We walk into the foyer. The ceiling is at least thirty feet high, dominated by a massive crystal chandelier that casts a cold, brilliant light over the marble floor. The house smells like lemon polish, old paper, and money.
We walk down a long hallway lined with expensive, abstract art. I can hear the faint murmur of voices coming from the dining room at the end of the hall.
My grip on Malcolm’s arm tightens instinctively. He covers my hand with his, a silent reassurance, and pushes the heavy double doors open.
The dining room is massive. The mahogany table is long enough to seat a small army, but it is set for only five people at the far end.
Preston Vance is sitting at the head of the table. He is wearing a dark suit, looking exactly as terrifying as he did at the gala.
Sitting to his right is Simon.
Simon looks up as the doors open.
The smug, arrogant smile he usually wears is completely absent. He looks pale. He looks exhausted. And when his eyes land on me, standing next to his older brother, wearing a charcoal suit and the vintage diamond, he looks genuinely sick.
Sitting next to Simon is the blonde receptionist. She is wearing a pale blue dress, looking entirely out of her depth.
"Malcolm," Preston says, his voice cutting through the silence. He doesn't stand up. He doesn't offer a greeting. He just gestures toward the two empty chairs on his left. "You’re late."
"Traffic," Malcolm replies smoothly, guiding me toward the chairs.
He pulls out the chair closest to Preston for me. I sit down, keeping my spine perfectly straight. Malcolm sits next to me, placing himself between me and the rest of the room.
Simon is sitting directly across from me.
I look at him. I don't look away. I don't drop my gaze to the table. I stare straight into the eyes of the man who stole four years of my life and the company I built.
Simon swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing against his collar. He looks away first, grabbing his water glass with a slightly trembling hand.
A fierce, dark satisfaction blooms in my chest.
I am not the prey.
"So," Preston says, resting his hands flat on the mahogany table. He looks at me, his eyes cold and calculating. "Audrey Jennings. You have managed to cause quite a disruption in my family’s schedule."
"I apologize for the inconvenience," I say, my voice perfectly even. "But I assure you, my schedule has been equally disrupted recently."
Preston’s eyes narrow slightly. He didn't expect me to talk back. He expected the quiet, accommodating girl Simon used to bring to dinner.
"Let us dispense with the pleasantries," Preston says, leaning forward slightly. "I know exactly what you are doing, MissJennings. You are angry with Simon. You feel slighted. You feel that you are owed compensation for the dissolution of your business arrangement."
"It wasn't a business arrangement," I correct him. "It was theft."
Simon flinches, almost dropping his glass. "Audrey, please. We agreed to handle this through the lawyers."
"We didn't agree to anything, Simon," I say, my voice dropping to a cold, hard register. "You locked me out of my office and hid behind a shell corporation."
"Enough," Preston snaps, his voice echoing in the large room. He looks at Malcolm. "You brought her here to make a point. The point is made. Now, tell me how much it is going to cost to make this ridiculous charade go away."
Malcolm leans back in his chair. He doesn't look angry. He looks entirely bored.
"You misunderstand the situation, Father," Malcolm says quietly. "This is not a negotiation. I am not here to ask for a settlement. I am here to introduce you to my fiancée."
Preston lets out a harsh, bitter laugh. "You expect me to believe that you are marrying this woman? A woman with a history of financial instability? A woman whose mother has filed for bankruptcy twice?"
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Simon found it. He found the debt. Russo must have sent the files before Malcolm bought the laptop.
