Not to my father’s folder.
Not to speculation.
Not to anyone.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out, thumb hovering.
Caleb watches me like he’s watching a stock price shift.
Theo watches me like he’s watching something unbelievable.
Richard watches me like he’s watching an investment.
I swipe through, find what I am looking for and type one line.
Me: Are you free tomorrow night?
I stare at the screen after I hit send.
Waiting is not something I do.
Waiting is vulnerability.
And yet I sit there, pulse steady, jaw tight, eyes fixed on a device like it holds the answer to something I’m not prepared to admit I want.
Theo leans in slightly, voice low. “This is the part where you pretend you don’t care.”
I don’t look at him.
“Idon’tcare,” I say.
Theo’s laugh is soft. Almost fond. Almost sad.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what scares me.”
My phone buzzes.
One message.
Lucy Bennett: Yes.
For a fraction of a second, something like relief spreads through me, warm and unfamiliar.
And then, like a man regaining control after a stumble, I lock it down.
I lift my glass and take a sip.
This isn’t romance.
This is a deal.
A timeline.
A strategy.
Lucy Bennett will be Mrs. North.
