20. Heidi
HEIDI
It’s Wednesday, and we’re in the production van on the way to Grace’s family estate. John, our cameraman, is driving, with Elias—the sound guy—in the passenger seat. Grace and I sit in the back.
Max, the crew, and I are staying overnight. We have a late night ahead and an early start tomorrow, so it made sense to skip the forty-minute drive back to the city.
Grace is even more rigid than usual. She sits upright, staring out the window at the passing hillside with a scary focus, like she’s trying to brace herself for what’s coming.
I take a risk and reach for her hand. A small gesture of comfort. For a moment she lets me hold it. Then she pulls away.
“You know,” she says coolly, “you can get Botox to help with excessive sweating.”
I force a tight smile and turn to look out my window.
I guess my hands are a little damp.
I’m nervous. Not just because Grace has made it clear we’re driving into a lion’s den, but because there’s a ring sitting in my bag between my feet.
I couldn’t bring myself to leave it back at the mansion.
And the man who’s given it to me will be here, and Grace will be here and her family and cameras and it all has to go perfect or I lose my career.
I swallow. I don’t get to feel bad about any of this. This mess is my own making. Grace, on the other hand, has no idea what’s actually going on, and she’s even more stressed than I am. The guilt sits heavy in my chest.
I think of what Colette said about her being close to cracking.
“It’s going to be alright,” I say quietly. “Whatever happens, you know that, right?”
Grace turns her head slowly and looks at me like I’ve just said something deeply stupid.
“Do you have a breath mint?” she asks flatly.
“Sorry,” I say, fishing a mint out of my bag and popping it into my mouth. I hold the box out to her.
She doesn’t take one.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing.”
Her eyes move over my outfit now. I washed, steamed, and put on my most presentable clothes this morning—a white linen blouse, tailored trousers, and black heeled boots. It’s not exactly stylish, but it’s the best I have.
Grace studies me for another second.
“You look dreadful,” she says calmly. “I’ll find something that fits you.”
She turns back to the window. A moment later her posture shifts, her attention sharpening as something appears in the distance.
“That’s the Carter estate,” Grace says, pointing toward the end of the cul-de-sac.
At the end of the road sits a sprawling limestone mansion. It looks like it belongs in Venice. I knew Max came from luxury fashion wealth, but seeing it in person is different. Compared to this, his brother Dean’s house looks like a trailer home.
Max grew up here. I don’t usually think about the wealth divide between us, but when I picture my aunt’s cramped house, the gap is impossible to ignore.
“His mom lives there. She likes me.” Grace says it like Silvia’s approval is a badge of honor. After meeting the woman, I suppose it is. I’m still not sure where I stand with Silvia. After our introduction, she didn’t say another word to me.
I don’t have much time to think about it. The van turns left through a set of massive, spiked metal gates.
The Whitmore estate is just as impressive. It is a sprawling white house with a pool, a tennis court, and a guest house larger than most homes. Everything here looks designed to intimidate.
As the van stops, the front doors open. Grace’s father and brother step out.
I get out of the van. We have about ten minutes to set up before Max arrives. My heart thuds as I approach the Whitmore men with Grace trailing behind me.
Maverick Whitmore is in his fifties, with a thick, silver-gray head of hair and a face that is remarkably symmetrical. He has the kind of effortless, high-contrast features that the camera will love. His gray suit is perfectly tailored to an athletic frame that seemingly hasn't softened with age.
But it’s his eyes that stop me. They are a sharp, pale blue and carry a predatory intensity.
He stands with a slight, arrogant tilt to his head, watching us with the detached interest of someone who owns everything he sees.
It is the look of a man who has never been told no and wouldn’t believe it if he was.
“Miss Langford,” Maverick says, studying me with a certainty that makes me feel exposed, as if he already knows everything about me.
We exchange a few empty pleasantries, but my attention drifts to the man standing beside him. Finn Whitmore. Grace’s brother.
He’s a few years younger than Grace and just as genetically fortunate.
He has his father’s height and the same striking pale eyes—sharp and almost too perfect, the kind you’d expect to see in a magazine spread.
But unlike his father, Finn doesn’t bother to hide what he’s thinking.
He stands with his arms crossed, watching the crew haul equipment out of the van with open disdain.
When I shake his hand, there’s a knowing, heavy-lidded smirk on his face that makes my pulse spike.
As I glance between Maverick’s controlled authority and Finn’s colder kind of elegance, I find myself wondering about the one person who isn’t here. If this is the father, Grace’s mother must be something formidable to hold her own against him.
Once we’re set up, I take my position behind the camera. My headset digs into my temples, the static in my ear matches the buzz of my anxiety. Beside me, John adjusts the focus, tightening the shot as Max’s car pulls up.
