Penn Station is not where I want to be first thing in the morning, but I'm here – and I'm here looking for a girl I haven't seen in thirteen years. Good thing my mother texted a photograph this morning, or I wouldn't know where to begin.
I see someone moving in my peripheral, a petite brunette climbing up on a bench to get a better look. Cute, from the look of her. My guess is she hopes to find someone or at the least to catch someone's attention. She certainly has caught mine. Her stance secure, she begins to glance around. As her face turns toward the exit, I realize it's her. To my surprise, my feet remain rooted to the floor.
How unlike me.
I can't help but stare. Something about the way she holds her head, scouting the crowded commuters, reminds me of how she used to watch for imaginary intruders from the platform of the treehouse. Alert. Poised. Determined. The perfect playmate.
She catches me in my stare. I don't know the last time I locked eyes with a woman for that long, but even surrounded by people at 9:37 in the morning, it's like there's no one else there. I finally convince my feet to move, trying my hardest to tame the playboy saunter everyone teases me for having. Shaking my head to clear the fog and reminding myself to drink less tonight than I did last night, I reach her and help her down from her perch.
"Amanda?" I ask, tentatively, not knowing what else to call her. My parents didn't share her real name – an oversight I'll take them to task for at dinner.
"Please, call me Mary," she responds. My heart lurches a bit at the sound of her voice. I remember that voice, and well, because it rings sweet and clear in my memories of her.
"Francis," I stammer out. An awkward pause follows because I feel foolish.
She knows my name.
I reach for her suitcase, taking the handle, and my hand brushes against hers for the briefest of moments – but it's electric, that moment. Purely electric.
We stop by the house to drop off Mary's things. Until she's better established, my parents have decided she should stay at the house with me. School being out, they and my younger brothers will be away at the summer house for most of the next few months.
I swallow the lump in my throat and stop just to the side of the doorway to her bedroom, motioning her inside with a sweep of my hand.
"Thank you," she says, nodding and moving into the room. Most of the house has been redone since we relocated to New York. My mother loves a clean, traditional aesthetic best and this room proves no exception. I suppose that's the reason for the four-poster bed and the changing screen in the corner.
Mary takes it all in, though, with rapt attention. She walks toward an armchair and sets down her bag and jacket. The staff has already brought up her suitcase and it sits neatly in the closet. All of it so familiar to me, I'm captivated as I watch her regain her bearings with our family's money.
I'm startled from my interloping by the butler, Stephen, who clears his throat.
"The moving company has called to confirm Ms. Stuart's belongings will be arriving tomorrow, Mr. Valois."
"Of course, Stephen. Thank you for letting us know."
The man bows slightly and exits. Every day, I wonder why we have a staff and why my parents require them to treat us like royalty. It suddenly seems particularly absurd, with Mary gawking at a simple but expensively decorated bedroom, to think that others should serve us.
But, at the same time, I have never known anything else.
I turn back toward Mary as she opens her suitcase and begins to rifle through it. She locates what appear to be work clothes and a pair of heels. She pivots enough to look at me over her shoulder, coloring ever-so-slightly at what I assume is her catching me in what I realize has become yet another stare.
"Um, Francis? If you'll close the door, I'll just be a minute and then we can go see the office."
I nod my head, acknowledging her need to change, and I enter the hallway, pulling the door shut behind me. Stephen brings me a cup of coffee while I wait. He likely saw me stumble in after being out with Bash last night, but I know he won't say anything – at least not to my face. To the other staff, possibly.
My head falls back, hitting the wall and narrowly avoiding the painting just to my right. I close my eyes, letting my thoughts run:
This really can't be happening, can it? I have work to do. If I fail as the Chief Operating Officer of my father's company, the board will have me ousted in a moment and without hesitation. I can't be distracted by a young woman I once had a crush on as a boy!
What were my parents thinking in having her work for the company, much less live with us?
Maybe I'll ask tonight at dinner, if I can snatch a moment alone with either of them. Certainly, there must be a reason they chose her.
The door cracks open to my left and Mary pokes out her head, craning her neck to see around the corner where I'm trying and failing to not think about her. But she doesn't know that.
