13. Natalie
NATALIE
The next day at work, I can hardly focus.
My inbox is a blur, the morning meeting a wash of numbers I can’t hold onto.
Every time my phone buzzes, my stomach flips.
It’s like I’m expecting everyone to know who I was with last night, and exactly what happened but no one looks at me any differently.
Rebecca is glued to her screen, Cosmo is barking about deadlines, an intern is struggling with the copier again.
It’s business as usual. Only I have a secret now.
I’m sleeping with the enemy, not technically, but close enough. I keep telling myself it’s fine. No one will know. I can compartmentalize this.
I answer emails, skim reports, scribble notes in the margins of a draft brief. I even manage a polite smile when someone jokes about me looking “well-rested”. But beneath it all, my pulse won’t slow down. I feel marked somehow, like there’s evidence written on my skin if anyone looks too closely.
It’s late afternoon when Cosmo knocks once and pushes open my door without waiting.
“Natalie,” he says, already halfway inside, phone in hand, jaw tight. There’s an edge in his voice that makes my stomach flip.
For a second, I think this is it. Henry told someone. It’s leaked. I’m about to be the headline. Scandal, shame, and a slow fade out of the industry, branded unprofessional. But then Cosmo shoves his phone toward me.
“You seen this?”
My shoulders drop as I glance at the screen. It’s an industry gossip blog. I skim the headline.
Leader or Liability? Renard’s Party Habits Spark Controversy
The photo is grainy. Cosmo caught mid-laugh, a drink in his hand, the kind of candid that could’ve been taken last week or five years ago. The quotes beneath it are generic, nothing more than filler pretending to be commentary. Behind me, Cosmo paces the room as I scroll.
“They’re not just coming for Vue anymore,” he says, running a hand through where his hair used to be. “They’re coming for me. Carter’s trying to humiliate me.”
I pause, letting the article sink in as my brain starts sorting through the angles, ticking over in strategy mode.
“I don’t think this is Carter,” I say at last.
He stops pacing.
“Of course it is.”
“This is sloppy,” I say, holding up the phone. “If Carter wanted to come after you, they wouldn’t use some second-rate blog with a blurry photo and vague commentary. They’d make it stick. They’d make it look legit.”
Cosmo narrows his eyes, not convinced. “You’re underestimating them.”
“No,” I say, looking him dead in the eye. “You’re underestimating them. This? This is…dumb.”
Publishing the Zara photos after we signed her, that was smart. Shoving us out of the gala, that was smart. But a no-name blog with a grainy shot of Cosmo holding a cocktail? This wasn’t them.
“We need to fire back,” Cosmo says, like he didn’t hear a word I just said.
I can’t help it, annoyance prickles through me.
For weeks, I’ve warned him about Carter.
About the way they operate. He brushed it off.
Told me not to get dragged into the drama.
Now he’s ready to go to war over some throwaway blog post no one’s even going to read?
Before I can ask how, exactly, we’re supposed to fire back, my office door swings open.
Rebecca walks in, nearly swallowed by a massive bouquet of red roses.
My brain short-circuits. There’s only one person I can think of who would send me roses. Did he forget where I work? Who I am?
“A rose for every time I’ve thought about you this morning,” she reads from a card. She sets the arrangement on my desk like evidence in a trial. “So…who’s your secret admirer?”
Cosmo’s gaze shifts to me, sharp and curious. It feels like I’m under a dozen interrogation lights.
“No one,” I manage, too quickly.
Rebecca raises her brows, voice laced with mock sweetness. “No one sent you six dozen roses?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a guy from the mixer?” I shrug, pretending to be confused, like I’m trying to remember something vague.
She narrows her eyes. “I don’t remember you talking to any guys at the mixer.”
I shrug again, praying she’ll take the hint and go. Instead, she studies me.
“You look different,” she says. “Your skin.”
Cosmo tilts his head, looking at me like she’s onto something. “There’s definitely something—”
“Eight hours of sleep. I barely recognize myself,” I say, grabbing a stack of papers from my desk and flipping through them like I’m busy.
“Hmm.” Rebecca lingers for another second, her eyes moving from me to the roses, then back again. Finally, she walks out.
Cosmo doesn’t seem to notice. He’s pacing again.
“If Carter wants to play games in the press, then we answer in the press. We write our own piece.”
I pull my focus away from the roses. “About what?”
“Henry,” he says. “He’s an easy target. Future of the brand and all that. You won’t even have to make anything up. His reputation does the work for us.”
Unease settles in my chest, but I nod.
“So you want me to talk to PR about it?”
