"And over here we have another biomedical lab, where a few of our bright stars of research are working on…"
Grant keeps the charming smile on his face even as he tunes out the university director and goes back to thumbing out an email to his assistant to ask her to send him a couple of reports he's been waiting on. The older, rotund man is acting as the guide to the group of donors who Grant knows are being granted this tour less as an exclusive reward to them and more in the interests of wringing more money from their pockets under the auspices of showing the representatives of the top ten donors the good their contributions have done so far. The research is worthwhile, he knows; the Ward Foundation vets its contributions with greatest scrutiny. But every researcher and every university thinks their research is more important or more ground-breaking or more worthy than other research, and Grant didn't bring his family business from the brink to the success it is today by chasing charity over profitable endeavours.
Grant glances through the observation window of the lab they'd stopped in front of as he hits send, watching as yet another set of white-clad researches in ugly blue gloves poked about with their petri dishes and microscopes, the hum of machines running their calibrations a low buzz in the background. The university director is droning on, gesturing enthusiastically, though honestly Grant doesn't see much difference from the last lab they were shown, and that was a whole other department. Grant just hopes they can move on and finish up. He'd rather hear the whole schtick at the cocktail party the university is hosting in the evening. At least there he can have a drink. He's have skipped the whole thing but had gotten word that that Director Blake had invited the press, and since he's already got a reputation for being an unfeeling bastard in the business world and beyond, his PR advisor had insisted he make an effort.
The door clicks next to them just as he's clicking open Valerie's email, which was as quick to arrive as he'd expect from his efficient employee, and the group turns as a bespectacled young man who is nearly as tall as Grant wrangles a tiny slip of a woman in a lab coat and an ugly pair of green goggles out into the hall. A student who has overstayed her welcome in the lab, Grant assumes, given the long-suffering expression on the man's face. He turns back to his email, but can't help but quickly glance back up again to take in brunette, who is very pretty despite the oversized eyewear perched over half her face.
"I just need twenty more minutes. Thirty, tops, to start another trial version," she wheedles in a lilting British accent.
"Nuh-uh," the man-handler shakes his head. "That's what you said two trials ago."
"But-"
"Dr. Simmons!" Director Blake says, a pleased tone to his voice. "How fortuitous to see you!"
The woman and young man freeze, seemingly only now recognizing that they have an audience. They turn almost comically slowly around in sync, eyes meeting and flick away before a sheepish smile finds its way onto the young man's face. She, on the other hand, looks decidedly guilty before she pushes her goggles up onto her hair and blinks at the director.
"Dr. Simmons is one of our leading biomedical researchers," Blake gestures, to Grant's surprise, woman who he'd guess is in her mid-twenties, if that. Her mouth lifts into a friendly smile. "These are ten of the universities top donors last year, come to take a special look at our facilities before tonight's little get together. One of the prides of the university, she had two PhDs before she turned twenty-three and -"
"Dr. Simmons? Dr. Jemma Simmons?"
Dr. Simmons, who is blushing at the attention – she really is rather adorable with the flush colouring her face and highlighting the smatter of freckles across her nose - tilts her head in acknowledgement at Avery Kensington. Mrs. Kensington is about ten years Grant's senior who has taken over her husband's charitable endeavours in recent years as he's slowed down, likely because he has a good three decades on his fourth wife.
"Yes? I mean yes, I am she."
"Your contributions to the research into cell reprogramming in stroke victims during your doctorate has made huge strides in the medical community, and I know my husband and I have certainly benefitted! Is that what you're researching now?"
"Dr. Simmons currently has a grant to study Batten's disease, while she completes her third doctorate."
The scientist ducks her head and blushes again, but the pride in her eyes tell him the praise isn't just flattery. Grant makes a note to have the head of his Research and Development department look into whether Ward Enterprises should be making wooing her onto their staff. She's clearly extremely smart, though genius doesn't always translate to a profitable business investment, and he isn't above using his considerable resources to poach her if the returns look high enough. He knows what university researchers earn, and New York is an expensive city in which to live. It might not take too much convincing.
"Batten's disease?" One of the other group members, whose name Grant didn't bother to learn since they don't travel in the same circles, asks.
"It's extremely rare," Dr. Simmons says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"I've never heard of it," the man grumbles. "Shouldn't you be looking at cancer? Now that's a disease that needs curing!"
