At some point in the night, it dawns on me that I must be missing something.
For hours, I have gone around and over every conversation I have had with my father since the moment Mary re-established contact with my parents last year. I know he wants to put forth a united family front when he announces his plan to take Valois Security public in the coming months. I know that, somehow, Mary being a part of our family and holding the keys to Stuart Tech are not unrelated in my father's mind. In the years I have lived under his roof and worked in his shadow, I have learned well how he thinks.
And what he thinks is that Mary's inheritance will bolster the faith of future stockholders.
I glance up, taking notice for the first time that the hour has slipped well past midnight. Mary, it appears, has already fallen asleep on the couch. After we finished our question-and-answer session and its accompanying bottle of wine, she set out to research her father's company. It would be unmerciful to wake her – for the first time since Mr. DeGuise's arrival, she actually looks peaceful.
Surely, I could call for assistance from Stephen or tap her shoulder until she wakes, but I find myself pursuing a third, more dangerous option. Standing, I stretch my legs before walking over to her. Her laptop and legal pad rest on the floor beside her, but I move them to a side table to make sure I don't step on them when I do what I intend to do next.
She doesn't wake when I stoop down to slip my arms under her legs and middle back. Actually, it almost seems as if she sleeps more deeply – burrowing into me as I lift her small frame. She weighs little, but I'm still grateful she lives just down the hall and not upstairs. The feel of her against me after the evening we shared stirs something inside that I haven't let myself entertain for years. Not since … but I refuse to entertain that thought.
Sarah must have left the door to Mary's room open, the lights dim inside. It looks as if she turned down the bed, something I realize doesn't even happen in my own room. I slide Mary onto the bed, straightening her legs and making sure she'll sleep in a position that won't cause discomfort. If I were more brazen, like Bash, I might help her out of her dress in the name of not wrinkling it – but I'm not and I won't.
Regardless, I don't think I could actually handle seeing any more of her than I already have. As it is, I'm already fighting the urge to crawl in next to her and sleep here instead of in my own bed.
I turn the lights out completely as I leave the room and ascend the staircase steps to the second floor. Deciding I ought to try to sleep, if just for a few hours, I enter my own room. I pull off my shirt because it smells like her. Orchid, I've decided. That's what I could never quite pinpoint, seemingly too exotic for such an unassuming young woman.
Three days and I already know the signs. Just as when we were children, Mary has drawn me in and refuses to let go. I might be offering her refuge while she figures out a few things, but the reality remains that I am wholly captivated by every piece of her.
The way she laid against me only moments ago, her breath releasing against my shoulder and her arm draped behind my neck – I realize I abandoned any resolve I had toward staying away from her the moment I saw the car door open tonight. She stepped in, hair swept up and attired so simply and stunningly, and I felt something skip in my chest. Even though her dress covered absolutely everything but a short stretch of skin between her knee and ankle, I still uncharacteristically struggled to find words. Luckily, Charles is not yet old enough to understand his older brother's predicament – and, therefore, not yet old enough to tease me for my falling back on formality.
I sink further into the bed I didn't realize I had crawled into, so consuming have been my thoughts of her.
If something is indeed missing, as I suspect, from my estimation of my father's plans, tonight will likely not be the last time Mary nears a public meltdown. The image of her face, panicked and distraught, appears as I close my eyes. All I wanted to do in that moment was protect her, when her hands started to shake and her eyes filled with tears. And as a result, I exhibited a measure of protectiveness I didn't know I possessed.
Thankfully, it worked. Next time, however, I might not be so lucky. I might not even be there. I recognize that only if we keep up this ruse – and possibly only then – can I stay close enough to offer her any sort of safety.
"I'm sorry – " I look up from my drafting board and see Mary in my office's entrance. "I didn't realize ... " She pauses, debating whether to come further into the room or retreat back downstairs. "Stephen told me I might find you here. Am I interrupting?"
I shake my head to indicate that, 'no,' she isn't interrupting and put down my pencil, sweeping away a few stray eraser remnants. I've apparently lost track of the time this morning as I've attempted to divert my desire to discern the full extent of my father's intentions for Mary. My eyes flit down to what I've been drawing in my sketchbook and I hastily close its cover. In doing something so far removed from my regular duties, I often free up my mind to process in different ways.
