21. Henry
HENRY
Isit in the boardroom, the livestream of Vue’s show looping on the projector. Around me, the team spits out words like cheap spectacle, derivative and desperate.
Mom stays silent, lips pressed into a thin line. She’s furious. Everyone can feel it.
“They’re trying to humiliate us,” Devon from PR says.
I rub my temple. We’ve been here since the invites dropped. It’s nearly midnight. Three loops of the show, the same complaints on repeat, endless talk of a response. But how do you fight something that’s already landed, and landed well?
“We should call out the timing,” Devon says. “Spin it. Say they rushed it, used last-minute gimmicks to steal the spotlight.”
I give him a look.
“We take it in our stride,” I say. “We don’t feed it. We stay above it.”
The group shake their heads. They’re frustrated and emotional. That’s the problem. They’re reacting from instinct, not strategy.
“You think this is acceptable?” Mom asks.
No. I don’t. There’s not a whole lot we can do about it though.
She exhales sharply. “It was her. I’m sure of it.”
She means Natalie. She’s said it a dozen times tonight. The truth is, maybe it was. As much as I’d like to blame Cosmo, it could’ve been her. She hasn’t said a word to me. Not even a text. My phone’s been silent. Silence like that…it says something.
“Maybe we push our show,” someone says. “Give it a few days. Or go last. Make everyone wait.”
“We change nothing. We don’t compete with Vue. Now go home,” I say.
Mom watches me as the rest of the team files out. When the door closes behind the last assistant, she turns to me fully.
“The high road doesn’t win, Henry. It leaves you standing alone while opportunists climb over you. If you won’t protect this house, then I will.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, already bracing.
She doesn’t blink. “A few whispers in the right ears. By next week, she’ll be called desperate, not daring.”
My jaw tightens. “No. Whispering about them makes us look weak, not strong. Making a move tells the world Vue is a threat. They’re not. So let’s act like it.”
For a moment, silence stretches between us. Then her mouth shifts, just slightly. The hard edge softens, her shoulders loosen. A slow smile curves. Not warm, but approving. She nods once.
“You’re right,” she says finally.
“We have a show to put on tomorrow,” I say. “Let’s get some rest.”
She pauses on her way out. “I’m glad you’ve kept a level head.” The words hang there, almost foreign coming from her. She doesn’t hand out praise. Not to me, not to anyone.
When she’s gone, I glance at the projector still looping Vue’s show. It’s good. Better than anyone here will admit. A real threat.
If I weren’t so tangled up with their marketing director, I might’ve been the first to say we should hit back.
I check my phone. Still nothing. Now that I’m alone, I don’t bother swallowing the frustration.
Does she really think she can pull something like this and not say a word?
Then another thought hits, sharper. Am I just leverage?
A blind spot she could exploit? Is she really that ambitious?
The idea lands harder than I expect, and I hate how much it sticks.
She knows what kind of move this was and she can’t even explain herself.
I shove my phone into my pocket and head home.
I find Natalie curled into one of the lobby chairs, eyes closed, arms folded like she’s bracing against something. The attendants clock off after midnight, so either she sweet-talked her way in or she’s been waiting here for hours.
She’s still in work clothes. Navy slacks, a cream blouse, heels. It looks like she came straight from the show.
I pause for a second, watching her. She looked exhausted. I touch her shoulder and she jolts upright, blinking like she forgot where she was.
“Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?” I ask.
She looks up at me, pale and worn out, with this defeated kind of expression that knocks the wind out of my chest because no matter how mad I am, I still feel it.
“I need to talk to you,” she says softly.
“Don’t worry, I know about the show,” I say. I don’t try to hide the edge in my voice. I want her to hear it.
“It wasn’t my idea,” she says quickly. Her eyes are clear, tired, but sincere. Or at least, she’s good at looking sincere.
I don’t answer that. I just nod toward the elevators. “We’ll talk upstairs.”
“You’re angry?” she asks as we ride up in the elevator.
“Angry?” I run my tongue along the inside of my cheek, trying to keep it together. “I’ve spent the entire night in a boardroom arguing that we should take the high road because of us. I’m starting to think that was a mistake.”
She exhales sharply. “What did you want me to do? If Silvia had something like this planned against us, would you have warned me?”
The elevator doors open to my apartment. I don’t answer. I storm out. She follows quietly behind. I drop onto the couch and bury my head in my hands while she hovers a few steps away.
“No,” I say finally. The truth is, I probably wouldn’t have told her. I wouldn’t have warned her. And maybe I wouldn’t have messaged either, because what the hell are you supposed to say in that situation? But that doesn’t mean I’m not pissed. I lean back and gesture for her to sit beside me.
She sits close enough that I can feel her warmth even before she leans in. “I’m sorry,” she says. “This is such a mess.”
“Why are you here?” I ask. Not because I don’t want her here but I’m not ready to let her think I’ve forgiven her just yet.
She pauses, and when she speaks again, something in her has shifted. Her tone softens and for the first time, she’s not deflecting.
“It went well,” she says, quietly. “Really well. But I…I didn’t feel anything. I stood in the middle of everything I’ve wanted for years and felt like a fraud. Like they got it wrong. It wasn’t that impressive. Not the way they’re all saying.”
The last of my anger dissolves.
“It was a good show,” I say.
“Then why can’t I be happy?” she asks.
“I think we tell ourselves that once we achieve something big, it’ll fix everything but success doesn’t erase doubt. It just quiets it for a bit, until the next thing shows up, and then it starts all over again.”
I reach for her hand. “You’re not a fraud, baby. You’re just exhausted. And maybe a little human.”
She folds into me, head tucked against my chest and I hold her tighter than I mean to.
The scent of her hair grounds me, steadies me more than I want to admit.
I want to believe everything she’s just said, that it wasn’t her idea, but something still twists in my chest. I don’t feel secure.
Not while we’re pretending. This doesn’t feel real as long as it’s a secret.
“Have you started softening Cosmo? About us?”
She stiffens before I even finish the sentence. Her face answers before her mouth does.
“I’m getting to it,” she says. “It’s not the right time.”
“When will it be right?” There’s an edge in my voice I can’t soften.
She hesitates, then blurts, “Why don’t you meet my parents?”
That wasn’t where I thought this was going. I know it’s a peace offering. A compromise. Not the full truth in the open but a step.
“I’ll organize dinner,” she says, a little more firmly now.
“That would be nice,” I say, and I mean it. It’s not everything, but it’s something. A way into her world.
Before she can say another word, I scoop her up into my arms. She lets out a startled laugh, clutching at my shoulders.
“Henry—what are you—?”
“Shower,” I say simply, already walking us down the hall. “I’ve had a long day. So have you.”
She shakes her head, laughing as she curls closer into me, no trace of resistance.
We’re okay again.