“I want you to write it,” he says. “You’re good at this. Make it subtle, but sharp enough that Carter knows exactly where it came from.”
I stare at him. He wants me to write a hit piece on Henry.
“This could backfire,” I say.
“We can’t let them get away with this.” Cosmo steps closer, plucks a rose from the bouquet, and lifts it to his nose. Then he tucks it back in place, adjusting the stems like he’s decorating a hotel lobby.
“These are fresh,” he says, almost to himself. Then he glances at me, grinning. “Whoever he is, he likes you.”
With that, he strides out, leaving me alone in the room with the roses and a tight knot in my chest.
By the time I get to Henry’s building that night, I’ve got a full-on headache.
I spent the whole afternoon buried in drafts for Cosmo, writing a hit piece on Henry that somehow says everything and nothing at the same time. The roses he sent have been sitting on my desk all day. Rebecca asked about them twice more. I didn’t say a word.
I look up at Henry’s building. It’s glass and stone, sharp lines, no logo anywhere. It doesn’t need one. Just the address says enough. He offered to pick me up, but I’m coming straight from the office, and my office is the last place I want to see him. I take a breath and step into the lobby.
It’s…wow. Quiet, warm lighting, marble floors you could probably eat off of and the air smells like gardenias.
Not the fake, perfume-counter kind. Real gardenias.
I spot a few in black pots, somehow thriving indoors under museum-grade lighting.
They probably have full-time attendants and live better than most people.
The elevator attendant is standing there like he’s guarding a vault. He’s wearing a tailored black jacket and perfectly polished shoes. He looks about twenty with a neat haircut and perfect posture. He smiles when he sees me.
“Good evening, Miss Wright,” he says.
He holds the elevator for me, then steps in and taps a black keycard against a hidden panel. The PH button lights up.
The ride’s quiet. Not awkward-quiet. Just quiet. He doesn’t say anything. I don’t either. Mostly because I’m nervous. I know Henry’s wealthy, but knowing it and standing inside it are two very different things. What kind of building has a full-time elevator attendant?
The elevator glides to a stop, and the doors slide open straight into the penthouse.
No hallway. No buffer. Just…there. Henry’s already inside, barefoot, holding a hardcover book like he’s been waiting.
He passes the book to the attendant. “Ignore the title. It’s smarter than it looks,” he says.
“Take your time with it. It’s not a speed read. ”
“Thanks,” the attendant says, sounding genuinely pleased. “Seriously.”
“Let me know what you think.”
The elevator doors slide shut, and then it’s just us. I peer behind him, to the windows. Wall to ceiling, with Alton Hills glittering below us. I try not to look impressed.
The apartment is minimalist, expensive in that architectural way. Clean lines, warm light, and walls that look like they were imported one panel at a time.
“Drink?” Henry asks.
“Wine,” I say.
I follow him into the kitchen.
“Dinner’ll be about twenty,” he says, nodding toward a pot on the stove.
I can’t tell what it is. It smells kind of unusual. Not bad, just unfamiliar. It’s probably something international and expensive that I’ve never heard of.
Henry kneels in front of the wine fridge, pulls out a bottle without overthinking it, glances at the label, then pours.
“How was work?” he asks, handing me a glass.
“Good,” I say, but the image of the flowers flashes into my head. “Someone sent me flowers,” I add, taking a sip of the chardonnay. It’s crisp, expensive, probably French. “I wasn’t very happy about it.”
“Oh yeah?” he says. “You don’t like roses?”
“I do. But I told the guy who sent them to keep things quiet. Flowers isn’t exactly quiet.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Did he sign the card?”
“No.”
“Then he was quiet.” He grins.
I let it go and take a longer sip of wine than necessary. It wasn’t a huge deal, and really it was sweet—
“I had a thing at work today too. Got a ping about an article.”
My stomach dips.
“Apparently, I’m more interested in bottle service than business strategy.”
I keep my face neutral, but heat climbs up the back of my neck.
He knows. Of course he does. The version I gave Cosmo was the lightest I could get away with.
Subtle enough to be deniable, but still pointed.
Honestly, finding material was painfully easy.
The internet’s full of Henry. Expensive suits, rooftop parties and women draped over him.
“You know how I knew it was you?” he says.
“How?” I ask.
“You went soft,” he says. “And, you use em dashes. Constantly. Inappropriately. It’s terrible grammar.”
“I don’t use them inappropriately,” I shoot back.
“You do. It’s your tell.”
“It’s called style,” I say, lifting my chin.
“It’s called sloppy.”
“I can’t believe you’re critiquing my punctuation.”