And, apparently, this morning's processing involved scratching Mary's profile onto paper.
She makes her way into the room, distracting herself with the paintings and schematics on the walls. A pause at one drawing in particular includes her finger hovering lazily just above the glass to find the artist's signature. She startles and I smile because she has discovered one of the few secrets I have managed to keep from public knowledge.
"You did this?" A hint of awe can be detected in her voice and she wanders further down the wall, finding my diploma. "I thought you studied business."
It is not difficult to detect the question she actually asks in her statement. I get up from my seat and walk over to stand next to her. My body leans into hers. It seems it can't help itself.
"I did," I assent. Her face reflects the confusion I sensed in her words. "I just also studied civil engineering."
"Of course you did," she states softly.
This catches my attention. "Why do you say that?" I ask.
"We came to the city when we were younger. I remember the press of people, the constant noise, and the park where your mother took us." Without hesitation, I know exactly the day of which she speaks. "You would have stood by that bridge the entire day if she would have let you. Every stone fascinated you. You wanted to know how it all fit together – each and every piece – so that it would be strong enough for people to walk on it and not collapse."
'Blown away' barely captures what I feel in this moment, to listen to her describe the afternoon I fell in love with this city and with discovering how things were built. I laugh nervously, not wanting to give away how she affects me.
"You remember that, do you? I guess I can't help thinking that I should have some skill of my own – a real skill, one that I didn't inherit through my father's business endeavors, that wasn't given to me and can't be taken away should the stock market fail. In high school, I fell in love with physics and math, and you apparently remember my longstanding affinity for bridges ... Civil engineering was a natural fit."
Part of me holds my breath, waiting for her response. There is a good chance she considers me a fool for what I've just shared. When she doesn't respond, I begin to ramble, "I mean, I suppose if there were ever something that caused the company to lose faith in me, I could always get by on my own doing something like this." I point to the framed blueprint of my senior thesis project. "Not that I want the company to fail, mind you – "
She cuts me off, an earnest expression on her face. "But I'd save you." Flushing a bit at her sudden outburst, she hurries to explain. "I mean, before it got to that point – that's what my team and I are here for, isn't it? And if that still went badly, I'd hire you at Stuart."
Again, I'm recognizing that this girl's kindness knows no bounds and it renders me silent. Her gaze locks onto mine. After a few moments, I find my voice. "That is a very kind offer. I hope I never have to take you up on it."
Most Saturdays involve some sort of work, as has this one. My father chose to spend a few days in town and I've reaped the benefit of poring over our lawyers' thoughts on what going public will look like for Valois. In the past, I wouldn't have minded so much, but today I truly wished to be anywhere else – especially if it meant I could be at home with Mary.
We have settled into an easy routine. A night or two each week, we venture out with the gang. Those nights involve drinks and dancing, pub noise and a brisk walk home afterward. All part of the greater plan for our burgeoning 'relationship' to be public. After Mary learned of her inheritance, we chose not to inform my father that we distrusted his motives in keeping her close to the family – and, consequently, we chose to continue our fake relationship so he wouldn't suspect what we already knew. In time, we hope he'll reveal his hand more fully.
Every other night we stay in, open a bottle of wine, and I watch Mary curl into the couch next to me while we watch an episode of Gilmore Girls. Mostly, I've discovered the joy of watching her watch the show. We've tried other things – science fiction, procedural dramas, sports – but the intensity of most programming has a tendency to leave her jumpy at the end of a night, and so we keep our choices light. Filled with banter and reconciliation. It has developed quickly into a carefree pattern. We figure the more comfortable we are with one another at home, the more convincing we will be in front of others.
And, so far, it seems to be working. I almost fool myself sometimes.
Stephen opens the door for me and ushers me in out of the heat of the day. At the height of summer, today has been extraordinarily warm.
"Would you like something to drink, Mr. Valois?" he inquires.
"Some water would be wonderful. Thank you, Stephen." He half-bows in his exit and my feet wander down the hallway toward Mary's room to see if she might be up for an evening in – but I don't travel far before I hear a chorus of laughter erupt through her open door. Several voices, from the chatter – quite possibly six, if my hunch is correct. Likely Mary, her four female coworkers and my sister all occupy the room.
