14. Henry
HENRY
I’m early for the final gala meeting on Friday morning. Most of the real decisions are already made. What’s left is the guest list, seating chart and lighting cues. The kind of details that only look effortless when they’re done right, and embarrassing when they’re not.
Mom’s been on my case all week. She wants Carter’s name front and center.
She hated the compromise on the color palette, called it “economical,” which, from her, is practically a slur.
Then she told me to start edging out that marketing director.
What she doesn’t know is that I’ve been edging that marketing director every night for the past three weeks, just not in the way she means.
The door opens. Isabelle glides in wearing something yellow that probably cost more than it looks.
“Henry,” she says, kissing both cheeks. “Loved the palette. So glad we got that sorted.” I give her a nod and turn back to the table.
Something shifts when Natalie walks in. She’s wearing a black dress. Her hair is pulled back. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t scan the room for approval. That familiar pull hits low in my gut and my throat goes dry.
Isabelle’s still talking, something about velvet ropes. I nod like I’m listening, but I’m not. All I see is Natalie.
We talked about this meeting last night at her place.
Agreed to keep things professional. Set feelings aside.
She made it clear she didn’t have any feelings to set aside.
I nodded, said all the right things. But I know I won’t fight her on anything.
She could tell me to pull Carter from the gala entirely, and I’d probably thank her for the suggestion.
The last few weeks have been behind closed doors. Her place. Mine. Movies, wine, board games. Quiet nights that would drag with anyone else, but with her, they feel too short.
Tonight, she’s agreed to a real date. Out in public, but somewhere quiet, off the radar. We have to wear disguises too, apparently. I’m already counting the hours.
She catches me staring and lifts an eyebrow. I look away, force my expression neutral.
The meeting starts. Just as dull as expected. Jared’s talking too much and too often. “About the guest list,” he says, in that faux-discerning tone he uses when he wants to sound smarter than he is. “Some of those names Vue insisted on feel cheap. Second-tier, at best. This is an exclusive event.”
Natalie’s pen stills mid-stroke. She looks up. “No one I suggested is cheap,” she says, cool and controlled.
Jared leans back, mouth tight. “They’re too artsy. That’s not our image. We should aim higher.”
“Fashion doesn’t exist in a vacuum, Jared. It lives in the mix. That’s where authenticity comes from. Not every outfit needs a five-figure price tag to make a statement.”
He opens his mouth again. I cut in. “If she says they belong on the list, they belong.”
Jared clears his throat. Color’s rising in his neck, but he’s not done. “We can’t just let anyone in,” he says, throwing a glance at Isabelle like he expects backup. “Reassess,” he tells Natalie.
Normally, Carter would side with that kind of curated elitism but not when it’s delivered like that, and definitely not to her.
I lean forward. “Reassess your tone. If she says they’re on the list, they’re on the list. Let’s move on.”
A beat of silence stretches just a little too long. Jared looks at Isabelle. She flips a page in her notes.
“Let’s take a last look at the lighting,” Isabelle says.
Jared drops his eyes. Doesn’t say another word. Good. He won’t make that mistake again.
By the time the meeting wraps, Natalie’s already moving. Bag over her shoulder. Gone before I push my chair back. I follow. She doesn’t slow until we reach the elevators.
I fall in beside her. “Don’t follow me,” she says, looking straight ahead. “You could be less obvious,” she adds.
The elevator doors slide open. I step in with her. “You think walking out together means people will figure out we’re a thing?”
She still doesn’t look at me. “We’re not a thing,” she says. “But defending me in front of everyone makes it look like we are.”
I hit the close button before anyone else can join us. I know why she’s worried. I just wish she wasn’t.
“You know,” she says, once the doors close, “I could’ve handled Jared.”
“Oh, I know.” I lean in. “I was protecting him from you.”
She bites back a smile like it’s dangerous to let it show.
“I’m looking forward to tonight,” I say, watching her, watching the flicker of her restraint.
“You’d better look unrecognizable.”
