"Disappears. I sign a full waiver of liability the day the deal closes. You walk away free and clear."
She shuts her eyes. She presses the heels of her hands against her forehead, rubbing hard.
"My friends," she says. "I can't lie to them. Maddy will know. Savvy will definitely know. They were there, Brooks. They saw me tackle you. They know I think you're..." She trails off.
"An arrogant prick?" I supply.
She opens her eyes. "I was going to say, 'a menace,' but sure."
"Fine," I concede. "I don't care if your partners know, as long as the board doesn't. But they sign NDAs. If this leaks to the press, the deal is off, and I file the lawsuit."
She drops her hands. She looks at me. The panic is still there, but it's hardening into something else. Resignation. Determination.
"Eight weeks," she says.
"Until Labor Day."
"And I have to go to the Hamptons."
"Pack a bag. We leave on Friday."
She looks down at her wrist again, at the curling thermal paper that sealed her fate. She looks back up at me, and for a second, I see the fire that made her launch herself across a garden path.
"You're a monster," she says.
I offer her a thin, predatory grin.
"I'm a businessman, Ivy. And you're my best asset."
CHAPTER THREE
IVY
The office of Ever After, Inc.usually smells like vanilla candles, fresh espresso, and expensive peonies. It is a sanctuary of organized joy, a place where disasters are mitigated and dreams are color-coded.
Tonight, however, it smells like takeout Thai food and impending doom.
I sit on the plush velvet sofa in our client consultation area, my hands wrapped around a mug of tea I haven't taken a sip of in twenty minutes. The three people I love most in the world are here, though none of them look happy about it.
Maddy is pacing. She does this when she's stressed, walking a tight loop between the vintage room divider and the sample table, her heels clicking a frantic Morse code on the hardwood.
Savvy is leaning against the desk, arms crossed, looking like she's mentally calculating how to hide a body.
And Mason, dear, sweet, logical Mason, is sitting in the wingback chair, reading the email Brooks Taylor forwarded to my phone ten minutes ago.
"So," Savvy says, her voice cutting through the silence like a serrated knife. "Let me get this straight. The man you tackled into a cherub?—"
"I know," I whisper.
"The man you tackled," Savvy continues, glaring at Maddy who is trying to interrupt, "isn't pressing charges for assault. He isn't suing you for medical bills. Instead, he wants to... hire you?"
"Not hire," I say, my voice raspy. "Blackmail. He wants to blackmail me into a performance role."
"To be his fiancée," Maddy says, stopping her pacing to look at me with wide, horrified eyes. "Ivy, this is insanity. It's fraud! It's emotional perjury!"
"It's extortion," Mason says, not looking up from the phone.
We all turn to him. Mason Kincaid is the sort of lawyer who makes juries trust him by adjusting his glasses. He looks reasonable, sturdy, and safe. Right now, however, he looks grim.
