My father clears his throat. “Victoria, we need to be united. Image is everything right now.”
My laugh comes out rough and humorless. If a laugh could sound bitter, this one would be that. “United? You and Grant were just arguing about whose fault I was.”
My father stiffens. “We were discussing logistics.”
Grant’s lips curl. “Darling, you’re always a logistic challenge.”
I whip toward him. “Say one more word like that, and I’ll show you a logistic challenge.”
His smirk flickers. Just barely.
Good.
My father pinches the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t the time for dramatics.”
“Your definition of dramatics,” I say quietly, “is my definition of survival.”
Silence. Brief and heavy.
Grant pushes off the desk with a sigh. “Whether you like me or not doesn’t change anything. The merger is still standing. The market’s watching. Our names are tied together publicly. We need to make us official. We need to get married.”
“There is no us,” I hiss.
My father hits the desk with his hand. “Enough. We need to project stability until we get more information.” He turns to Grant. “While I agree we need to go public with your relationship—”
“We don’t have a relationship,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Victoria. We do. I’ve waited five years for you to finish college, and don’t think I don’t know you stalled. So this is happening. Your family needs me more than ever, so don’t piss me off.”
“Grant, I agree, and appreciate your family’s help . . .” My father turns to me. “I won’t hear another objection from you. You’ve always known what’s expected.” His words land in my belly like a punch. I’ll find a way out of this arrangement, but for now, I need to bide my time to come up with a plan.
I blow out a breath. “Fine.” I start to pace. The room suddenly feels too small. “But no more talking about a wedding. We have more important things to deal with. Like the burning buildings.”
“For now,” Grant adds. I want to punch his smug face, but instead, I turn to my father, who is kneading his temples.
My father’s jaw tics. “It was just one plant.”
“Just one plant,” I repeat, staring at the flaming building on the screen. “But what if it isn’t the last?”
No one answers, because there is no answer. There’s only tension. And fear.
My father rounds his desk. “We’ll figure out what went wrong,” he says firmly. “We always do.”
“And until then?” I ask.
“We stay quiet,” he replies. “We stay composed. And we stay in control.”
Grant nods like this is all a business seminar. “We’ll handle the PR. You handle being cooperative.”
I stiffen. “I’m not your puppet.”
Grant’s eyes gleam. “Oh, sweetheart. That’s where you’re wrong.”
My father gives him a sharp look. But not sharp enough. I inhale slowly, pushing the air deep into my chest.
If I speak now, I’ll explode.
So I don’t respond.
