Linden
Two days after Aubrey stays through my overnight observation, I sit beside her in the back of the SUV and try not to stare at her in the black blazer our PR strategist approved for Ruskin Hall.
It's a losing effort. The performance line is supposed to be clean tonight.
Husband, wife, donor room, cameras. Simple fucking theater.
Except Aubrey's knee is angled to spare her taped ankle, her wedding band keeps catching on the edge of her bag, and my body remembers her in my room three nights ago with no audience and no script.
After I was discharged, she'd gone back to her own suite.
I haven't tried to make a move on her again.
Not yet.
Because I'm not sure how I feel about her staying overnight with me in the hospital.
Not sure how I feel at all.
Is this love?
What the fuck do I know about love?
I already told her I didn't want the marriage to end when the contract was over. Did I reveal my cards too early?
Fuck me.
Fuck fuck fuck.
I don't know what the fuck I'm doing.
Grant Sayer, my driver, takes the route my protection lead, Hollis Cates, chose.
Hollis sits in front, watching the side mirror and saying nothing.
Behind us, Milo Drennen, my follow-car driver, keeps the follow car tight enough to block a cut-in, while Rafe Pell, one of my protection agents, is already at Ruskin checking the guest path.
Verity Penn, our PR strategist, sits across from us in the vehicle, and explains the upcoming seating assignments.
"Table four," she says. "Hollis rejected the original sponsor table. Too exposed to the mezzanine. You'll have Nadine on your left for the first course, Aubrey on your right. After remarks, you move together. No solo donor clusters." My mother beside me. Charming.
"Because Oona is circling," Aubrey says.
Verity doesn't look up. Oona Pressley, the rival culture reporter and podcast host, is building a goddamn sham-marriage episode out of dental floss and spite. "Yes. Oona has three timeline questions in circulation."
My hand tightens on my knee. "Name the fucking questions."
"Why the approved origin story has no secondary witnesses. Why your first photographed interaction is still the elevator incident. Why a couple living together under public pressure has so few ordinary shared-home details."
Aubrey's mouth does that flat little thing she uses right before telling someone to go to hell politely. "Ordinary like what?"
"Tea," Verity clarifies. "Breakfast. Which side of the bed you use."
"No," I say.
Verity finally looks at me. "I'm not asking you to provide sexual proof."
"Good," I tell her. "Because that fucking sentence was about to get someone thrown out of this car."
Aubrey shifts beside me. Her shoulder brushes my sleeve and stays there for half a second too long to be accidental, then she moves away.
Damn it.
Verity keeps going because she's a professional sadist. "You'll repeat the approved proposal-details if asked."
Ruskin Hall rises at the curb soon enough, all polished stone, camera lines, and people pretending money makes them something.
Rafe opens the curbside door before the photographers can surge. I step out first, give the cameras my deadest boardroom face, then offer Aubrey my hand.
She takes it.
Every flash in the goddamn county goes off.
Inside, the main hall is already warm with bodies and champagne. Strings play from the far end. Photographers cluster on the mezzanine.
Hollis has done his work. Our table is angled away from the worst sightlines, with a column at my back and two clean exits within ten steps.
Verity cues us into Larkin Vale's joint interview at the sponsor wall, where my mother is already waiting. We join her. Verity points at the space beside Aubrey. Which means... move closer.
Aubrey shifts first, shoulder brushing my sleeve.
Larkin smiles for the camera. "Oona Pressley asked on her podcast today whether this marriage has a home life or only a press line. What does ordinary look like for you two?"
"Terrible tea," Aubrey says.
"It was not terrible," I reply.
"You steeped it like you were punishing the leaves," Aubrey counters.
The camera operator gives a short laugh. Verity's face freezes for half a second, then she lets it stand.
Larkin turns to me. "Which side of the bed is yours?"
"Ask my wife which answer is least invasive," I counter.
Aubrey's mouth twitches. Then Larkin asks whether becoming "part of the Dunleavy brand" has changed her, and Aubrey lifts her glass and gives the woman a look I'd pay to have recorded.
"I'm not a brand extension," Aubrey says. "I'm still me. I just have more people asking invasive questions while I'm trying to do my damn job."
I almost laugh. I want to put my mouth against Aubrey's temple. I want to tell every person in this room to back the fuck up and try being useful for once in their goddamn lives instead of peddling bullshit.
Then Selene Marrow, my ex, arrives.
Of fucking course she does.
Selene moves through Ruskin like she belongs here. She touches Nadine's arm first, kisses the air near her cheek, and earns the smile my mother saves for women who make this shit easy.