Did I miss something? Did she tell me they were all coming over?
I shake my head, catching snippets about clothing and how wonderful Greer's return to blonde has been. While I would masochistically love to linger outside and listen, I decide it will be safer to vacate to another corner of the house. Perhaps I can go draw something – if only to distract myself from how the girls will receive Mary's time and attention tonight.
The girls, I reflect as I shuffle quietly back toward the entryway. Not me.
"I need your help."
She sits demurely next to me in my father's office, directly across from him. His face holds no surprise, as if he has long expected her to call for this meeting. As if he doesn't care for her enough to have called for it himself in a show of support.
Part of me hates to acknowledge it, but I instinctively know – the moment I see that stupid amused smile tug at his lips – that this will be a dead end of a meeting for Mary.
My father taps the tips of his fingers together and leans back in his chair. His summer schedule away from the office has left him relaxed, I observe. Relaxed and more shrewd, if that is at all possible.
"And what is it that you need help with, Mary?"
Of course he asks this question rather than the one a normal father would ask, that being, 'How can I help you?' I fight the scoff that wants to make its way past my lips. Even the one recurring father figure Mary has had since her own father died doesn't have her best interests in mind.
"Stuart Tech currently finds itself embattled in a major labor dispute. I'm sure you've read about it in the papers."
I can see her, breathing evenly to keep herself calm – attempting to gauge my father's interest level in spite of his lack in emotion. There should be no doubt whatsoever that he has already heard of the labor dispute. After all, he wants the company under the Valois banner, doesn't he? Surely, he's well aware.
Frustration twitches just below Mary's ear at her jawline. Normally, I wouldn't be able to see it, but her hair has been pulled to the side in some sort of knot. A new hairstyle to thank Greer for, I presume. Mary has gradually begun to look more and more like she belongs here in the city.
Rightly interpreting my father's silence as an indication to continue rather than to expect a response, she does.
"Their lawyers are young and inexperienced in this type of altercation. I would like to request the use of one of our lawyers and some of the information department's time to be dedicated to assist in resolving this issue expediently. I may not hold ownership of the company just yet, but they have given me a spot on the board. Especially with your interest in the company eventually finding a home under Valois, … "
"That will not happen, Mary." My father interrupts, finally speaking, his tone cold and condescending – as it was when I told him years ago that I did not desire to take up the family business. Unfortunately, I can't tell her in this moment that his tone will only mean more frustration than success.
"But you have so many more resources that we do. Surely you can spare a few … "
She doesn't even try to hide her bewilderment. It marks every line of her face. I fight the urge to reach over and rest my hand on her arm to reassure her. It would surely raise my father's suspicion if I did so. He remains one of the few people around whom we don't have to pretend to be romantically involved.
"Mary?" Kenna pokes her head in through the doorway and I find myself wondering how she feels so free to do such a thing. Certainly Joy, my father's assistant, knows better than to let another employee's assistant interrupt an important meeting. Oddly, my father doesn't say anything either.
"Yes, Kenna?" Mary regains a bit of her composure, shifting from the uncomfortable conversation at hand. "What is it?"
"Mr. Trent, the board president for Stuart, is on the phone. He would like to speak with you immediately, if possible. You told me to interrupt if – "
"Thank you for letting me know, Kenna." Mary waves her out the door, but Kenna lingers a bit. Out of the corner of my eye, I'm shocked to find my father's eyes light as he looks at the girl.
Only one word springs to mind: Gross.
That, and the hope that my mother has no idea of his dalliances at the office.
I put the thought as far from my mind as possible and am grateful when Kenna finally decides it's time to leave the room. Mary stands and holds out a hand to my father as a gesture of goodwill.
"Thank you for your time, Henry."
I can tell she is furious. Her impatience hasn't faded since we were children – she has merely learned to mask it with an impressive professionalism.
After she leaves, I turn back toward my father. "You couldn't even allow her a few hours with a lawyer to discuss what's happening? Ours have considerable experience with this sort of thing. And half our staff sits idle right now while we wait to see if our IPO filing clears. We honestly can't provide her with any resources whatsoever?"
