Chapter 1
“Iam not being too hard on Frankie Peterson,” Marcus DeLuca Grant replied dryly, though an annoying voice in his head muttered,Aren’t you, though?He silenced it immediately. “Your editor-in-chief nailed me with a Christian Louboutin stiletto.” The fact the name brand rolled effortlessly off his tongue, like he knew a damn thing about women’s footwear, only fueled his desire to make Frankie Peterson pay.
Frankie’s temper tantrum during Fashion Week had ended with him wearing a designer heel in his forehead, and he had the scar to prove it.
Memes had followed. He’d made the mistake of clicking on one. An image of a masked man wearing a superhero cape with a heel in his forehead and the caption:Captain Stiletto - Fashion’s Last Defense.
Thank God he’d been wearing a disguise. As it was, no one had connected the man who’d fled the venue—heel in hand, blood streaking his temple—with anyone of importance. Just intrigue. It wasthe kind of spectacle that hammered home exactly why he and his brothers avoided the spotlight.
“Yes, Marcus,” Ms. Birdie Fairway’s voice crackled through the phone. “We’re all familiar with the shoe-to-face incident.”
The fact that Ms. Birdie happened to be Frankie Peterson’s boss? One hell of a coincidence. A littletoocoincidental, if you asked Marcus, which was why he’d scrutinized every angle before ever picking up the phone to contact the long-time friend of his late mother.
“Do you know how hard you have to throw a shoe for its heel to embed itself in a man’s forehead?” Marcus shifted the phone to his other hand and leaned against the wobbly desk in the drafty study of Gi Gi’s Manor. The room, like the rest of the house, was in desperate need of restorations. Restorations he was now responsible for.
One month ago, he and his four brothers had inherited a fixer-upper of a town, and with it, a legacy they hadn’t asked for from Gi Gi, their adoptive mom. They’d landed on her doorstep twenty-nine years ago, the oldest nine, the youngest barely three. Only months before her death, she’d secretly purchased the renaming rights to Nippleton Falls and a hefty slice of its crumbling charm at auction. It hadn’t been until after her death that the investment had been revealed, along with personalized honey-do lists for each of them.
Marcus’s list started with the manor. And judging by the permit disputes alone, it might end with him losing his mind.
He yanked his attention back to the call. “Did I mention the scar—“
“Damn it, Marcus, scars are badges of honor.”
Marcus repressed a chuckle. It had been a long time since he’d heard Ms. Birdie curse. Savvy entrepreneur, meddlesome matchmaker, and his mother’s former partner in running The Gi Gi and Birdie Center for At-Risk Youth Program, she’d known him since the braces-and-bad-haircut years.
“Scars clash with Armani. I’m shallow like that.”
“Please. That scar only makes your glare deadlier.”
He let out a slow breath, fighting the smirk. She wasn’t wrong. The eyebrow had always done the talking. Now the scar above it punctuated every boardroom silence like a visual mic drop.
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” Ms. Birdie pressed. “Frankie’s therapist says she’s ready to return toNaked Runway. What more do you want?”
He suspected Frankie had bullied the poor soul into releasing her. From everything he’d learned over the last month, Frankie Peterson didn’t sit in the passenger seat of any situation. “I want proof of change from that force of nature you call an editor-in-chief.”
“Sheisa force of nature,“ Ms. Birdie agreed. “A category five. A woman who’s ruinedcareers, and darling, yours is probably next, if she ever finds out who you are.”
“Surely, you can do better than a hurricane running your magazine.”
“The fact you think that proves you know nothing about the fashion business. I’m honestly a little worried therapy might have dulled her edge.”
He didn’t respond immediately. His thumb brushed the faint scar on his forehead. Frankie Peterson was reckless, and someone needed to hold her accountable. That’s what this was. Not vengeance. Just balance.
“This isn’t about revenge,” he said. “It’s about consequences. Frankie’s meltdown during Fashion Week ruined Lola’s moment.”
Lola Fizz, an artist who had gone viral for painting thrift-store shoes with explosive, one-of-a-kind designs, had been set to debut her latest collection right afterNaked Runway‘s Real-Life Book Boyfriends strutted their fantasy selves down the runway. Lola’s tagline said it all:If the shoe fits, vandalize it.
The timing had been perfect.
Until Frankie imploded.
Her tantrum had tanked everything.
“It’s not you who should right the wrong,” Marcus said, his voice calm but final. “It’s Frankie. Someone has to make sure she’s ready before we unleash her on the masses.”
Ms. Birdie sighed. “And you wonder why she refers to you as Mr. Uptight.”