Then Selene comes to me.
"Linden," she says, and puts two fingers on my sleeve. "You look better than everyone made you sound."
I remove my arm from under her hand by reaching for Aubrey.
"Aubrey," I say. "Selene Marrow. Old family friend."
Aubrey's smile is civil. "Nice to meet you."
Selene turns to her. "Likewise. I've heard so much. Ruskin can be overwhelming if you didn't grow up with these events."
Aubrey doesn't blink. "I work overnight crisis intake. This has better snacks."
A woman behind Selene laughs too loudly. Nadine's eyes narrow. Verity looks down.
Selene's smile stays perfect. "Of course. Practical. Linden always did like practical women."
I want Selene the fuck out of the conversation. I want her away from Aubrey. I want to erase every advantage that ever made her the easier answer.
Aubrey excuses herself to the powder room ten minutes later.
Selene follows after thirty seconds.
Fuck that.
I don't enter the ladies' lounge. I'm not a goddamn idiot. I stop in the corridor where Rafe is pretending not to notice me violating the plan. The outer door is open to the sitting area, and Selene's voice carries.
"You should enjoy the penthouse while it lasts," Selene says. "The first weeks are always the most generous."
Aubrey answers after a pause. "That line work on anyone normal?"
"I'm only saying this can't be easy. Being dropped into Linden's life. His mother's standards. The body-commentary bullshit Oona is too clever to say outright."
My teeth meet hard.
Aubrey says, "Linden didn't look at you once while you were talking."
Selene says nothing. Useful.
Aubrey continues, voice level. "He looked at your hand on his sleeve. Then he looked at me. That should tell you everything you need to know. Anyway, such a pleasure meeting you."
"The pleasure was mine," Selene says. It sounds like she's speaking through gritted teeth.
The door opens. Aubrey comes out first, face too fucking composed.
She sees me and stops. "I had it handled."
"I heard."
We return to the hall together.
A donor corners her twenty minutes later.
He's some smug asshole who traps Aubrey near the sponsor wall with three other men and starts praising Lantern House in that greasy bullshit tone men use when they want credit for recognizing suffering from a safe distance.
Aubrey is answering him politely. He'd be done in six fucking seconds if he had any survival instinct.
He doesn't.
He steps closer for the photographer and places his hand at the small of Aubrey's back.
My vision narrows to his wrist.
I cross the space before Verity can intercept. I take his wrist and remove it from my wife's body. No twist. No spectacle. Just enough pressure that his face loses color.
"Don't fucking touch my wife again," I hiss.
The men around him stop laughing.
Aubrey turns her head toward me. "Linden."
I don't look away from the donor. "Apologize to her. Now. Fucking do it."
He tries a smile. "Come on, Dunleavy. We were just setting a photo."
I'm losing control. "Wrong fucking answer."
Hollis appears at my right. Not close enough to touch. But close enough for the donor to understand the next step involves logistics, embarrassment, and probably a very bad fucking week.
The donor clears his throat. His eyes blink rapidly, and for a moment I think he's going to cry. Then he looks at Aubrey. "Mrs. Dunleavy, please accept... please accept my apologies." His voice trembles.
Aubrey's voice stays even. "Accepted. Now please step back."
He does.
When he blinks, a tear actually falls.
Good.
Fucker.
Across the room, Verity has the expression of a woman watching a crisis turn into usable shit. Nadine stands beside Selene, unreadable. Oona is on the mezzanine rail with a recorder in one hand, watching me like I just handed her a better goddamn episode.
Fuck her, too.
I keep my hand open at my side instead of putting it on Aubrey. The contract says no touch for optics unless she agrees that day. My entire goddamn body wants to ignore the fucking clause, haul her into me, and make every person watching understand no one touches my wife unless she lets them.
Aubrey reaches down and hooks two fingers around mine.
There. Permission.
I close my hand around hers.
The room clocks it. Verity clocks it. Nadine clocks it. Selene definitely clocks it. My mood improves immediately.
Aubrey leans close enough so that only I hear her next words. "You knew that was only going to make it worse."
I shrug. "Yes."
"Do you care?" she presses.
I grin. "Not a fucking bit."
Her thumb moves once against my hand. "Asshole."
"Your asshole," I reply.
She looks up at me, and for one reckless second I forget the room has cameras.
On the drive home, Aubrey's fingers close around mine again in the dark car. No camera catches it. No donor earns it. No one can package it into a clean answer for Oona's next goddamn segment.
I'm not sure what it means.
All I know is, I'm not going to let go.