"You look beautiful," Brooks says, looking down at me. His eyes are searching, pleading.
"Thank you." I keep the smile fixed. "This is the Zimmermann floral again. Savvy said it photographs well against grass."
He winces. "I wasn't talking about the dress."
"And yet, the dress is the only thing here that belongs to me," I say brightly. "Oh, look. There's the chairman. Time to perform."
I detach myself from him and glide toward the board members. I charm them. I remember the names of their grandchildren. I ask about their golf swings. I play the role of the devoted, stabilizing fiancée so perfectly that by the time the champagne is poured, the outcome feels inevitable.
When the match ends, I drop his arm the second we are inside the car. I put my headphones in and listen to a podcast about forensic files for the entire drive home.
The performance continues a few nights later when his mother invites us to dinner at the main house. Just family.
"Ivy, dear," Betty says over the Dover sole. "You've done wonders with Brooks. He seems so much more... settled. Focused."
"He needed the right motivation," I say, slicing a neat, deliberate square of fish.
"He tells me you're thinking of a winter wedding now," Betty continues. "Instead of June. Something intimate in Aspen?"
I look at Brooks across the table. He looks surprised. He clearly hasn't told her that.
"We're keeping our options open," Brooks says quickly.
"Actually," I say, taking a sip of wine. "I think winter is a lovely idea. A short engagement is so romantic, isn't it? Why wait?"
I smile at him. It's a challenge.Let's speed up the clock. Let's get this over with.
Brooks stares at me. He looks pale.
"Right," he manages. "Why wait."
Under the table, his foot brushes mine. I move my leg away instantly.
The distance is harder to maintain, however, when we are forced to spend a weekend onThe Merriweatherwith potential investors for the new tech acquisition.
The cabin has one bed. Of course it does.
I build a wall down the middle of the mattress with decorative throw pillows shaped like anchors.
"Ivy, stop," Brooks says, watching me stack them.
"Clause 4," I remind him.
"I hate Clause 4."
"It's necessary."
He walks over to where I'm standing. The boat rocks gently beneath us. We are trapped in a small room in the middle of the ocean. The air is thick with the memory of the last time we were on a boat.
"I miss you," he says.
The words hang in the air, weighted and terrified.
I freeze. My hands clutch a pillow to my chest.I miss you too, I want to scream. I miss the banter. I miss the heat. I miss the man who ate a cheeseburger on the hood of a car.
But I can't say it. Because if I say it, I'm vulnerable. And Brooks Taylor destroys vulnerable things. He calls them mistakes.
"I'm right here, Brooks," I say calmly. "I'm holding up my end of the deal. The investors love us. The stock is up. You're winning."
