"I can't just tell them no. They’re paying me."
"You are the architect, Audrey. They are paying you for your expertise, not your obedience." He looks at the blueprint, his dark eyes scanning the lines. "If they want a bar, move the reception desk to the second floor. Create a mezzanine level for check-ins. It frees up the ground floor entirely."
I stare at the paper. I trace the lines with my eyes, mentally shifting the structural load.
It works. It actually works perfectly.
I look up at him, narrowing my eyes. "How do you know how to do that? You run a security firm."
"I run a security firm that specializes in threat assessment," he corrects smoothly. "I look at floor plans every day to figure out how to extract people from buildings. I know where the fire exits are."
"Right. Of course." I take a sip of the coffee, letting the heat settle in my stomach. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He doesn't move away from the desk. He stays there, watching me over the rim of his own mug.
The domesticity of the moment is jarring. We are standing in a penthouse, drinking coffee, discussing floor plans like a normal couple. We haven't talked about Preston or Simon since the confrontation on the street. We haven't talked about the fact that I haven't slept in the guest room for three nights.
We sleep in his bed. We wake up together. He goes to his office, I go to mine. It is a terrifyingly comfortable routine.
"Why is it so quiet?" I ask, unable to hold the question back anymore.
Malcolm lowers his mug. "The penthouse is soundproofed."
"I don't mean the apartment. I mean the war." I set my coffee down and turn the chair to face him fully. "It’s been two days since you humiliated Simon in front of the paparazzi. The photos are everywhere. The blogs are having a field day. But Preston hasn't done anything. No legal threats. No emergency board meetings. Nothing."
"Preston is regrouping." Malcolm’s expression doesn't change, but the relaxed posture vanishes. "He attempted to freeze mydiscretionary accounts on Tuesday morning. I countered by threatening to liquidate the division."
My pulse stutters. "You threatened to sell your own company?"
"I threatened to sell the proprietary software his holding company relies on," he clarifies. "It was a bluff, but Preston cannot afford to call it. He backed down. Now, he is waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"For us to make a mistake." Malcolm reaches out, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes my pulse skip a beat. "The engagement party is in two weeks. He knows we are attending. He will use the event to orchestrate a public failure. He wants to prove to the board that you are a liability, and that my judgment is compromised."
I lean into his touch, my eyes closing briefly. "Is it?"
"Is what?"
"Your judgment." I open my eyes, looking up at him. "You’re risking your entire division for this, Malcolm. You’re picking a fight with a man who holds the purse strings to your family’s empire. If I mess up at that party—if Simon gets under my skin, or if I say the wrong thing to the press—you lose."
"I am not going to lose." His thumb traces the line of my jaw. "And you are not going to mess up."
"You have a lot of faith in someone who was crying into a martini a week ago."
"I have faith in the woman who told my father to go to hell at his own dining table." He drops his hand, stepping back from the desk. "Get dressed. We are leaving in thirty minutes."
I blink, thrown by the sudden shift in topic. "Leaving? Going where?"
"To buy a dress for the engagement party."
"I have five dresses in the closet that you bought me," I point out, gesturing vaguely toward the guest suite.
"Those are for dinners and galas," Malcolm says, walking toward the door. "The engagement party requires something specific. It requires a statement."
"And what statement are we making?"
He stops in the doorway, turning his head to look back at me. A dark, predatory smile touches the corner of his mouth.
