POV Audrey
The boutiques along Union Square become my sanctuary for the afternoon.
Shane retreated to his room after our disastrous lunch, his mood blackened by Stellan's appearance. The suite felt suffocating with his silence radiating through the walls, so I escaped into the city streets where nobody knows my name or my complications.
I lose myself in silk and cashmere, in dressing rooms with forgiving lighting where I can pretend I'm just a woman shopping rather than a woman trapped in an arrangement she never wanted.
The emerald wrap dress catches my eye first—the color would make my eyes striking, would draw attention to the curve of my waist.
Would Shane notice?
I catch the thought and strangle it immediately. Absolutely not. I am not dressing for Shane Reed's approval. I am not wondering whether he'd look twice at this neckline or whether that shade of burgundy would make him forget his corporate composure.
I buy both dresses anyway. And the lingerie—delicate black lace that serves no practical purpose whatsoever. For myself, I insist silently, handing over my credit card with more force than necessary.
By evening, I've returned to the penthouse laden with shopping bags and determined to restore some semblance of professional distance. Shane emerges from his room looking rumpled in ways I've never seen—sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled, the ghost of whatever dark mood consumed him still lingering in his eyes.
"Tea," I announce, setting the kettle to boil in the suite's kitchen. "And work. The PR team sent over requests that need our attention before tomorrow's presentation. I thought we could address them together, unless you'd prefer to continue brooding in isolation."
Shane settles onto the sofa, accepting the cup I offer with a nod that might be gratitude. "I wasn't brooding. I was strategizing."
"Is that what we're calling it? Because from where I stood, it looked remarkably like sulking. Very dramatic. Almost theatrical, really."
The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself. "What does the PR team want?"
I pull up the email on my tablet, scanning the request with growing disbelief.
"Five romantic facts about our relationship for the press release. They want anecdotes, apparently. Humanizing details that will resonate with media outlets and create emotional investment in the merger narrative."
"Romantic facts." Shane's voice flattens with corporate precision. "We should approach this systematically. Draft bullet points covering key relationship milestones, ensure consistency with our public timeline, avoid anything that could be contradicted by—"
"Shane." I hold up my hand to stop him. "We've known each other for approximately three weeks in any meaningful capacity. What romantic facts are we supposed to manufacture?"
"That's precisely why we need a systematic approach. Fiction requires more planning than truth."
"Or we could have fun with it." I settle into the armchair across from him, tucking my legs beneath me. "Fact one: Shane proposed during a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon, where he'd arranged for rose petals to spell 'Marry Me' across an entire mesa. The helicopter pilot wept."
Shane stares at me. "That's absurd. No one would believe—"
"Fact two: Our first kiss happened during a blackout at the Seattle Symphony. We were trapped in the coat check room for three hours with nothing but champagne and destiny."
"Audrey, the PR team expects—"
"Fact three: Shane once flew to Paris specifically to bring me croissants because I mentioned missing the ones from a bakery near the Louvre. He was back before I finished my morning coffee, still warm from the oven."
His expression shifts from exasperation to something dangerously close to amusement.
"You're ridiculous. These are completely implausible, and the fact-checkers would destroy us within hours of publication."
"Then help me make them plausible. What's something true about you that sounds romantic? Something the press would eat up while also being verifiable?"
Shane considers this, his fingers drumming against his knee.
"I collect vintage safety posters. From ports and airfields, mostly—old warnings about proper cargo handling, cautionary illustrations about aviation hazards. I have nearly two hundred in climate-controlled storage."
I blink at him. "You collect warnings? The man who runs a global logistics empire and takes billion-dollar risks collects posters telling people to be careful?"
"The irony isn't lost on me."
His smile turns self-deprecating in a way that makes something flutter inconveniently in my chest.
"There's something appealing about the aesthetic of caution, even when you spend your life ignoring it. The artwork is remarkable—mid-century design, bold colors, this earnest belief that proper signage could prevent disaster."
"You collect warnings but ignore them," I say softly, and his eyes meet mine with sudden intensity that makes the air feel thinner.
"Your turn." He clears his throat, breaking whatever spell just formed between us. "Something true about you. Something I could pretend to have discovered through romantic courtship rather than PR homework."
"I broke my wrist falling off a stage during a school play. I was supposed to be a tree in the background, completely non-speaking, and I still managed to catastrophically fail." The memory makes me laugh despite the old embarrassment. "And then I broke it again that same year, ice skating with Kara. The doctor asked if I fighted with someone. I had to explain that I was simply spectacularly uncoordinated."
Shane's laugh catches me off guard—genuine and warm, nothing like his usual controlled chuckle. It transforms his face entirely, erasing the sharp edges and corporate armor until I glimpse the boy underneath.
"The PR team deserves an award for accidentally forcing this ridiculous bonding exercise on us," he says, still smiling. "I've learned more about you today than I did in three weeks of formal dinners and gallery disasters."
"And do I deserve an award for tolerating you all day? Because I feel I've shown remarkable restraint, given the circumstances."
The lightness in the room shifts. His gaze deepens into something else entirely—not teasing anymore, not deflecting. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and the distance between us suddenly feels inadequate.
"What do you want from me, Audrey?" The question carries weight I wasn't expecting, sincerity that makes my pulse stumble. "Not what your grandfather wants, not what the merger requires. What do you actually want? Because I'll do it, whatever it is. I'm not asking to deflect or to negotiate—I'm asking because I genuinely want to know."
My mouth opens, but no words emerge. The air between us has turned thick and warm, charged with something I don't know how to name.
"I could try to become a father to Oliver," he continues, his voice dropping lower. "A real one, not just a name on legal documents. I know you're protective of him, but if that's what you need from this arrangement—someone who will actually show up for your son—I'm willing to learn. I'm willing to try."
The offer lands somewhere deep and tender, somewhere I've kept locked for nine years. My pulse climbs my throat until I can feel it beating against my skin.
"Whatever you want matters to me, and I can do it," Shane says quietly. "I need you to understand that. This doesn't have to be a cage if we choose to build something different."
I stare at him—this man who doesn't know he's already Oliver's father, who's offering to become what he already is—and I find myself completely without words.
He would clearly have behaved differently if he had known that he was Oliver's father.
The question feels dangerous. The answer feels more dangerous still.
And I have absolutely no idea what to say.