Instead, she straightens and joins me in the hallway. "Will this do for a casual walkthrough of the office?" she asks, shifting her weight back and forth on her feet and picking at a stray thread on her skirt.
Not many moments leave me speechless, but I must admit that this one does. Her travel clothes have been replaced by a simple blouse and a tailored skirt, and she doesn't seem to understand that her body is beautiful. She has even let down her hair, which falls the length of her back, her dark curls cascading and pooling around her shoulders. She gives off an easy old-world charm. I've never met someone so unassuming.
She glances up just then and, in her temerity, I find my voice. "You look lovely."
Her lips grace me with a slight smile and we move toward the door, where Stephen informs us a car waits outside to take us to the office.
"Thank you, Stephen," I address the man. "My parents will be in the city for dinner, so we will be back late." I lean in to tease him, "Keep the staff away from Mother's perfume, will you? Sarah reeked for days after your last free night."
"Will do, Mr. Valois," Stephen grins as we take our leave. "Will do."
Mary starts to relax a bit after we've left the office. The entire time I showed her around and introduced her to those who would be working with her, I could tell she was overwhelmed. I don't think anyone else picked up on it because it was subtle – but I remember the signs from when we were little. When you know the tells, she readily gives herself away.
Elisabeth provided a wonderful distraction when we met her for lunch at a small cafe nearby. She missed Mary almost as much as I did when she left, though certainly in very different ways. We filled the hour with talk of her engagement and upcoming wedding plans, and she kindly extended an offer to help Mary adjust to New York by shopping for her – not that Elisabeth needs an excuse to go shopping. Regardless, it seemed to help Mary settle a bit. Drop her guard just a little.
We spent the rest of the afternoon discussing my father's business model and the openings on her team we wanted to give her full discretion in filling herself – a personal assistant and a public relations director. She came to life when discussing her role with the company, though I could sense she still feels anxious about all of it. From what I've seen today and heard from my father, I must admit that I agree with him.
She will fit right in here.
And now, as we walk to the restaurant my parents chose for tonight, I can't help but turn my head slightly to catch a glimpse of her. She dodges an errant pedestrian and ducks closer to my side. I catch her scent and something in it lingers, something I can't quite put my finger on.
My phone vibrates and I look down to see a text from my secretary, Natalia. "Nothing's changed, right? Call me when you get done with your parents." Guilt washes over me, but I'm not exactly sure for what. I haven't led anyone on – or, at least, not yet. There's just something about the woman beside me that makes me want to be more than the COO who takes his secretary to bed and later has to fire her for it when it all becomes too awkward.
Deciding I need to respond quickly and without thinking too much about it, I send her a message to let her know it might be too late. "Meeting Bash and others at the pub," I write, trying to convince myself that I'm not avoiding her.
My parents greet us warmly when we arrive, each of them embracing Mary for much longer than comfortable or acceptable in a public setting, but she doesn't seem to mind. The subdued smile she has worn since our lunch with Elisabeth widens. Even after so many years away, she still fits well with our family. A pretty incredible thing to behold.
The maître d seats us at our table, a bottle of my parents' favorite red waiting for us. I forget how often my parents come here, how often we've come here as a family. Good food, good wine. None of the pretense of the city. I'm grateful they decided to dine here tonight, unsure of how Mary would have reacted to a fancier choice.
"Francis seemed to find you all right at the station, my dear?" My mothers poses the question to Mary, but when Mary merely nods in affirmation, I grab the opening.
"That I did, Mother – though I would have made a less bungling impression if you had let me know her real name."
My mother breaks into laughter, even more so when she sees the confusion set in on my face.
"Francis, dear – did you not get my other text message?" She emphasizes the "other," not passing up an opportunity to badger me about how I often ignore her texts. I reach for my phone, rapidly scrolling past the latest text from Natalia and finding the thread that holds messages from my mother. I pull my thumb down, allowing me to look for the one text I received, the one with the photograph.
"You only sent me the photograph, Mother. You never sent me … " My voice trails as I see the text which precedes the image: Her name is Mary.
