CHAPTER 16
MALCOLM
The morning light filtering through the sheer curtains is gray and muted, the kind of heavy, overcast sky that usually precedes a winter storm in Chicago.
I am lying on my back, staring at the ceiling. I have been awake for two hours.
Audrey is asleep next to me. She is lying on her stomach, her face turned toward me, one arm tucked under the pillow. The heavy duvet has slipped down, exposing the smooth, pale curve of her spine and the faint red mark my teeth left on her shoulder last night.
I look at the mark.
My chest tightens, a sudden, violent surge of possessiveness hitting me so hard it briefly restricts my breathing.
I have spent my entire life maintaining a perimeter. I built Vance Security on the principle that emotional attachments are liabilities. They cloud judgment. They create blind spots. If you care about something, your enemies will find it, and they will use it to break you.
I look at the woman sleeping in my bed.
She is the ultimate liability. She is a civilian wrapped in a corporate war she didn't start, wearing a ring that puts a target directly on her back.
I brought her into this. I used her anger as a weapon against my brother, fully intending to keep her at arm's length until the operation was complete.
But as I watch the slow, even rise and fall of her chest, I realize the operation is dead.
There is no contract anymore. There is no consulting fee. There is only the absolute, undeniable certainty that if anyone attempts to take her out of this apartment, I will burn the city down to get her back.
I carefully slide out of bed, moving with practiced silence. I pull on a pair of dark sweatpants and walk out of the bedroom, leaving the door cracked open so I can hear her if she wakes up.
I walk into the kitchen and turn on the coffee maker. The machine hums quietly, the smell of dark roast filling the sterile space.
I pick up my phone from the marble island. There are three unread messages from Grant.
Grant (6:15 AM): Preston’s legal team filed an emergency injunction this morning. They are attempting to freeze the discretionary accounts for the security division.
Grant (6:18 AM): The board is demanding an emergency meeting at noon.
Grant (6:22 AM): Simon was seen entering the holding company’s downtown office at six. He looked frantic.
I read the messages twice. My expression doesn't change.
Preston is predictable. He lost the psychological battle at the dinner table last night, so he is escalating to a financial attack. He thinks he can starve my division of capital, forcing me to back down and break the engagement to save my company.
He is operating under the assumption that I care about the company more than I care about Audrey.
It is a fatal miscalculation.
I pour a cup of black coffee, lean against the counter, and dial Grant’s number. He answers on the first ring.
"Sir," Grant says. His voice is crisp, lacking the usual morning gravel. He has likely been awake since the injunction was filed.
"Have the legal department draft the counter-filing," I order, keeping my voice low so it doesn't carry down the hallway.
"Cite the shareholder agreement, Clause Four. If Preston wants to freeze the discretionary accounts, remind the board that I have the authority to liquidate the security division’s assets and sell our proprietary encryption software to his direct competitors. "
There is a brief pause on the line. "That would effectively cripple the holding company’s data infrastructure, sir. Preston will lose his mind."
"That is the objective." I take a slow sip of the coffee. "What about Simon?"
"He is currently in a meeting with Preston’s PR team. We intercepted a draft of a press release they are attempting to put together. They are planning to announce that your engagement to Miss Jennings is a stunt designed to manipulate stock prices."
A dark, humorless smile touches my lips. "Let them announce it."
"Sir?" Grant sounds genuinely confused. "If they run that narrative, it damages the credibility of the engagement before the party."
"It only damages the credibility if we hide," I correct him.
"Preston wants to paint this as a corporate maneuver.
We are going to paint it as a romance. Call the concierge at the Peninsula Hotel.
Book the private dining room for lunch today.
And make sure the paparazzi know we are going to be there. "
"Understood." Grant doesn't ask questions. He executes. "What time?"
"One o'clock."
I hang up the phone and set it down on the counter.
If Preston wants a war of optics, I will give him one. He thinks Audrey is a fragile, broken woman hiding behind my money. He doesn't realize that she is the one who stared him down at his own dining table.
"You look like you're plotting a murder."
I turn around.
Audrey is standing at the edge of the kitchen.
She is wearing one of my dress shirts. It swallows her completely, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the sleeves rolled up past her wrists.
