Chapter 4
Arm wedgedwith a travel mug that read “Coffee Is My Love Language,” Devney faced the towering glass doors of Oath Capital. An oversized bag dragged down one shoulder, a precarious stack of files balanced in her free hand. The early morning wrapped around her, broken only by the faint hum of traffic and the rhythmic click of distant heels on pavement. Getting the door open was a clumsy juggle.
“Morning, Joe!” Her voice was bright as she approached the security guard, a grizzled veteran of the early morning shift, who gave her a nod.
“Your boss beat you in today.”
Ronan Wilder, already in the office? She quickened her pace to the elevator, her thoughts tumbling over each other as fast as her pulse. The thought of him already settled at his desk sent a jolt of pure panic through her as she hurried toward her workspace outside his glass-walled office.
“Yes, Mr. Beauchamp…” His deep voice carried through the open door, clipped yet professional. “Of course, I comprehend the importance of traditional values…”
She paused mid-step. Traditional values? Did he even know what those were?
This was the same man who referred to holiday decorations as “seasonally mandated clutter.”
She set her things on her desk, her gaze drifting back toward his office. He was pacing behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear. His tie—usually a perfect Windsor knot—hung askew, as if it had offended him. A hand raked through his dark hair, leaving it in a state of disheveled chaos she’d never witnessed.
“Yes.” He stopped mid-stride. “I assure you, Mr. Beauchamp, Oath Capital is committed to upholding the highest standards. No, absolutely, I agree.” His tone tightened, like someone trying to negotiate world peace while walking barefoot over Legos.
She bit her lip to suppress a grin as she sank into her chair. The usually unflappable CEO looked completely discombobulated. Usually he was a fortress of control, all crisp suits and focus. Today, he looked like a man facing an unexpected tax audit.
She turned to her monitor, booting up her computer. Habit, born from managing the whirlwind that was his schedule, had her pulling up the guest list for the upcoming charity gala. She wasn’t officially on the distribution list, but she knew the right people. A well-timed request, a favor cashed in, and by last night, someone had forwarded her a copy.
As the spreadsheet loaded, her eyes skimmed the VIP section until they landed on a name she recognized: Beauchamp, Andrew. “Perfect.” She leaned back in her chair, her voice low. This confirmed what she’d told Ronan—Beauchamp would indeed be there. Of course he’d be at this type of event. Old Money—capital O, capital M. The type of man who probably monogrammed his socks and folded his napkins into swans. No wonder Ronan was on edge. He was allergic to people whosehobbies included polo matches and judging other people’s cufflinks.
Through the glass, she saw he had ceased pacing long enough to lean heavily against his desk. She couldn’t discern the exact words anymore.
“Poor guy,” she whispered. She didn’t exactly feel sorry for him—he lived for high-stakes negotiations. Still, seeing him undone was rare enough to feel like she had spotted a unicorn in midtown. You knew it was probably a hallucination, but you had to stare, anyway.
The low murmur of his voice drifted through the glass walls of his office, then stopped abruptly. She took that as her cue. Grabbing the printed list from her desk, she crossed the short stretch to his door. A light knock on the frame preceded her entrance.
“Here’s the final gala guest list.” She held up the paper, hoping it might buy her a moment of goodwill.
He took it without hesitation, his sharp gaze scanning the names. “How did you get this?”
“I’m magical.”
“Magical.” He flipped through the pages. “That would explain the spell you’ve cast over my patience.”
“Admit it. Your life would be dull without me.”
“My life,” he said quietly, still reading, “would be less chaotic without you.”
“But so boring.”
Only then did his focus turn to her. His eyes flicked up, the list momentarily forgotten, his expression darkening.
“Please tell me you’re not planning to wear another sunflower creation to the gala.”
She glanced down at her outfit—today’s choice: a cheerful yellow blouse adorned with blooms, paired with cropped navy trousers. “What’s wrong with sunflowers? They’re happyflowers.” Unbothered, she gave a little twirl for emphasis, the hem of her top fluttering.
“Happy flowers.” He leaned back against his desk, appearing to brace himself for bad news, and loosened his already-askew tie further before sighing. “This isn’t a garden party. It’s a charity gala, a high-profile event. You need to dress like it’s the Oscars, not an amateur botanical exhibit.”
“Got it.” She gave a solemn nod. “So, no meat dress like Gaga?”
He groaned. “Stop talking. I’m seriously reconsidering this whole arrangement.”
“Don’t worry.” She waved a hand, unbothered. “I’ll find clothes sparkly enough to make the old-money crowd swoon. Maybe an outfit with sequins and feathers.” With a wink and a mock salute, she moved to leave, mission accomplished.
