Chapter Fourteen
Jackson
May
I pride myself on remaining professional and composed under pressure.
So the fact that I'm currently choking on a mouthful of water is doing absolutely nothing for that reputation.
In my defense, I was just proposed to.
Literally.
The Los Angeles skyline glitters beneath the balcony of the hotel suite, traffic crawling along Sunset like someone spilled rubies and pearls across black velvet. It's the kind of view corporations pay obscene money to impress people with, and judging by the woman standing beside me, it works.
I agreed to meet Rian Fields, CEO of Lane & Fields, expecting a conversation about a potential partnership.
A quiet dinner, a little networking, maybe some talk of distressed acquisitions over an overpriced Cabernet.
Instead, somewhere between dessert and my near-drowning, she informed me that the smartest business decision either of us could make was getting married.
Hence the choking.
"Sorry — I can't have you dying on me before you put a ring on it." She waits it out with a small, patient smile while I stop coughing long enough to set my glass on the railing.
"I'm sorry," I manage. "Could you repeat that? I think I hallucinated the last thirty seconds."
She doesn't laugh. "I'd like to marry you."
Right. Definitely not a hallucination.
"I realize that's not how these conversations typically go," she says, perfectly calm.
"I've attended a lot of investor meetings over the years." I clear my throat. "None of them ended in a proposal."
"Then they lacked imagination."
"Or appropriate boundaries."
That earns me the faintest smile — a gorgeous, white, magazine-cover smile that stops a full inch below her eyes.
Her eyes are somewhere else entirely. Hollow.
Haunted, even. It's the kind of detail you'd never catch on a cover and can't unsee across a dinner table.
The rest of her is flawless in a way that reads like armor: porcelain skin luminous in the last of the sunset, glossy blonde hair swept up into a style severe enough to chair a board meeting, softened by a few tendrils placed too perfectly to be stray.
Her white-tipped fingers hold the stem of her wine glass just a little too tightly, the one crack in all that polish.
"Lane & Fields is over two hundred years old," she says, folding her hands against the rail. "My father died two years ago. I inherited the company. The board inherited doubts."
I've heard the rumors. The oldest real estate dynasty on the West Coast, generations of influence, billions in holdings — and a board quietly wondering whether the founder's daughter can keep the empire standing.
Which is absurd, because I've read the numbers.
She's outperformed her father's last five years in her first two.
"They don't think I can do it," she continues. "Not because I'm incapable. Because I'm alone."
I study her for a moment. "So your solution is... me?"
"My solution is optics." She turns to face me fully. "I want you on my board. I want the market to see a united front — two firms, two portfolios, two reputations becoming one."
"And the marriage?"
"The marriage is what makes the story believable."
The scary part isn't that she's serious. It's that from a purely business perspective, I can already see the math.
"That's..." I search for the least offensive available word. "...the most corporate proposal I've ever heard."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"I didn't intend it as one."
"No," she says. "But I suspect you'll think about it anyway."
Unfortunately, she's right.
A breeze rolls off the city and she turns into it, and her nipples pebble against the silk of her blouse. My eyes drop before I have a vote in the matter. She catches me looking, but she doesn't cover up or call it out. She just drags her tongue across her bottom lip and holds my stare.
My cock thickens, and there's nothing dignified about it. Ten months, a rooftop, wine in my blood, and a beautiful woman six inches away. I'm a man in a drought staring at rain.
The guilt lands half a second behind the blood. Rian Fields is the first woman to pull a physical response out of me since Rose left, ten months and eighteen days ago, and my body just broke a streak I never consciously started and have been keeping like a vow.
It means nothing, I tell myself. Biology isn't betrayal. A pulse isn't a decision.
I tell myself that twice, which is once more than a man tells himself things that are true..
"I'm sorry, Ms. Fields. I don't think we're on the same page."
"Rian, please." She sets the glass down on the rail, and the CEO recedes just enough to show something rawer underneath. "I'm aware I'd benefit from this arrangement more than you would. I'm not kidding myself there. And I'm not opposed to begging, Mr. Jackson. In fact, I'm a very good beggar."
I pride myself on remaining professional and composed under pressure.