The frustration which has stewed under my skin while listening to the earlier non-discussion now threatens to boil over. This is not the first time my father and I have come to verbal blows over Mary. Our phone conversation from the day after her arrival – the day after he and my mother unveiled their plan – comes to mind.
My father's gaze shifts, his eyes taking on a look I know all too well. With my latest outburst, he has me just where he wants. I brace myself, waiting for him to tell me what I've walked into this time.
"Well, Francis," he says, his eyes twinkling like those of a madman. Perhaps he is a madman. "If you and Mary are willing to stop dragging your feet and announce your engagement formally, I'll speak with the board."
His words slam into me. If I weren't still seated, there's a good chance I'd need to be.
"That's it? Why would that, of all things, make a difference?" I manage to get out, unsure of what to say to his repeated proposition.
"Well, I'm glad you asked, son." I wait for him to continue, eager to escape and roll my eyes in the privacy of my own office. "Being engaged to Mary will win you good faith with the board because it will lead them to believe that Stuart Tech will one day be under Valois, family businesses being what they are. If they have a reason to believe that will happen, they will be more likely to approve funds and resources to protect future assets."
The way the word 'assets' hisses from his lips betrays the man who utters it. I try not to choke on the bile rising in my throat when I think of his greed, his desire for power in the business realm. I shake my head to clear it a bit before seeking to end this horrid exchange.
"I will have to confirm with Mary, of course." He nods his head – as if either of us really have a choice in the matter, knowing what is at stake. "But I will discuss this with her and, should she agree, we will inform you of any further plans."
I excuse myself from the room, leaving hastily before he can ask anything else of me. Looking around, I assume Mary has returned to her office and so I hurry to find her. She will undoubtedly be upset over my father's ruthless ego and I want to reassure her that I can take care of this.
Kenna blocks my way, however. She won't let me in to see her boss. I groan, giving voice to my dissatisfaction with how my day happens to be going. Her eyebrows quirk up at the guttural noise and I spot her stifling a smile.
"You'll have to schedule time with her." I blink, adjusting my view to include Kenna rather than the blinds shuttered on the windows of Mary's office.
"Excuse me?" I ask tentatively, not quite sure if I heard her correctly.
She rolls her eyes and taps her pen emphatically on the calendar at her desk. "You'll have to schedule something. She told me she wouldn't accept any meetings for the rest of the day."
I understand not wanting to speak further with my father, but why doesn't she want to talk to me?
My fingers rake their way through my hair as I sigh and resign myself to the fact we're not going to talk about this, at least not for the next several hours.
"Okay. What does she have open later in the week? I'm sure I'll talk to her before then, but it would be good to have a block of time … Friday, perhaps?"
Kenna flips through the pages, landing on the day. "She's free from 11:30 on," she states without looking up – waiting for me to respond so she can write me in or find a different page on which to do so.
A quick mental perusal of my own schedule reveals a similar workday. "Friday at 11:30, then." I watch Kenna scribble down my name next to the slot. "And Kenna?" She glances up. "She'll be out for the rest of the day. You should take the afternoon off."
Friday morning finds me a bit antsy. Mary hasn't been home since Tuesday, when we spoke to my father about helping her father's company. Well, Stephen tells me she's been home to retrieve a few things while I wasn't there – and then she has slept on Greer and Kenna's couch instead of in her own bed, which I've deduced from a handful of conversations with Greer in the days since.
She hasn't taken my calls, hasn't let me in to see her during the workday. The fact that I'm a peer and not a superior, that she answers to my father and him alone, has been a ready excuse wielded by Kenna at every opportunity.
But not today. Today, we are going to discuss this.
At 11:15, I leave my office and walk over to Mary's. As suspected, she half-sits, half-stands at her desk – trying to finish something up and with one foot already out the door.
"Going somewhere?"
My voice startles her and she sheepishly seeks for some words to explain away how she's trying to get out of the office before I arrive so that she doesn't have to spend the afternoon with me. Thankfully, my name being on the schedule and with the prospect of a free afternoon, Kenna let me approach without announcement. From what Greer has told me, it likely also has something to do with the fact that Kenna has already tired of Mary's sudden residency in their tiny apartment.
"I was … Um, I just thought I'd step out to get some – "
"Some more time away from me?" I finish, trying to get her eyes to meet mine. She dodges them, choosing instead to duck her head and reach for her purse.