Her hair is a tangled mess, falling over her shoulders.
She looks exhausted, beautiful, and entirely too comfortable in my space.
"I am plotting a lunch date," I say, setting the coffee mug down.
She walks toward the island, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. She stops in front of me, looking up with a skeptical expression. "A lunch date that requires that specific facial expression? Where are we going, a maximum-security prison?"
"The Peninsula." I reach out, my hands settling lightly on her waist. The thin cotton of the shirt is the only barrier between my palms and her skin.
"Preston is attempting to leak a story to the press that our engagement is a corporate stunt.
We are going to have a highly visible, highly photographed lunch to prove him wrong. "
Audrey’s skepticism vanishes, replaced by the sharp, analytical focus that I find incredibly intoxicating.
"He’s trying to discredit us before the engagement party," she murmurs, her thumb pressing against the side of her index finger.
"He is trying to make you look like a pawn." I slide my hands up her sides, my thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts through the shirt. "I need you to look like a queen."
Her lips part on a silent inhale. The golden flecks in her eyes shift, the memory of last night flashing between us.
She doesn't pull away. She steps closer, resting her hands flat against my chest. "Do I have to wear another suit?"
"You can wear whatever you want," I tell her, lowering my head until my mouth is inches from hers. "As long as you wear the ring."
She smiles, a slow, dangerous curve of her lips. "I haven't taken it off."
I kiss her. It isn't the frantic, desperate collision from the kitchen last night. It is slow, deep, and entirely possessive. I taste the sleep on her tongue, the lingering warmth of the bed we just left. She leans her weight against me, her hands sliding up to grip my shoulders.
When I finally pull back, her breathing is uneven.
"Go get dressed," I murmur, my voice rougher than I intended. "We have an audience to entertain."
**
The dining room at the Peninsula Hotel is a masterclass in understated wealth. The walls are paneled in dark wood, the chandeliers are subtle, and the tables are spaced far enough apart to ensure absolute privacy.
Except, we are not here for privacy.
I requested the table nearest the massive windows overlooking the street. It is a strategic vulnerability. Anyone walking past the hotel can see us. More importantly, the three paparazzi currently stationed across the street with telephoto lenses have a clear, unobstructed line of sight.
Audrey is sitting across from me. She chose a dark burgundy dress from the wardrobe I bought her.
It has a high neckline, long sleeves, and a cut that manages to look entirely professional while simultaneously drawing attention to every curve of her body.
Her hair is pulled back into a sleek, severe knot.
She looks untouchable.
"They've taken at least fifty pictures in the last ten minutes," she says, taking a small sip of her sparkling water. She doesn't look out the window. She keeps her eyes fixed on me, playing the role perfectly.
"They are waiting for a mistake," I reply, cutting into my steak. "They want a photo of us looking bored, or angry, or distant. It supports Preston’s narrative."
"Then we shouldn't look distant."
Audrey sets her glass down. She reaches across the table, her hand sliding over the white linen tablecloth, and covers my hand with hers.
The movement is smooth, natural, and completely devastating.
I stop moving. I look down at her hand resting over mine, the vintage diamond catching the light from the chandelier above us. Then, I look up at her face.
She is smiling at me. It isn't the sharp, sarcastic smile she uses as a weapon. It is soft. Genuine. It reaches her eyes.
"You're staring, Malcolm," she murmurs, her thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles.
"You are a very convincing actress," I say, my voice dropping to a low register.
"I'm not acting."
The words hang in the air between us.
The noise of the dining room—the clinking of silverware, the low murmur of other conversations—fades into the background. I stare at her, trying to find the lie, trying to find the manipulation.
There is none. She is sitting in a room full of people who view her as a target, surrounded by cameras, and she is looking at me like I am the only safe place in the world.
I turn my hand over, tangling my fingers with hers. I grip her hand firmly, my thumb resting over her pulse point.
"Smile, Audrey," I murmur, lifting her hand to my mouth. I press a slow, deliberate kiss to her knuckles, keeping my eyes locked on hers. "Let them take the picture."
A faint flush spreads across her cheeks. Her breath hitches, a tiny, involuntary reaction that the cameras will absolutely capture as genuine affection.