I pick up my phone from the marble island. There are three unread messages from Grant.
Grant (6:15 AM):Preston’s legal team filed an emergency injunction this morning. They are attempting to freeze the discretionary accounts for the security division.
Grant (6:18 AM):The board is demanding an emergency meeting at noon.
Grant (6:22 AM):Simon was seen entering the holding company’s downtown office at six. He looked frantic.
I read the messages twice. My expression doesn't change.
Preston is predictable. He lost the psychological battle at the dinner table last night, so he is escalating to a financial attack. He thinks he can starve my division of capital, forcing me to back down and break the engagement to save my company.
He is operating under the assumption that I care about the company more than I care about Audrey.
It is a fatal miscalculation.
I pour a cup of black coffee, lean against the counter, and dial Grant’s number. He answers on the first ring.
"Sir," Grant says. His voice is crisp, lacking the usual morning gravel. He has likely been awake since the injunction was filed.
"Have the legal department draft the counter-filing," I order, keeping my voice low so it doesn't carry down the hallway. "Cite the shareholder agreement, Clause Four. If Preston wants to freeze the discretionary accounts, remind the board that I have the authority to liquidate the security division’s assets and sell our proprietary encryption software to his direct competitors."
There is a brief pause on the line. "That would effectively cripple the holding company’s data infrastructure, sir. Preston will lose his mind."
"That is the objective." I take a slow sip of the coffee. "What about Simon?"
"He is currently in a meeting with Preston’s PR team. We intercepted a draft of a press release they are attempting to put together. They are planning to announce that your engagement to Miss Jennings is a stunt designed to manipulate stock prices."
A dark, humorless smile touches my lips. "Let them announce it."
"Sir?" Grant sounds genuinely confused. "If they run that narrative, it damages the credibility of the engagement before the party."
"It only damages the credibility if we hide," I correct him. "Preston wants to paint this as a corporate maneuver. Weare going to paint it as a romance. Call the concierge at the Peninsula Hotel. Book the private dining room for lunch today. And make sure the paparazzi know we are going to be there."
"Understood." Grant doesn't ask questions. He executes. "What time?"
"One o'clock."
I hang up the phone and set it down on the counter.
If Preston wants a war of optics, I will give him one. He thinks Audrey is a fragile, broken woman hiding behind my money. He doesn't realize that she is the one who stared him down at his own dining table.
"You look like you're plotting a murder."
I turn around.
Audrey is standing at the edge of the kitchen. She is wearing one of my dress shirts. It swallows her completely, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the sleeves rolled up past her wrists. Her hair is a tangled mess, falling over her shoulders. She looks exhausted, beautiful, and entirely too comfortable in my space.
"I am plotting a lunch date," I say, setting the coffee mug down.
She walks toward the island, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. She stops in front of me, looking up with a skeptical expression. "A lunch date that requires that specific facial expression? Where are we going, a maximum-security prison?"
"The Peninsula." I reach out, my hands settling lightly on her waist. The thin cotton of the shirt is the only barrier between my palms and her skin. "Preston is attempting to leak a story to the press that our engagement is a corporate stunt. We are going tohave a highly visible, highly photographed lunch to prove him wrong."
Audrey’s skepticism vanishes, replaced by the sharp, analytical focus that I find incredibly intoxicating.
"He’s trying to discredit us before the engagement party," she murmurs, her thumb pressing against the side of her index finger.
"He is trying to make you look like a pawn." I slide my hands up her sides, my thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts through the shirt. "I need you to look like a queen."