"Kenna said we weren't coming back to the office?" she asks casually as we walk through the door and toward the elevator.
"No, we're not. You're stuck with me. We need to talk."
She rolls her eyes and in the movement I see a small piece of who she was four days ago – before my father decided to be an ass.
The elevator holds an ever-increasing awkward silence as we ride down to the lobby. No one else rides with us. I'm pretty sure they all know they don't want to be anywhere near the two of us.
I shift my feet as the bell dings and the doors slide open. Bash waits on the other side, at the ready. He's been waiting all morning to snag Mary if she tried to make a run for it.
"Hello there, Francis," he says. "Hello, Mary." Her eyebrows arch, indicating her suspicions have been roused – his presence must not be a typical encounter for her daily routine.
"Francis, what – " she starts to ask. I jump in, hoping to reroute her before she understands how many people I've put in play to make sure she actually spends the afternoon with me.
"I thought we could start with some lunch. What do you say?" She nods her head and strings her arm through mine as we emerge into the daylight, into public.
I barely hear her as my mind reels from the sudden shock of her fingers lazily tracing circles at the bend of my arm.
"Lead the way."
I've tried my best to plan an afternoon that holds as little pressure as possible. Lunch at the cafe down the street. A stroll in Central Park. Spontaneous lectures should we happen to pass one of my favorite bridges or buildings.
Ring shopping.
Granted, I admit there's a lot of pressure there, but there shouldn't be. It's not as though we are actually going to be engaged. We just have to pull off the external formalities of the arrangement. Ring. Newspaper announcement. Some sort of party I'm sure my mother will be roped into throwing.
Public displays of affection.
This part remains the one piece I still haven't figured out. All of New York knows by now that when I date a girl, there's plenty of physicality involved. An unfortunate photograph of myself and my last girlfriend enjoying an afternoon in a local boathouse landed in the gossip column and took care of that. If society only sees me hold my fiancée's hand, it will bring every skeptic out of the proverbial woodwork.
Not that I haven't thought about what it would be like. Any warm-blooded male would be attracted to the dark-haired beauty who meanders alongside me in the park. That's not the issue. She didn't come here to be in a fake relationship. She came here to find a family, to put down real roots for the first time in nearly two decades. She most certainly didn't come here for me. I take the briefest of moments, however, to sneak a glimpse at her and wonder, recalling the conversations we've had since she arrived – did she?
Obviously, such thoughts will get me nowhere so I return my gaze to the path in front of my feet. I resolve that this arrangement reeks of convenience, of my parents' meddling. All I can hope to do is make it pleasant for her, to not stand in the way of what she seeks here in Manhattan.
"We have one last stop," I remark as we find one of the park's exits. I grab her hand and pull her along, attempting to convince myself that what I feel when I touch her is just the adrenaline of newness.
This is certainly something new.
We halt in front of a jeweler and Mary looks at me quizzically. All I say as I lead her inside is, "We need to talk." Luckily, the owner – a family friend named Joseph Akers – expects us and has reserved a side room for us to see items and to discuss anything for any necessary length of time.
"Good afternoon, Francis." He turns to Mary with a slight tip of his head, "Ms. Stuart." Joseph pauses, taking in the puzzlement on her face. "Mr. Valois requested a private room for the two of you. Why don't we go discuss what you're looking for there?"
My hand naturally finds a place at the small of her back, guiding her toward the back of the store where Joseph opens a door to usher us inside. We all take seats around a low table.
"Now, Ms. Stuart, Francis has informed me that you require an important piece of jewelry to adorn your finger. Congratulations!" After thirty years in the business, I'm impressed that he still exudes as much excitement as he does. Noticeably stunned, Mary – not having been informed of any of this – rallies quickly.
"Thank you!" She gushes to the man before reaching over to grab my hand, stroking her fingers against my palm in a maddening fashion and squeezing at just the right point where she knows it'll hurt. "We are simply so excited! Why didn't you tell me we were coming here today, Francis?" Her inquiry lands with her full intention for it – laced with more than a hint of her irritation toward me.
"Oh, darling!" I plaster on my best, most charming smile and wink at her for the benefit of our audience. "I merely wanted it to be a surprise. Is that so terrible?"