"There are many diseases worthy of studying," Dr. Simmons says, her brown eyes soft and earnest. "And cancer isn't one disease, but rather several, which is why research is often specialized." She sighs and bites her lip, and Grant wonders how many times she's had to have this conversation. "And let's not forget, all new advancements in science might be applied more broadly. We've only to look. Now if you'll excuse me, I must get back to-"
"Going home." The firm command has the group glancing back at the tall man who'd pushed Dr. Simmons out, his face polite but stern.
"Now, David, surely Dr. Simmons is capable of deciding when she's finished."
"Dr. Simmons," David says, before the woman herself can open her mouth, "has been working for 35 hours straight. Closer to 36, even."
"I've done longer before." Grant can barely hear mumble under his breath but he has a hard time holding back his amusement at her petulant tone.
"Since she has an important engagement with this lovely company and our esteemed director in," David pulls his cell phone from his coat pocket and checks it, "four and a half hours, she is going to go home, eat something more substantial than a granola bar, and have a nap so she's bright eyed and bushy-tailed for the mixer."
Dr. Simmons looks mutinous for a moment, like an adorably piqued hedgehog, then sighs. "Very well, Mr. Alleyne. You win."
She nods in the group's direction, and to his great surprise glares pointedly at the cell phone in his hand, though given her stature the look is less fearsome and more adorable. He tucks his phone in the inside pocket of his jacket and raises his empty hands in mock surrender, a smile on his face and his eyes locked on her the entire time. She looks poised to say something but David simply raises both brows and she proceeds to scurry away. Well, Grant thinks. At least tonight was looking slightly more interesting.
Director Blake begins his droning again, and as they pass David, who must be Dr. Simmons' student and not the other way around, Grant listens in amusement as he mutters to himself.
"Shoulda taken Lewis up on the offer to trade internships," David shakes his head as he heads back into the lab. "Had to do something in my field, I said. Didn't want to go to New Mexico, I said. Bet Dr. Foster isn't nearly as stubborn as this one."
/
Jemma grumbles to herself all the way home and through the sandwich she picked up in the university cafeteria. She doesn't stop even as she flicks the light on in the near closet that serves as her bedroom.
"He-ey," moans a voice from the bed, and Jemma's hand flies to her throat. It takes her a minute to realize that it's Daisy curled up in her blankets.
"Sorry," Daisy says sheepishly, pushing messy dark hair out of her eyes. "Bobbi thought you'd be out for the day so said I could crash here instead of the couch. She offered hers, but …"
"Lance is on nights, isn't he? And still taking up her bed four days of five even though he and Bob insist they aren't a thing anymore and she's not on nights like him anymore?" Jemma fills in the blanks wryly.
"Yeah. Want me to get out of your way? I just needed a couple of hours to sleep and it's too cold for the van right now."
"Don't be silly," Jemma waves. "But shove over. I've been ordered to get a few hours myself before tonight's nonsense."
"Oh, yeah. You have that rich people thing, don't you?"
"Yes," Jemma says sulkily. "Going to have to get trussed up like a Christmas goose just to beg for scraps to see my research through."
"Wow. You do need sleep, because that barely made sense."
Jemma strips off her slacks and blouse, undoing her bra and slipping it out from under the camisole she was wearing. She doesn't bother to put them into the wardrobe that is wedged into the small space, instead kicking them into the corner and crawling in next to Daisy when she holds the quilt up.
"So a party with rich people, huh?" Daisy scootches closer to wall as Jemma sets the alarm on her phone. "And I live in my van."
"Mostly I think you live here, these days" Jemma yawns as she wiggles into a comfortable position.
"Yeah." Something like guilt passes over Daisy's face. "But I don't pay rent or anything."
"Well, you do pitch in for groceries and for using our parking space. And it's not like you have a real bedroom."
"Half of New York doesn't have a real bedroom. The tiny window you've got in here barely qualifies it as a real bedroom."
"Yes, well." Jemma yawns again. "We all do what we can. And considering it takes four steadily-employed adults to make the rent on this place, two of whom are sharing a room with bunkbeds like pre-teen boys…"
"Mmm," Daisy nods.
"And you do pitch in more than Lance does," Jemma adds as an afterthought, and Daisy barks out a laugh.
"Make less of a mess, too," she smiles. "And hey, maybe this rich people thing will work out for you nicely. Put on a slinky dress and charm an octogenarian into marrying you so you can live in the lap of luxury until they croak, when we can all live in the lap of luxury."
"I don't have a slinky dress," Jemma says. "And I'd rather he fund my research. Or she."
