Savvy lets out a low whistle. "Mutually-assured destruction. Romantic."
"It's not romantic," I snap. "It's business. It's a transaction. 'You broke it. You buy it,' that's what he said to me. Well, fine. If I'm the acquisition, I'm going to be the most expensive, high-maintenance acquisition he's ever made."
Maddy stands up and walks over to me. She takes my hands in hers. Her grip is tight.
"I hate this," she says. "I hate that you're doing this for us. But if you're set on going, Savvy and I will cover your clients. We'll handle the summer bookings."
"I'm doing it for me, too," I lie. "I don't want to go to jail, Mads."
"You wouldn't go to jail," Mason says quietly. "Probation, maybe. Community service."
"I'd look terrible in orange," I joke, but the laugh falls flat.
Maddy doesn't smile. "If he touches you," she says, her voice dropping to a register I rarely hear, "if he hurts you, if he makes you cry even once... I don't care about the company. I don't care about the lawsuit. You call me, and Mason and I will drive out there and burn that estate to the ground."
"I'll bring the gasoline," Savvy adds from the desk. She's not joking.
A lump forms in my throat. I swallow it down. This is why I'm doing it. For these people. For this loyalty.
"He won't hurt me," I promise. "The contract says no touching without an audience. It's strictly PG-13. And honestly? He's recovering from a concussion. If he tries anything, I'll just hide his Tylenol."
That gets a small, reluctant smile out of Maddy.
"Okay," she breathes. "Okay. If you're sure."
"I'm sure."
"Then we need to pack," Savvy announces, pushing off the desk. She claps her hands, switching from 'murderous friend' to 'logistics coordinator.' "If you're going to be a Taylor, you can't wear your usual 'I'm running a marathon in a blazer' aesthetic. You need Hamptons camouflage. Linen. Silk. Hats that serve no purpose other than signaling wealth."
"I have linen," I protest.
"You have wrinkled cotton blend," Savvy corrects. "Come on. We're raiding my closet. And Maddy's jewelry box."
"And I," Mason says, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket, "am going to draft a counter-agreement."
I look at him. "A what?"
"He wants you to sign his contract?" Mason's eyes glint with a sharp, professional light. "Fine. But you're not signingit blindly. We're going to add clauses. Exit strategies. Penalty fees for bad behavior. If you're going under contract like an employee, Ivy, we're going to make sure you have the best representation in the state."
Relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle. I'm not alone. I'm going into the lion's den, but I'm bringing my own team.
"Thank you," I whisper.
Mason walks over and kisses Maddy on the forehead, then gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Don't thank me yet. Wait until you see the clause I'm going to add about 'emotional distress compensation.'"
Two hours later, I am standing in the middle of my small apartment, surrounded by open suitcases.
Savvy is holding up a white sundress that looks like it belongs on a runway.
"This says, 'I lunch at the club and don't know what a price tag is.'"
"Pack it," I say.
Maddy is in the bathroom, packing a toiletry bag with the focus of a combat medic. "Sunscreen. Aloe. Migraine meds. Backup migraine meds. Lavender oil for stress. Pepper spray."
"Maddy, I don't think I need pepper spray for the Hamptons."
"You never know," she calls back darkly. "Rich people are unpredictable."
