"May I suggest something?" Rosalie asks.
Bennet has been reading the piece with an expression I can't fully see from this angle, but his jaw is doing the broody thing, and his hands are flat on the table.
He looks at Rosalie. "What."
"Positionyourselvesas the couple. She's not here as a PR consultant; she's here because you’ve had a long-distance relationship, getting closer as friends and taking it to the next level. Be photographed together. It's the same angle, and it kills two narratives with the same carefully curated story."
It's actually a good idea. A genuinely good idea, and I hate that my first instinct is to reach for it before the complications catch up. They catch up fast.
"Abso-fucking-lutely not." Bennet practically growls it before I can get a word in.
He stands. Gathers his suit jacket. And without another glance in any direction walks out into the hallway, the door sliding shut behind him and leaving an awkward silence in his wake.
The rest of us exchange glances.
"I'll go grab him." Rosalie is already on her feet. "We need to discuss this with some level of maturity." She says as she opens the door and steps out.
Frank turns to me. "Would it work? Could we stage something like that, make it look like it's been going on for a while? What about the girl he was pictured kissing last night?"
In theory, yes. I know exactly how to build that story — layered, credible, textured enough to survive scrutiny. A few photographs with the right timestamps, some background detail seeded to the right people, a narrative that feels like relationship that's been quietly true for months.
As far as the girl, I’d have to be creative about that one. Maybe she advanced on him. He did look a tad stiff in the images. We could work with that.
But all in all, it would still read like I left Colt for Bennet. My divorce is already contentious, and Colt's attorney is watching for anything that shifts the optics. A story like this could hand them exactly the ammunition they need, reframe me as the unfaithful party, and complicate a settlement I've spent three months carefully negotiating.
"Yes, but I need to explain that I'm currently in the middle of—"
"Then that's what we'll do." Frank sits back like the matter is resolved.
"Sir, I need to explain that I'm in the—"
The door opens before I can finish. Rosalie comes back in, and behind her, Bennet. Still holding his jacket. Still wearing the expression of a man who has been talked back into a room against his better judgment and wants that on the record.
He doesn't sit.
He stands at the head of the table and looks at me, and whatever was in his eyes in the elevator last night is back, sharper this time.
"I'm in the middle of a divorce." I finally say with all the dignity I can muster, which is considerable given that I am now discussing my personal finances in a conference room full of people I've known for less than a week. "Doing this publicly puts me in a precarious position with regards to my settlement. I'm sorry to bring my personal affairs into this discussion, but that's the reality and I'm not sure I can afford to take this hit."
"What's the settlement amount?" Frank asks.
I look at him. Not too sure how I feel about that question, but the room is waiting and I've already opened the door.
"Ten million dollars. My husband, Colton Monroe, was a professional football player until a career ending injury. It's a volatile divorce and unfortunately a public one." I fold my hands on the table. "If this story runs and it looks like I left him for a billionaire client, his attorneys will use it. I could lose everything I'm entitled to."
The room is quiet for a moment.
Frank leans forward and folds his hands in a way that tells me he's been waiting for the right moment to say whatever comes next. "Mrs. Monroe, I want to preface this by saying I have no intention of offending you, and I'd like you to take some time before you respond." He pauses. "The Meridian acquisition is worth three point eight billion dollars to this company. If you're willing to sign a contract — six months, playing the role publicly, the devoted partner — we'll offer ten million upon signing and ten million per month for the duration of the contract."
Sixty. Million. Dollars.
I make the mistake of looking up at Bennet.
If looks could kill, I would be done. Fork ready. Plated and finished.
He is staring at me from the head of the table with an expression that could strip paint, and his jaw is so tight I'm surprised he hasn't cracked a molar. I understand in this moment with complete clarity that nobody consulted him before Frank made that offer and he is absolutely livid about it.
I look back at Frank.