So the fact that I'm currently choking on a mouthful of water is doing absolutely nothing for that reputation.
In my defense, I was just proposed to.
Literally.
The Los Angeles skyline stretches out beneath the balcony of the hotel suite I'm standing in, traffic crawling along Sunset below us.
It's the kind of view corporations pay obscene amounts of money for when they want people to feel important, and judging by the woman standing beside me, Rian Fields is very comfortable with important.
I agreed to meet Rian, CEO of Lane & Fields, expecting a conversation about a potential partnership. We've known each other for a couple of months now. Casual lunches, a few corporate dinners, enough conversation to know we work well together and that she's smart as hell.
Tonight was supposed to be another quiet dinner. A little networking, maybe some talk about distressed acquisitions over an overpriced Cabernet.
That was my first wrong assumption.
We ended up having dinner on the balcony of her absolutely insane hotel suite, which makes my condo look like employee housing. Then somewhere between dessert and my near-drowning, Rian informed me that the smartest business decision either of us could make was getting married.
Hence the choking.
"Sorry. I can't have you dying on me before you put a ring on it."
She waits with a patient smile while I stop coughing long enough to put my glass somewhere I can't inhale it.
"I'm sorry," I manage. "Could you repeat that? I think I hallucinated the last thirty seconds."
She doesn't laugh. "I'd like to marry you."
Right.
Definitely not a hallucination.
"I realize that's not how these conversations typically go," she says, perfectly calm.
"I've attended a lot of investor meetings over the years." I clear my throat. "None of them ended in a proposal."
"Then they lacked imagination."
"Or appropriate boundaries."
That gets the faintest smile out of her.
Rian is a stunning woman. There's really no point pretending otherwise.
Porcelain skin, glossy blonde hair swept up neatly with a few loose pieces around her face, expensive clothes that fit exactly the way expensive clothes are supposed to fit.
She's the kind of beautiful that probably photographs exceptionally well, which I imagine comes in handy when your last name has been attached to a company for two hundred years.
Her eyes don't match the rest of her.
I've noticed that before.
She smiles, talks business, shakes hands, does everything she's supposed to do, but her eyes always look tired. Not physically tired. Just tired in a way I recognize enough not to ask about. Even now, her fingers are wrapped a little too tightly around the stem of her wineglass.
"Lane & Fields is over two hundred years old," she says. "My father died two years ago. I inherited the company. The board inherited doubts."
I've heard the rumors. One of the oldest real estate dynasties on the West Coast, generations of influence, billions in holdings, and a board quietly wondering whether the founder's daughter can keep the whole thing going.
Which is bullshit.
I've read the numbers. She's outperformed her father's last five years in her first two.
"They don't think I can do it," she continues. "Not because I'm incapable. Because I'm alone."
"So your solution is... me?"
"My solution is optics. I want you on my board. I want the market to see a united front. Two powerful firms, two portfolios, two reputations becoming one."
"And the marriage?"
"The marriage makes the story believable.
And sadly, a woman isn't much in a man's world without a man on her arm showing everyone how well she submits to his authority.
" She takes a sip of wine. "Call it patriarchy.
Call it misogyny. It's still a game I have to play until I grow that dick I've been wishing for every Christmas. "
I choke again.
There isn't even anything in my mouth this time.
Rian's lips twitch.
"That's..." I take a second because we're negotiating both corporate governance and spontaneous matrimony now. "...the least corporate proposal I've ever heard."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"I didn't intend it as one."
"No." She lifts her glass. "But I suspect you'll think about it anyway."
Unfortunately, she's right.
That's the part I don't particularly enjoy.
From a business perspective, I can already see why she's pitching it.
Lane & Fields gets stability, she gets another ally on the board, my firm gets access to a portfolio I'd normally spend years working my way into.
It's insane, obviously, but unfortunately insane and financially stupid are not the same thing.
A breeze moves across the balcony and presses her blouse against her body, and her nipples pebble against the silk.
My eyes drop before good judgment catches up with them.
She catches me looking, but she doesn't cover up or call it out.
She drags her tongue across her bottom lip and looks directly at me.