11. Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
~DARCY~
The thing about finding your footing is that it happens when you're not looking.
It's Friday afternoon, June twelfth — ten days since the Meridian pitch, four weeks since Tulum — and I'm sitting at Beatrice's reception desk with a view of Fifth Avenue and the distinct feeling that I might actually be good at this.
The Manhattan weather has settled into a rhythm, the temperature rising to a balmy eighty-one degrees with manageable humidity.
Good thing the air conditioning at Shaw Entertainment Group keeps the heat at bay.
At least, it does until my phone buzzes with a text from Bria — a text that makes the office temperature rise another twenty degrees.
brIA: Jessica is in Miami for work. I repeat: JESSICA IS IN MIAMI. The married one. Just wanted to clarify since you seem to have FALLEN OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH since Tulum.
I resist the urge to smile — and wince — typing back.
ME: Work is just crazy. But I promise things will slow down soon. Love you.
brIA: That's what you said yesterday.
brIA: And the day before that.
brIA: And literally every day for two weeks.
brIA: SUSPICIOUS.
I put the phone face-down on my desk. Probably, because Bria's not wrong to be suspicious.
I haven't told her about Declan — about the night that never should have been.
Haven't told Jessica either, which is complicated by the fact that Jessica is now married to Declan's brother, which means at some point there will be dinners, holidays, and events where I'll have to see Declan in passing.
Sitting across a table. Smiling near a bar. Passing the turkey and stuffing and gravy while I pretend I don't know what the sexy businessman I call boss looks like naked.
For the rest of my life.
Even after the annulment.
The thought makes my stomach twist in a way that's becoming familiar.
My phone buzzes again.
JESSICA: Bria says you're being weird. Are you being weird? I'm in Miami until Monday for a reader conference. Call me when you can.
JESSICA: Also I need help with thank-you notes for wedding gifts. There are SO MANY. I'm drowning in monogrammed towels.
I text back.
ME: Not weird. Just busy with new job. Will help with thank-you notes. Send me the list.
JESSICA: You're the best. Miss you. Also Quinn says Declan mentioned you did great in a client meeting?
JESSICA: I still feel terrible that I forgot to mention the hospitality job was at Quinn's family company. I saw the listing and thought "perfect for Darcy!" and then just... didn't connect the dots that you'd be working WITH my new brother-in-law’s until you'd already been hired
JESSICA: Please tell me it's not too weird?
My stomach does another flip.
Because Jessica is the one who sent me the job listing three weeks before the wedding.
"TSS Events is hiring!" she'd texted. "You'd be PERFECT. Apply!"
And I did. Because I needed a job, Jessica's judgment is usually solid, and I trusted her completely.
What she DIDN'T mention was that "TSS Events, Inc." was owned by her fiancé and his two brothers.
She just... forgot.
Or more accurately, she sent me the listing knowing it was Quinn's company but conveniently didn't mention that part, probably hoping it wouldn't be weird that her best friend would be working for her new in-laws.
She's been so busy with her own job as a publicist for a well-known publishing company that we never discussed it face-to-face.
I start typing back.
Not weird at all.
Then delete it.
Totally fine. Stop apologizing.
Delete.
It's actually great. Declan's a good boss
Absolutely not.
I finally find the right words.
ME: Stop feeling terrible. The job is perfect. You did me a huge favor. Talk soon about the notes.
And then I tell myself to put the phone away, to focus on work.
Since the Meridian pitch, I've had actual responsibilities beyond reception duties: coordinating vendor communications for the Tulum property deal, organizing supplier documentation, building spreadsheets that track timelines and deliverables across six different work streams.
It's detailed and challenging. And exactly what I need to prove — to my new company, my new bosses, and, more importantly, to myself — that I can do this.
That Darcy Madison, formerly known as Darcella Cole — eternal dutiful daughter, a woman who used to be prisoner to her own name — can build something without the Cole name or the Cole money behind her.
I open the shared drive folder Declan gave me access to last week.
Shaw Entertainment Group — Hospitality Division — Tulum Development — Historical Context.
I've been working through the files systematically, trying to understand the full scope of the project: the vendor contracts, the regulatory approvals, the competitive landscape analysis.
But if I'm being honest, that's not the only reason I'm reading these files.
Ricardo Dominguez and Alexander Webb showed up here a week ago.
My father's poker buddies.
