom—with a mix of old-school jazz and contemporary music. Make it feel like an exclusive club rather than a museum exhibit.”
She narrows her eyes, but I can tell she’s actually considering it. The way her teeth catch her lower lip for just a second betrays her interest, even as her expression remains skeptical.
I spend the next hour poking holes in each of her concepts while offering just enough constructive alternatives to keep her from committing homicide. By the end of the day, her eyes are shooting daggers at me, but I can tell she’s reluctantly considering some of my points.
As the office begins to empty, Eve packs up her things with sharp, angry movements. “We’ll continue this tomorrow,” she says curtly. “Try to come up with something useful instead of just criticizing my work.”
“Wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise,” I reply with a smirk. “By the way, did you want to grab dinner? Discuss strategy?”
She looks at me like I’ve suggested we go skinny-dipping in the Hudson. “I’d rather eat glass. Barefoot. On a bed of nails.”
“Just trying to be collegial.”
“Try harder.” She slings her bag over her shoulder with a dramatic flourish. “See you tomorrow, Reynolds.” The emphasis on my fake surname is deliberate, her eyes flashing with the silent message that she knows exactly who I am.
I watch her walk away, all righteous indignation and swaying hips. This assignment is going to be hell—working alongside a woman who clearly despises me, pretending to be someone I’m not, trying to smoke out a corporate spy without tipping them off.
But as I gather my own things, I realize I’m almost looking forward to tomorrow. Eve Lopez might be the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met, but she’s also the most interesting person in this entire building. And I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.
The Ice Princess thinks she can freeze me out? She has no idea who she’s dealing with.
Game on, Eve. Game on.