"You'll wait outside the conference room." I say it before Zachary can offer another polished objection. "Jake comes with me to the building. But he doesn't enter the meeting."
Zachary's expression flickers—something between surprise and calculation. Then he nods once, professionally neutral.
"That's acceptable. I'll inform security." He gathers his tablet and coffee cup with practiced efficiency. "The car arrives in two hours, Miss Ward."
He leaves. The penthouse feels bigger without his presence, like the walls have exhaled.
Jake's jaw is tight. I recognize that look—the one that means he's about to dig his heels in and refuse to budge.
"So I'm supposed to sit outside like a dog waiting for its owner?" His voice carries an edge I haven't heard since the early days on the ranch. "That's the compromise?"
I wrap my arms around him before he can build more walls between us.
"I need you there." My cheek presses against his chest, and I feel his heartbeat—steady, stubborn, mine. "Even if you can't be in the room. I need to know you're close. That you're real."
His arms stay rigid at his sides. Not returning the embrace. Not rejecting it either.
"This world has rules, Jake." I pull back enough to look at him. "Stupid rules. Cruel ones. But I know how to navigate them. I've been surviving Manhattan since I could walk."
"I don't need you to protect me from suits."
"That's not what this is." I reach beneath my shirt and pull out the chain I put on this morning. My ring—his grandmother's ring—hangs against my collarbone. Hidden but present. "See?"
His expression shifts. Something cracks behind his eyes.
"You're the most important thing." I hold the ring between my fingers, letting it catch the morning light. "But we have to play this carefully. These people will use anything they can against me. Against us."
"I'm not ashamed of what we are." He sounded more confident than ever.
"Neither am I." The words come out fiercer than I intend. "But shame doesn't matter in boardrooms. Power does. And right now, I have to convince a room full of vultures that I'm strong enough to lead them. Bringing my cowboy fiancé into the meeting tells them I need backup."
Jake's jaw works. The muscles in his neck cord with the effort of not arguing.
"I've lived here," I continue, softer now. "I know how to survive it. Let me teach you."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then his hand comes up to cup my face, rough palm against my cheek.
"I'll be myself," he says finally. "That's all I know how to be. Cowboys are always respectable."
I don't argue. But fear coils in my stomach, cold and familiar. The Jake I love—honest, direct, allergic to pretense—is everything Manhattan will try to consume.
Two hours later, I emerge from my childhood bedroom wearing armor.
The tailored suit fits like it was made for me. Because it was. Because even in exile, my father kept my measurements on file with his favorite designer. Because Richard Ward never stopped planning for this moment.
Makeup flawless. Hair severe. Every inch the corporate heiress.
Jake is waiting in the foyer. He looks up when he hears my heels on the marble, and his expression does something complicated.
"You're incredibly beautiful." His voice is rough. Honest. Then his eyes narrow slightly. "But I barely recognize you."
The observation cuts deeper than it should.
He's wearing jeans—his good ones, dark and pressed. A white shirt with actual buttons. And his cowboy hat, because of course he refused to leave it behind.
The car arrives. We settle into leather seats that smell like money, and the city slides past the tinted windows like a movie I've seen too many times.
"Don't engage with anyone," I say quietly. "Not the board members, not the executives, not the assistants. Just—"
"Don't trust me?" His voice is careful. Controlled. But I hear the hurt underneath.
"Jake—"
"Are you ashamed of me, Adison?"
The question lands like a blade between my ribs.
I want to say no. Want to deny it immediately and completely. But some terrible part of me wonders if it's true—if the girl in the tailored suit is embarrassed by the cowboy who doesn't know which fork to use at a shareholders' dinner.
I hate that I'm wondering.
"No." The word comes out smaller than I want. "I'm not ashamed. I'm scared. There's a difference."
He doesn't respond. Just looks out the window at Manhattan's glass towers, jaw set, shoulders squared.
We enter Ward Enterprises' lobby, and Jake becomes a magnet.
Women pause mid-conversation to stare. Their eyes track him across the marble floor—the height, the shoulders, the confidence that comes from working the land instead of working an angle.
Men assess him differently. Confusion and threatened posturing in equal measure. Who is this? What's his game? Why isn't he wearing a suit?
I pretend not to notice. Keep my chin up and my pace steady as we cross toward the elevators.
But I hear the whispers. Feel them crawling across my skin like insects.
"Is that the Texas guy?"
"Richard's friend, apparently."
"She brought a cowboy to a board meeting?"
The elevator doors close, sealing us in silence.
Zachary meets us on the executive floor, impeccable as always. I wonder distantly what keeps him so unflaggingly composed—genetics, discipline, or pharmaceutical assistance.
"The board is assembled, Miss Ward." He checks his watch with practiced precision. "Are you ready?"
Jake catches my arm before I can follow. His grip is firm. Familiar.
"If I hear anything wrong in there," he says quietly, "I'm coming in."
I want to kiss him. Want to press my mouth against his and remind us both what's real.
I can't.
The space between wanting and permission is already starting to feel like a prison.
"Everything will be fine." I meet his eyes, hoping he can see the truth I can't speak aloud.
Then I follow Zachary into the lion's den.