Malcolm stops moving.
He looks at me, his jaw tightening slightly. It’s a tiny reaction, but I can see the sudden, violent anger flash in his eyes before he buries it.
"He criticized what you wore," Malcolm repeats, his voice dropping an octave.
"He liked pastels." I look away, embarrassed by the admission. It sounds so pathetic out loud. "He said dark colors made me look too aggressive. He wanted me to look... softer. More approachable for his clients."
"He wanted you to look weak," Malcolm says flatly. He walks around the desk, stopping right in front of me. "He wanted youto look like someone who would hand over the keys to her own company without reading the paperwork."
I flinch. The truth hurts, even when it’s delivered with absolute surgical precision.
Malcolm reaches out. He doesn't touch my face or my hair. He hooks his index finger under the lapel of the charcoal suit, his knuckle brushing against my collarbone.
"You do not look soft today, Audrey," he murmurs.
"I don't feel soft." I look up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I feel like I’m going to throw up."
"You won't." He drops his hand, stepping back to give me space. "Preston’s estate is designed to intimidate. The driveway is a quarter-mile long. The dining room seats twenty-four people. The staff is trained to ignore you unless Preston addresses you directly. It is a theater of power."
"I’ve been there before, Malcolm. I know what it looks like."
"You went there as Simon’s fiancée," he corrects me. "You went there seeking approval. Tonight, you are going there as my fiancée. You are not seeking approval. You are seeking blood."
He turns and walks toward the office door. "The car is waiting downstairs. Let's go."
The drive to Lake Forest takes an hour.
The privacy partition in the SUV is up, sealing us in the quiet, climate-controlled back seat. The tension in the car is thick, but it’s different from the tension we had on the way to the gala. It isn't the electric, chaotic energy of two people pretending. It’s the heavy, focused silence of two people preparing for a fight.
I look out the window as the city skyline fades into the wealthy, sprawling suburbs of the North Shore. The houses get larger, the lawns wider, the security gates taller.
We pull onto a private, tree-lined road. The massive wrought-iron gates of the Vance estate loom in the distance.
I press my thumb against the side of my index finger.
Malcolm reaches across the leather seat and covers my hand with his.
I don't flinch this time. I turn my hand over, tangling my fingers with his. His palm is warm, the grip firm and anchoring. He doesn't say anything, but the physical contact is enough to stop the frantic spiraling in my brain.
The gates open automatically as the SUV approaches. We drive up the long, winding driveway, the tires crunching softly against the pristine gravel. The house is a massive, stone-faced mansion that looks more like a fortress than a home.
Grant opens my door before the car even comes to a complete stop.
The cold night air hits me instantly. I step out, the heels of my stilettos clicking against the stone driveway. Malcolm steps out on the other side, buttoning his jacket. He walks around the back of the SUV and offers me his arm.
I take it.
"Remember the rule," he murmurs as we walk up the wide stone steps leading to the massive front doors.
"Transparency," I say.
"No." He stops at the top of the stairs, looking down at me. "The other rule. Do not let them see you bleed."
I nod once.
The heavy oak doors open before Malcolm even reaches for the handle. A butler in a dark suit stands in the foyer, his expression completely blank.
"Mr. Vance," the butler says, stepping aside. "Your father is expecting you in the formal dining room."
