"The bisque is excellent," he says to the table at large.
I watch him. He is terrifying. He is magnificent.
Under the table, his hand finds mine. His palm is warm, his grip firm. He interlaces our fingers, squeezing tight.
We won.
I squeeze back.
And for the rest of the meal, he doesn't let go.
CHAPTER TWELVE
BROOKS
Victory, it turns out, tastes a lot like expensive tequila and salt air.
It is Saturday, a few days after the "Red Wedding" dinner where Ivy and I publicly executed Royce's career between the soup and salad courses. The mood in the Hamptons has changed. The whispers about my instability have vanished, replaced by a terrified respect. The board is docile. The stock price is climbing.
We won.
To celebrate, my parents threw a "casual" gathering on the family yacht,The Merriweather. In Taylor language, "casual" means seventy-five people, a live DJ, and enough chilled seafood to depopulate the North Atlantic.
Half the guests came by tender from the marina. The rest helicoptered from the city, the distant thrum of rotors a familiar weekend soundtrack out here.
I am standing on the upper deck, leaning against the teak railing, watching the party below.
Actually, I am watching Ivy.
She is on the main deck, wearing a white crochet cover-up over a jade bikini. A wide-brimmed straw hat shades her face. She is laughing at something a software CEO is saying, her head thrown back, her hand resting lightly on his forearm.
It's a performance. I know it's a performance. I know exactly how much energy it takes her to maintain that level of radiant charm for hours on end.
But watching her work the room used to feel like watching a skilled employee. Now, it feels... different.
I'm possessive.
Every time a man leans in a little too close to hear her over the music, my jaw tightens. Every time someone laughs too hard at her jokes, a spike of irritation hits that has absolutely nothing to do with optics and everything to do with the fact that she's wearing my ring.
"She's good, isn't she?"
I turn. My father, Preston, stands next to me, swirling a scotch. He looks relaxed, his shoulders finally loose.
"She's excellent," I agree, taking a sip of my tequila.
"Royce is out," my father says, looking out at the water. "Resigned this morning, 'to spend more time with his family.' The board is voting on the Holloway acquisition on Labor Day. It's a lock."
"Good."
My father turns to look at me. His expression is appraising, rare for him.
"I underestimated you, Brooks. I thought this engagement was impulsive. A reaction to the concussion. But I see now it was strategy. You needed a partner who could handle the trenches. Someone who wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty."
He nods toward Ivy, who is now charming an art collector.
"You chose well. She's a credit to the family."
Credit.The way he says it makes my stomach turn.