They laugh heartily at my expense, Mary flushing over the confusion. "I don't mind, really." She leans closer and rests her hand on top of mine in a gesture of reassurance. Her voice whispers just under the sound of my parents' amusement. "Don't worry about it, Francis. I didn't really know who to expect when I got off the train, either."
The last words come across a bit tentative and I realize she's not just talking about me. What little I know of the last sixteen years of her life rises to the forefront of my mind – bowls me over, actually. She hasn't been Mary Stuart in sixteen years. I can't begin to fathom what that must be like.
We hurry toward the pub to meet Bash and a few others, including a friend of Mary's who lives in the city. The only thing I feel right now is shell-shock. My parents certainly have honed their mid-dinner ambushing skills.
Their concern for the board's faith in my competence is nothing new. They've bothered me for months, making sure I do everything in a transparent and excellent fashion so they can't question my father's decision to make me the head of operations. But this? This is overstepping.
They honestly believe pretending to be engaged to Mary will increase my credibility with the board?
I shake my head as we turn a corner, scoffing silently at my parents' audacity. I've been an ideal son, going to work for the family business instead of pursuing my own path – and, somehow, they think that means they reserve the right to dictate the rest of my life?
Every fiber in me wants to prove myself capable and to do so without this harebrained scheme. I realize it has the potential to work, but that's not the point. This is my job, my responsibility to succeed. Obviously, my father doesn't believe I can do so on my own.
My anger deflates slightly when I hold open the pub's door for Mary, realizing we haven't spoken for nine blocks as she rushes timidly past me and inside. I watch her locate a sign for the bathroom and figure I should probably wait for her to return before I try to find a seat.
A hand lands on my shoulder and I turn to see Bash, whose grin clues me in to the fact that he's already had at least two beers.
"Little brother!" he exclaims, taking stock of the unamused look on my face as I turn around. "You look per-, perturbed." Make that at least three beers, judging from the slur. "Problem at dinner with our father and Catherine?"
"Problem undersells it," I reply with a mutter. He still hears, though, in spite of the surrounding noise.
"So where's this girl, then?" he asks – a little too eagerly, if you ask me. "What does she look like?"
"Well, unless she decided to make a run for it, she should be back short-" I begin, feeling fingers rest lightly on my elbow from behind. If I can help it, I resolve not to let her touch me whenever possible. My skin already crawls from the contact. Too much of that and it won't matter what I want to prove to myself or to the company or even to my parents.
Too much of that and I'm sunk.
We make our way to a booth in the back corner, where we've told everyone to find us. Bash and I fill Mary in on the family history my parents left out of their monthly letters – the scandal that was his appearance when I was twelve. I undo a few buttons on my shirt, my duty to the day done.
She periodically scans the crowd looking for her friend from LA – an aspiring actress named Kenna, if I remember correctly. Lola and Aylee should be here shortly, and Leith, too, though he typically doesn't get off work until after midnight.
Mary checks her phone, laughs lightly at what looks like a text and puts it back in her bag as Lola and Aylee join us at the table. Bash, of course, flirts with both of them until he spies a girl unfamiliar to his charms walking toward us. Leggy. Light brown hair. Looks like a model. A bit bohemian. Just his type.
"Kenna!" Mary squeals, squirming her way out of her seat and throwing her arms around the girl. Introductions made, the waiter arrives and we order our drinks. The four girls chatter like they all know each other, even if their only common thread is Mary.
To accommodate Kenna, who has returned from her own trip to the ladies' room, Mary slides further in, her thigh grazing mine while she adjusts. Her scent again reaches my nostrils, her nearness reinforcing the need for the very resolution I made not even an hour ago.
My gin arrives and, feeling the rapid burn erupt in my throat as I down it, I say goodbye to my earlier determination to moderate tonight's consumption.
The street lights cast a soft glow as we walk the two blocks back to the house at just past midnight. I'd like to say I'm walking, but the real truth involves a bit of stumbling. While I didn't drink as much as I would have liked, that's probably a good thing. I step forward and lurch a little, but I don't seem to need to lean on anyone. There's only one person to lean on and if I've decided to be resolute about her not touching me, I've also realized the added foolishness were I to require her frame to hold me up.