The men I hid from behind the reception desk like a complete idiot while inventing an entire fake former love life.
Not my finest moment.
And I've been asking myself the same questions ever since…
What were they doing here?
Why were they meeting with Declan?
How does my father's world connect to the Shaw brothers?
So I start reading, trying to understand what Shaw Entertainment Group actually does beyond "hospitality division" and "Tulum property deal."
The nightclub operations Quinn wants to exit. The transition timeline Wyeth is managing. The competitive landscape that someone spent considerable time documenting.
But there's one folder I haven't opened yet.
Corporate History — Strategic Challenges — 2019–2022.
I click it.
Several documents load: market analysis, competitive positioning, something titled "Defensive Strategies for—"
And then I see it.
One line in a document summary.
"Cole Capital Management acquisition attempt (2021) — successfully repelled through—"
Cole Capital Management.
My father's hedge fund.
My stomach bottoms out, my pulse beating like an erratic drum beneath my skin.
Because why the hell is my father's company in Shaw Entertainment Group's historical files?
I click the document to read more.
And at that exact moment, my office phone — corporate cock-block that it is — decides to ring.
I jump, knock over my coffee cup — still half full — and watch in horror as the brown liquid spreads across my desk toward my laptop.
"Shit shit shit—"
I grab the laptop, yank it away from the latte tsunami, and answer the phone with my shoulder while frantically searching for napkins.
"Hello?"
"Darcy." It's Wyeth on the line, his deep voice a touch gruffer than usual. "The vendor report. How close are we?"
"Almost done. I just need to—" I'm mopping coffee with my sweater sleeve now "—finalize the cost optimization section."
"Can you have it to me by end of day?"
"Yes. Absolutely. No problem."
"Great. Also, can you pull together a summary of the Tulum furniture vendor options? Declan wants to review them tomorrow."
"Sure. I'll—" More coffee. There's so much coffee. Where did it all come from? "—I'll get that to you too."
"You okay? You sound distracted."
"I'm great. Just multitasking. Very efficiently."
"Uh-huh. End of day, Darcy."
"End of day. Got it."
He hangs up, and I look at my desk, at the spilled coffee everywhere.
My sweater sleeve is soaked. There are napkins scattered across the floor where I dropped them while grabbing my laptop.
And the document about Cole Capital Management is still open on my screen, mocking me with its incomplete sentence.
"—successfully repelled through—"
Through what?
When was this?
How does this connect to Ricardo and Alexander being here now?
And instinctively, I know I need to read the rest of this document.
I need to understand what the hell is going on.
But Wyeth wants the vendor report by end of day, which means I have approximately four hours to finish the analysis I've been working on all week and pull together a furniture vendor summary I haven't even started.
I close the Cole Capital document.
Save the file path to my phone notes: "READ THIS LATER. IMPORTANT. VERY IMPORTANT. WHY IS DAD'S COMPANY HERE."
Then I open my vendor analysis spreadsheet and try very hard to focus on furniture suppliers and cost optimization instead of the sick feeling in my stomach that says I'm missing something big.
Something that connects my father to the Shaw brothers.
Something that explains why men from his world keep showing up in mine.
I'll figure it out later.
If I have time.
If the universe gives me five minutes to breathe between vendor reports, furniture summaries, and pretending I'm not technically married to my boss.
The coffee on my desk is starting to drip onto the floor. I grab more napkins, take a breath, and refocus.
The vendor report. That's what I'm supposed to be working on.
Not digging through historical files trying to figure out why my father's world keeps intersecting with the Shaw brothers.
Not connecting dots that might not even be connected.
I close the historical folder and open my vendor analysis spreadsheet, trying very hard not to let my imagination get the better of me.
I finish the last section, export it to PDF, and email it to Declan with the subject line: "Tulum Vendor Analysis — Complete."
My phone buzzes nearly thirty seconds later.
A text from Declan.
DECLAN: Report received. Good work. I'll review tonight.
I sigh, attempting to calm my racing heart.
Because my snooping plans will have to wait.
For now.
At six-thirty, the office is mostly empty.
I'm still at the reception desk—Beatrice's desk, technically, since she's been on medical leave for a month—working on the vendor report that was supposed to be done three hours ago.
The lobby is quiet except for the hum of the HVAC system and the occasional distant elevator ding. The overhead lights have shifted to evening mode—dimmer, more amber—and through the wall-length windows I can see Manhattan settling into Friday night.