“I’m thinking fake mustache. Maybe a trench coat.”
Her lips twitch. She presses them together, holding in the grin. Then she leans in and kisses me. Just a peck.
“I’m looking forward to it too,” she says. Before I can answer, the elevator dings. She walks out like nothing happened.
By six, my desk is buried in contracts and half-read reports, the kind of paper trail that never seems to end.
My inbox is overflowing with flagged emails I haven’t opened, and a list of numbers I haven’t had time to review.
I should stay. Finish the projections. Return the calls.
Clear some of the backlog. Instead, I shut down my computer, push in my chair, and let the silence settle.
My focus is already somewhere else. I’m meeting Natalie in an hour, and I still need to shower, change, and figure out how to disguise myself without looking like a complete idiot.
“Henry.”
I glance up. Mom is standing in the doorway.
“It went as planned today?” she asks.
She means the gala meeting. Making sure Carter takes the spotlight, not Vue.
“Not exactly,” I say, keeping my tone even. “But it didn’t go the way they planned either. Not even close.”
She nods once. Lips thin. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to.
I know that silence. It’s her signature form of disapproval, quiet but pointed.
If I’d bulldozed the entire event into a full-blown Carter campaign, maybe she would’ve smiled.
Maybe. But short of that, there’s always something.
A missed angle. A detail she would’ve done differently. There’s always a correction waiting.
She smooths her sleeve, glancing down like the thought has just occurred to her. “I’ve been thinking…Isla would be the perfect date for the gala. It would turn heads. Put the spotlight completely on us.”
I freeze.
“She just booked Altier’s new campaign,” she adds. “The coverage alone would be worth hundreds of thousands for Carter.”
I almost laugh. My mother never liked Isla.
She made that clear the first time she called her a status-chasing tramp, to her face.
She wasn’t wrong. Isla claimed to love me, and maybe she did, in her own way.
But her affection was always tied to the Carter name.
The money. The access. The rooms I could walk her into.
Take that away, and I doubt she would’ve stayed.
We broke up years ago. Her modeling career’s only climbed since. And now, suddenly, Mom approves.
“No,” I say flatly.
“I already sent the invitation.”
“Then unsend it.”
“This is good business, Henry. Rumors will start immediately. We’ll be trending on every platform by morning. Carter wins the narrative before the first champagne toast.”
The worst part is, she’s right. Isla on my arm would dominate headlines. It’s the kind of move I was raised to make. But I’m not doing it. Especially not when the only person I actually want to be with that night will be there.
“I’m not a publicity stunt.”
“This isn’t a request,” she says. Her tone tightens, like we’re drifting into dangerous territory. “You’ll do what you need to do. For Carter.”
I hold her gaze. Even if Natalie wasn’t in the picture, I’m sick of this kind of thing. Sick of living a life she gets to script. Where every move is a calculation, and every smile has an agenda.
“No. Not this time.”
The words come out steady, but my pulse is pounding in my throat.
Her fury’s just under the surface, controlled and practiced.
Mine runs hotter. Rougher. I’ve had enough of this.
Enough of the curated expectations. The brand-building.
The perfect son in the perfect suit living a life he didn’t choose.
I’ve gone along with her plans long enough.
“We’ll talk about this later,” she says, like I’ve failed a test. Then she turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind her.
I grab my jacket, shove my arms into the sleeves, and head for the elevator. We won’t talk about it later because it’s not happening.
I picture telling Natalie. Explaining that I’ll be at the event with Isla.
She’d understand the publicity stunt angle.
She’s not naive. What I don’t want her to know is that it wasn’t my idea.
That at thirty-six, I still let my mother make decisions for me.
That she doesn’t ask, just assumes I’ll play the part. And I usually do. Not this time.
I don’t want Natalie to see that version of my life. The polished, choreographed bullshit. The part where I smile for cameras and stand beside a woman I don’t want, just to prop up a narrative I didn’t write. I don’t want her to see me like that.