"Francis, I've been wanting to talk to you – "
She pulls up just as we're about to ascend the stairs to the front door. I spy Stephen waiting for us through the window off to the side – for us to come close enough to open it up and usher us indoors.
"There's something I need to say to you," I respond, hoping I don't say something I shouldn't. "Maybe we should discuss this inside?"
I assume her response to be 'yes' because she moves toward the door as it cracks open.
"Good evening, Ms. Stuart, Mr. Valois." Stephen greets us as we enter and he locks the door behind us.
"Good evening, Stephen," replies Mary with a kind smile. "Could you possibly get Mr. Valois some water? He appears to have had a little too much to drink tonight."
"Of course, Ms. Stuart." The man heads toward the kitchen as we make our way into the study.
"You didn't have to say it like that," I mumble as I cast myself exhaustedly into an overstuffed chair. "I wasn't alone in my drinking tonight. You had several glasses of something."
"I had one glass of something, Francis. A vodka martini." She rolls her eyes, obviously impatient to get to the real conversation. "And then I had several glasses of water." Knowing what's on her mind, I decide to let her broach the subject because I sure as hell don't want to.
Stephen brings in a glass of water, setting it on the side table. He turns on his heel and leaves quickly, taking note of the scowl that has etched itself deeply into the lines of my face.
"Do you want to talk about what happened at dinner?"
Her tone disarms me – it's soft and unassuming, like everything about her – and words spill out from my mouth in a disorganized manner that I know I will likely regret in the morning.
"After dinner … when we were at the pub … I shouldn't have … There were other ways to handle this."
She takes a seat in the chair across from mine, taken aback by my statement.
"Handle what? Handle me?"
Damn it. Even inebriated, I detect the hurt in her voice.
"Don't you think we owe it to your parents to at least try? They've risked so much to give us this chance. How terrible must you find me?"
I groan, forcing myself to sit upright.
"It's not you," I say, certain something undesirable will slip out in the moments to come. "You're beautiful and clever and unpredictable," I blurt – realizing I should probably escape to my room before I mention anything else, but she doesn't seem willing to let me go just yet.
Her face brightens a bit, displacing her worried frown. I breathe as deeply as possible, attempting to craft my words so she knows my reservations have nothing to do with her.
"What matters is what's right for the company. We're not yet as soluble as you may think. I'm going to take over someday, responsible for our customers and accountable for every misstep – and I'd like to prove that I can handle this on my own. I think an engagement to you, based on a lie, will only result in the board still seeing me as incapable."
She leans back, looking like the wind has been knocked out of her. "You don't want to give this a shot. You don't want this at all – "
I cut her off before she can say more, giving voice to the one nagging question I've had since we left my parents because, somehow, she's been a picture of calm. "You do? You've spent your life lying to people. Why in the hell would you want to add one more to that list?"
The sting of what I've just said reflects back to me in her eyes, but she promptly recovers. Her eyes steel. Her posture hardens, suddenly defensive.
"What's one more lie? At least it's one that I can decide for myself. Besides, from the sound of it the decision isn't really yours – it's your father's."
Mary rises from her seat and heads toward the door. I know I should say something, anything really, to keep us from ending the night like this, and so I offer the only thought I feel might curb her frustration with me. "All I'm asking you to do is wait. See how things go – "
Spinning on her heel, she spits back, "See how things go for you. You're not the only one with a career to think of."
And, with that, she's gone.
Author's Note: And ... we're off! This has been really fun (and really challenging) to write because it's F/M, but it's not – and all at the same time. I'm hoping to post a new chapter maybe twice a week, since they're much longer chapters than I'm used to writing with a multi-chapter fic. Thanks to everyone who left a review! It's humbling to read your comments and hear your thoughts, particularly those of you skeptical of modern AU who are willing to go along with it just because it's me. Hopefully, I'll be able to respond to you each individually in the next few days. :)
Disclaimer: A few strands of dialogue in this chapter are taken directly from the pilot. They are not mine, though many of them have been tweaked to fit the context.