Max steps out. He’s in a navy suit, his hair perfect. He looks exactly like the man the Whitmore’s would expect Grace to bring home.
His gaze flicks to me and the look on his face feels like a silent accusation: I proposed to you, and you hung up on me.
It turns my stomach.
We start rolling.
Grace stands beside her father and brother, her posture so perfect it looks almost painful. She’s wearing a white dress that matches the pale stone of the house. Luckily, the dark wooden door behind her breaks up the white, so we don’t need to adjust anything.
“Maxwell,” Maverick says, stepping forward.
His voice is a low rumble of authority. He takes Max’s hand in a tight grip.
“Mr. Whitmore,” Max responds. He matches Maverick’s stare with steady confidence. The power struggle between them is instant.
I don’t know the full history between the families, but from what I’ve gathered from Max, his mother isn’t a fan of Grace’s parents.
Max moves on, pressing a polite kiss to Grace’s cheek before turning to Finn. As they shake hands, Finn tries to initiate the same dominance his father just did. He squeezes, leaning in slightly, his smirk sharpening.
Max doesn’t budge. He holds his ground and watches Finn with cool indifference until Finn breaks the contact first.
A sharp tension lingers in the air. It is perfect for the show, but the atmosphere is becoming brittle.
“Cut!” I call out. “That was great, everyone. Let’s move inside.”
The house is absurd. It’s large enough for three families to live here comfortably, yet only three people occupy it.
We spend the afternoon in what Grace casually calls the third living room. The Whitmore’s sit with perfectly straight spines on pristine white couches while Max does his best to look relaxed.
Eventually the scene moves to Maverick’s office.
Maverick questions Max about his future, his tone polite but unmistakably probing.
Within minutes it becomes clear the conversation isn’t really a discussion at all.
Maverick calmly explains that Max will be joining the family’s supplement empire.
It isn’t an invitation. It’s a command, delivered with the casual confidence of a man who assumes everyone has a price.
I’ve managed to avoid being alone with Max all afternoon, which is a relief. I wouldn’t even know what to say to him.
Now I’m upstairs with Grace in her bedroom, which is roughly the size of my apartment. We’re getting ready for a charity gala tonight. It’s a perfectly staged event for the cameras to capture Max and Grace as the ideal couple.
Grace shows me what she’s wearing: a powder-blue dress that’s simple, elegant and fits her like it was made for her. It probably was.
“I guess I better find something for you,” she says, as though it’s a total inconvenience.
“I can just wear this,” I say. “I’ll be behind the camera.”
“Absolutely not. Have you been to the Westmere? You’ll blend in with the waitstaff.”
I haven’t, actually. The place is notoriously exclusive, and getting cameras inside is almost impossible.
The only reason we were allowed in tonight is because I dropped both Maverick and Max’s names.
Even then, the conditions were strict. We’re not allowed to film anything identifiable or mention the venue by name.
Still, there weren’t many other options. On a Wednesday night, this was the only event suitable for what we need.
Grace disappears into her closet and returns a moment later holding a black dress.
“This is too short for me, but it should be perfect for you,” she says, tossing it at me.
It’s a strapless mini dress, cut close to the body with a sleek, sculpted shape. On the left hip, the fabric dips into a curved cut-out threaded with three silver rings that catch the light and drape across the opening like jewelry.
I’m fairly certain it costs more than my rent.
“Try it on.”
I head into the closet which also might be larger than my apartment, and full delicate fabrics I’d be too scared to touch.
I slip the dress on and she’s right. It falls mid-thigh and, surprisingly, it looks good. Not over the top. Definitely better than my workwear.
It’s been a long time since I’ve worn something this nice.
The last time was the awards ceremony where I won Documentary of the Year.
That project was a risk. I’d tackled the gray area of sweatshops, arguing that while many are exploitative, dangerous and should be shut down, the reality is more complicated than a blanket statement of “factory bad.” For some families, that income is the only thing standing between survival and starvation.
I argued for reform instead of total abolition, highlighting the nuance in a debate most people prefer to see in black and white.
It was a gamble, but it paid off. Standing on that stage, I felt pride that something complicated had actually resonated with people.
I want to feel that again one day. I just need to keep my head down for a few more weeks.
When is step out, Grace isn’t impressed. She looks me up and down, her gaze lingering briefly on my hips.
“Not bad,” she says. But I guess, from Grace, that’s practically a standing ovation.
She turns away and settles at the dressing table.
“I’ll help with your makeup,’ she says. She meets my eyes in the mirror, her expression cool. “But I’m not a miracle worker.”