3. Henry
HENRY
It’s after eight when I finally end the call.
Mom decided last minute Carter is backing a gala we wouldn’t normally touch, which meant back-to-back meetings all afternoon and rearranging my entire day.
Now I’ve got seventeen missed calls, a canceled dinner with Dean, and a headache settling behind my eyes.
I glance at the stack of unopened envelopes on the corner of my desk. Gala invites, brand launches, charity dinners. My calendar looks like a luxury magazine, and I can’t remember the last time I went somewhere I actually wanted to be. Right now, home sounds good.
I’m halfway out of my chair when the door opens. Mom walks in without knocking.
I sit back down while she takes the seat across from my desk—posture rigid, ash-blonde bob flawless, lipstick untouched even at this hour.
“Well?” she demands. “What have you uncovered about her?”
I stifle a sigh. Mom’s fixation on a competitor has never been this intense.
Vue had relevance when I first joined after college—what was I, 21?
That was 15 years ago. But since then, they’ve faded into obscurity.
A single good hire and a few articles won’t change that.
Yet, it’s not a rivalry she’s concerned about.
It’s the mere mention of Vue alongside ours. She believes it tarnishes our brand.
“She’s...” I pause. Natalie’s face flashes in my mind. I’ve been trying to shake it all afternoon, but she keeps coming back. I compose myself, not giving Mom any hint to latch onto. “Nothing I can’t manage.”
Mom’s fingers tap impatiently on the armrest. “I want this gala to reaffirm Carter’s position. Keep a close watch on her. Every move, every connection. If she tries to elevate Vue beyond its stature? Shut it down. Show her who’s in charge.”
“Done,” I say.
She meets my gaze with that sharp, unblinking stare that speaks volumes more than her words ever could. Then she rises, smooth as ever, and leaves.
I lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly.
Show her who’s in charge. Right. Natalie didn’t strike me as the type to let anyone take charge—especially not me.
I tried to steer that meeting and push for our agenda.
She didn’t flinch. Instead, she redirected my points, turned my own words against me, forced me to work twice as hard just to keep pace.
She had points on the board before I even realized the game had begun.
On paper, she’s unremarkable—short, slender, brown hair, brown eyes—the kind of woman you might easily overlook. Yet, I haven’t been able to shake her all afternoon. Not with the way she looked at me, as though I were beneath her notice. Women just don’t look at me like that.
I type her name into the search bar, telling myself that it’s professional research. If I’m going to be stuck dealing with her while we plan this gala, I need to know what I’m up against.
A handful of promotion pieces pop up. Puff articles, mostly.
Her “vision” for Vue, the kind of lines people throw around when they want to sound disruptive without actually doing anything risky.
Except it seems she’s actually doing it.
Vue hasn’t mattered in years, and now they’re suddenly in headlines again.
Other than that, there’s almost nothing.
No history, no family background, no social media.
She said her family’s in shipping, but I’ve never heard of the Wrights.
It’s like she appeared out of nowhere. Privacy like that doesn’t just happen.
It usually means serious money. The way she carries herself? That says money too.
I click over to images.
There aren’t many. One from a charity event draws me in. Natalie at a table in a plain black dress, caught mid-conversation, not even glancing at the camera. There’s that look again. Like she’s listening, but already three steps ahead. The same look she gave me today.
I find myself staring longer than intended. Somewhere in the midst of it, I catch myself smiling. Alright, I’ll admit it. She’s intriguing.
I know attraction when I see it, and no matter what front she put up, she felt it too. I’d bet good money I’ve been on her mind all afternoon.
I bite my lip, considering. New plan. Instead of facing off with her, I’ll give her what she really wants—me. It’s a win-win, really. She gets swept off her feet for a night, and then she’ll be putty in my hands for the rest of the gala meetings. All it will take is a little charm.
My phone buzzes with unread messages as I pick it up. Dinner invites, late-night offers, half a dozen women who’d kill for my attention. I swipe them away.
I find Vue’s number and the line picks up on the second ring. A receptionist, far too chipper for this time of night.
“Vue Corporate, how may I direct your call?”
“Natalie Wright,” I say confidently. I’m not sure she’ll still be at the office, but I know what her job entails. There’s a good chance.
“Connecting you now.”
Thought so. I relax into my chair.
“Natalie Wright,” she says.
I don’t know what happens. I freeze. My stomach flutters, and nothing comes out.
“Hello?” she prompts.
“Hi,” I manage, my voice stumbling over itself. “How are—” I falter again. “You’re alright?”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“Who is this?”
I roll my eyes at myself. “Henry Carter.”
Another pause.
“Why are you calling, Mr. Carter?” Her tone sharpens, she sounds irritated now.
“Call me Henry.”
“I’d rather not. What do you want?”
Christ, she’s abrupt. Why is this so hard?
“I was thinking,” I start. My chest tightens. “I was thinking we could go out. You and me.”
I cringe. Why did I word it like that?
“Why would we do that?”
She’s really going to make me spell it out. “Because we’re attracted to each other. When people feel that attraction, they go out. And then they—” I stop. This isn’t going according to plan.
Silence follows. Then, a short, disbelieving laugh.
“I don’t know how you got your reputation with lines like that. Don’t call me again.”
The line goes dead. I just stare at the screen, stunned.
What the hell? I can’t even remember the last time a woman turned me down. I don’t think it’s ever happened. Not to me, and certainly not like that.
My phone buzzes again, snapping me back to reality. Three new messages, all stacked on top of each other in the span of that call.
Jacinta: You out tonight?
Emily: Thinking of you.
And a photo from Amy, probably graphic. I swipe them all away without opening.
I can’t believe this. I tried to extend an olive branch. Okay, maybe it was a bit clumsy, but still. She practically slammed the door in my face.
Fine. If I can’t get her out of my head, I can at least channel this energy into something productive. I click into my to-do list. A dozen tasks stare back at me, but one catches my eye: Draft press release for gala.
I pull up a blank document and start drafting.
I highlight our involvement with the hospital, reaffirm our commitment, and add the necessary contact information.
I read through it twice, cutting out the excess and refining until it’s sharp.
There’s no mention of Vue as a co-sponsor because we only speak for ourselves.
If Vue wants press coverage, they’ll need to issue their own statement.
I hit send and strike it off my to-do list.
I keep working, moving down the list, but an hour later Natalie’s still there. Threading through every thought. I rub the back of my neck, give in, and type her name in the search bar again.
Same puff pieces. Same quotes about her promotion. I skim them anyway, like a second read might reveal something I missed. Then a headline I hadn’t clicked before catches my eye: Morrison Foundation Private Art Showing.
The invitation’s buried somewhere on my desk. Saturday night. I’d already decided not to go but when I spot her name in the second paragraph as a confirmed guest, I change my mind.
The Morrison crowd isn’t small-time. She’ll work the room, slip Vue into conversations where it doesn’t belong. I can already see her angling for introductions, collecting contacts, building momentum.
I tell myself it’s strategy. That I need to see who she’s talking to, what alliances she’s building. Mom wanted me to keep an eye on her, after all. Stop her from doing exactly this kind of damage. But the buzz in my chest has nothing to do with Carter, and I know it.