We both laugh, though mine might be due to nerves and hers out of a need for vengeance. Joseph excuses himself to retrieve a few items and leaves us to ourselves.
No sooner than he has vacated the room do I feel the back of her hand smack angrily into my shoulder.
"Francis!" she hisses. "What are we doing here?"
I lean in and speak low, just in case our company should return sooner than expected. He might be a friend of the family, but not to the extent he should be made aware of what my father is pushing for with this 'engagement'.
"I spoke with my father." I have her attention. She barely breathes. "He said that if we were to formally announce our engagement, he would work to push through your request for resourcing Stuart Tech."
In a day filled with surprises, her gasp isn't one of them. I never expected her to be anything but surprised at my father's willingness to help after Tuesday's reluctance.
"What do you think?" I pause, but I can tell that she is still trying to pull her thoughts together. "I don't want you to do anything you're uncomfortable with, but this might be our only chance to help your father's company."
"I'd rather have a chance," she speaks softly, smiling. One of the few honest smiles I've seen this week. Something shimmers in her eyes, threatening to escape its boundaries in her joy.
I grip her hand a little tighter, having forgotten that I've held onto it the entire time since she grabbed hold of it earlier. The owner returns with a selection of small and round shiny and sparkly objects, requiring Mary to pull her hand out of my own for the time being.
Reluctantly, I let go.
And, it's in this moment – this very moment – that my reality hits me. This woman and making her happy could easily occupy me for the rest of my life and I wouldn't regret any of it.
Not a single thing.
Unsuccessful in our ring-scouting expedition, we stop off to grab a pint of gelato on the way home – some dark chocolate concoction that pairs well with the bottle of red wine I had Stephen retrieve from the cellar to let breathe. Entering the storefront, Mary procures the container from a freezer while I make my way to the lengthy queue. I recognize the man next to us in line.
"Tomás!" He turns at the sound of his name and extends his hand to me. "It's good to see you again. I thought you had returned to San Francisco?"
He laughs and the timbre of it makes me uneasy. "Sadly, I have not yet returned home. I still hope to finish negotiations with your father over our new line. Ah, Mary," he adds, turning to my companion. "It is good to see you again, as well."
She takes his proffered hand and I swear I see a slight flush sneak up her neck.
"As it is to see you, Tomás." Her response squeezes out and my curiosity as to how she knows Tomás increases with each moment we spend in this never-ending series of small steps forward to the cashier. Shifting the gelato from one hand to the other, Mary makes a point to snake her arm through mine.
"I do so hope you will consider my offer, Mary. Aviz would be honored to have you and I would love to see your father's good company restored to its former glory."
"I will give you a call early next week, Tomás." The cashier calls for the next customer and Tomás utters a hasty farewell before moving to the counter to pay for his items.
It is not difficult to notice the squirming. Even the arm resting haphazardly on mine has taken on tension. Her eyes refuse to look at me, casting themselves down to stare at the floor – or at the toes peeking out of her sandals. I can't tell which.
"Next!" The cashier's yell keeps me from starting in on Mary. My current state of confusion must rival what she felt as we walked into the jeweler this afternoon. I have no idea how she knows Tomás or what kind of offer he might have made her. The very thought of her having reason for either makes the little hairs on my arms stand on end – and that's impressive because it's too warm for that.
I realize that Mary has finished paying and we head silently toward the door. I'd like to be away from the crowds and in the privacy of our home before I question what just happened.
"What was that about?"
We barely have our feet through the door before I'm handing off the gelato to Stephen and laying into Mary. I know I'll regret my tone soon enough, with the way she's looking at me. Pulling her into the study, I tug the door shut. The short walk home was apparently sufficient for my confusion to simmer into something I'm now trying and failing to contain.
"What was what about, Francis? Tomás? Greer had a dinner meeting with him to discuss the PR risks associated with Valois using a startup's product. He picked her up at the apartment on Wednesday. We talked." She has yet to meet my eyes, confirming that she's hiding something in spite of how well her story fits.
"That's it?" I let the question sit there, waiting to see how she'll react. "What was he talking about, then, when he mentioned an offer?"