"Of course you would," Daisy smiles sleepily. "Now shhh and get your beauty rest so we've got half a shot. There's only so much a push-up bra can do."
"You're ridiculous," Jemma laughs, but does as Daisy says and lets herself fall into sleep.
/
Grant straightens his jacket sleeve after looking at his watch, glad to finally be through with the evening. This sort of shindig was more up Christian's alley; a bunch of sycophantic fortune hunters, with their ingratiating smiles and tangible greed, willing to do or say anything in the hopes of currying his favour. It's exactly the type of reason he's the one who goes to this kind of thing instead of his brother.
The attention is decidedly similar to the attention he's used to getting from women, the ones who watch the eligible bachelor lists like hawks, who try to fall into his lap in the hopes of snaring a big ring and a bigger credit account, or at least a little publicity. That kind of attention is at least a little more fun, he has to admit, since he's not above playing the field a little – or a lot, to be honest. Hey, he's clear about his intentions from the get-go, and if there's been a party or two that were disappointed things didn't go the distance, well, they'd all had fun along the way.
Unlike tonight, which had been a snooze from the start, when the damned university director decided a mixer was an excellent time to give a twenty-minute self-congratulatory speech. The only bright spot had been watching the doctor from earlier in the day tout her research, all enthusiastic gestures and a stilted awkwardness on an expressive face that told he she wasn't one for artifice. It was refreshing, even though he'd found himself mostly corralled to other scientists and their projects and had only heard a little about the progress she was making when he'd drifted near a conversation she was having with Avery Kensington.
"It's a shame," the director had said when he noticed Grant looking in her direction. "Our most promising researcher, but so focussed."
"And that's a bad thing?" Grant had asked, bemused.
"It is when you're researching a disease so rare the funding is pitiful," the director had spoken frankly. "Pharmaceuticals aren't interested in cures that won't make them any money, and with a bequest about to run out, it's likely to be put aside for several years. Do you have any interest in Batten's disease, or?"
Grant had indicated he hadn't heard of it, though he was not about to give away it was the petite scientist herself who had caught his attention. He shakes himself out of his reveries as the car pulls up to his building, and waves the driver on as he makes his way past the doorman, who greets him with an apologetic grimace.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Ward, but…"
Grant sighs. "Let me guess. My mother has come to complain about her generous allowance is far too meagre again?"
"Worse, I'm afraid." Phil jerks his head toward the lobby, where Grant can just see his brother standing, looking at a piece of art as though he, and not Grant, owns the building. Grant curses under his breath and thanks the doorman for the heads up while he briefly considers calling his driver back and finding a nice family-free hotel in which to spend the night. He didn't get as far as he has by being a coward, though, so instead he strides inside.
"Christian," he says dryly. "To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"
"Can't a man just drop by and visit his younger brother?"
"No." Grant says bluntly. "What do you want?"
"Aren't going to invite me up for a friendly drink?" Christian's smile is mocking. "Not even to congratulate me?"
"On what?" Grant says. "Did the Guinness Book of World Records finally recognize that you are – and not have, to be clear – the world's biggest dick?"
It's not Grant's sharpest insult, but it's been a long, tiring day. Christian doesn't mock him for it and his smile doesn't falter; if anything, it looks sharper. "Now, now, Grant. Is that anyway to talk to the future CEO of Ward Enterprises?"
"Like hell I'm going to hand the reins over to you," Grant spits. "I don't care who you think you've convinced to sign shares over, they'll be turning their proxy back to me-"
"Anna's expecting again," Christian cuts him off smoothly, as though he hadn't been interrupted at all. "So whatever sway you think you have to get these Ward shares under your proxy, think again. You've got some irons in the fire, I'm sure, but what are they? 15 to 18 months out, at best? Do you know what kind of policy changes about shareholders I can have made in that kind of time?"
Christian straightens his suit jacket, that unrelenting grin on his face and begins to stride out. He stops, and turns back. "You know, I really like this building. Six months from now, I think I'm very much going to enjoy that top floor view. Might make a nice gym. Or maybe I'll just leave the place empty. Knock out a few walls. Won't matter, will it, when everything's mine?"
Grant doesn't say anything as Christian exits, whistling just to piss Grant off. He's made a mistake, though, Grant thinks even as he quietly fumes. Tipped his hand early. Grant's got six months to keep even the playing field, and an idea that won't take half that much time if he plays his cards right. And Grant always, always plays his cards right.