She sits down, reaching for a pillow to pick at, but I refuse to let her evade answering. My irritation deflates quickly as I watch her. I sit next to her and take the pillow, encouraging her to look up by holding my palm to her face.
"Mary? What did he mean?"
Her jaw relaxes a bit under my gesture and her hand stretches up to curve around mine. A frustrated sigh escapes as she begins to speak. "Tomás offered me a job with Aviz. He heard about the labor issue because he's close by in San Francisco. They have a lot of resources and he wants to help preserve my father's legacy."
"You sought out another job? I don't understand … " I pull my hand away from her face, my face falling.
"I did no such thing," she cuts in, fervent to make sure I believe her. "He asked for a meeting with me. I took it because he said he might be able to help. After that meeting with your father, I didn't exactly have many options."
My head nods in understanding. Of course. I'm really starting to look forward to the day when my father gets what's undoubtedly coming to him.
"I'm not going to take it," she says softly as she snatches back my hand. "I don't want to move again – you know that. I've spent my entire life moving from place to place, trying to figure out who I am. Your father presented us with a good option, so I don't need anything from Tomás. I'm not going anywhere." A shy smile tugs at her lips and I look down at our entwined hands, noticing the reassurance of my thumb stroking deeply into her palm.
"Good." I match her smile, my anxiety lessening.
"So … " she begins, a teasing hint in her amber eyes. "Gelato?"
I saunter into my father's office, my jaunty steps a reflection of the pride I feel at besting him. He looks up as I set a piece of paper before him. Looking it over, he chuckles with satisfaction.
"Well done, son." He claps his hands together in a sign of approval, then points at the page. "This will run Sunday in the Times?"
Nodding, I remain standing as I speak. I have no desire to spend more time than necessary with him today.
"It will. Mother is planning an event, as you requested, and the ring should be ready tomorrow. When can Mary meet with one of our lawyers regarding Stuart Tech?"
"Oh, no one will be resourcing Stuart Tech, Francis," he states smugly, leaning back in his chair.
"But that was the agreement! You told me it would be arranged if we formally announced our engagement." I feel my jaw clenching down, teeth against teeth. "We held up our end and now it's time for you to hold up yours."
"Francis," he starts. The maniacal gleam of his stare unnerves me. I've seen it before. "They are in some serious trouble and we're trying to go public. I won't risk it."
"But you said – " I try to get a word in, still baffled.
"I did, but things have changed. We have more information. I am pleased, however, at the imminent announcement of your engagement."
My mind scrambles to come up with some catalyst, some lynchpin to secure his promised support. That's when an idea hits me. It's not a normal move for me, but I'm desperate.
"I've seen the way you look at Mary's assistant, Kenna," I speak evenly. My father raises his eyebrows.
"What's this?" he mutters. If I didn't know better, I'd say he appears impressed by my gumption.
"Now, I don't know if you've slept with her yet," I continue, keeping a close watch to see his reaction. "But I do know that Mother has a way of making things rather difficult when she's aware of your infidelities. Diane comes to mind, actually."
"Fine," he says curtly after a long moment. Apparently, that little piece of information wields great power. My mother holds the purse strings in this family and if there's anything my father needs right now, it's her money.
"But you will answer to the board for what happens. That's what CEOs do – even future ones. I'll arrange for you to speak with them first thing Monday morning."
I can't get out of there quickly enough, grinning from ear to ear. Mary will want to know.
And I have the strong urge to celebrate.
Author's Notes: Thanks to everyone over at Fanforum who helped me decide on TV shows for these two to watch together – and even to determine why or why not. It was a wonderful conversation! I've been trying to keep up with responding to reviews, but I think I'm behind a bit. If you're still waiting to hear from me, I hope to get in touch with you soon. These chapters are taking a really long time to craft. If I didn't have in mind certain stopping points for each of them, I'd post shorter chunks – but I just can't bring myself to do it. I hope they are worth the wait in between! The next chapter won't be up until sometime next week. I'm having surgery in the morning and will be out of commission for several days, unable to sit at a computer for any great length of time. So ... be patient, grasshoppers. ;)
Disclaimer: As has become typical, I've borrowed lines from the show itself and worked them into my own context. Some of them are direct and some have been slightly altered. I don't claim the brilliance as my own. That belongs to the writers for the first three episodes.