The tension crackles between Jake and Gideon. And it still triggers my common sense. I don't want drama here and now, really.
I step forward before the moment can detonate. "Mr. Sullivan." My voice comes out warm, practiced—I let Jake know that now is not the time to confront this jerk. My gaze says it all: it's not worth it.
Jake's jaw tightens at the formal address, but he catches my meaning. His shoulders lower by fractions.
"Everything is fine. My father's oldest friend is simply protective. I'm sure you understand." I throw these words at Gideon as if commenting on the weather.
The board members disperse with lingering glances, their curiosity barely concealed beneath professional neutrality. I feel their assessments crawling over me, over Jake, cataloging this moment for future weaponization.
Then Zachary speaks.
"Mr. Willis." His tone is conversational, almost academic. "You might consider that cowboys live by different rules than Manhattan executives. Where I'm from, we'd call it unwise to provoke men who settle disputes more... directly."
The comment lands like a velvet-wrapped blade. Gideon's expression flickers—uncertainty replacing contempt—and he retreats without another word.
I stare at Zachary. The man I'd dismissed as my father's puppet just delivered a warning so elegant it barely registered as a threat.
"That was—" I stop. Start again. "Thank you."
"Your success serves everyone's interests, Miss Ward." His expression remains professionally neutral, but something warmer lives behind his eyes. "Including mine."
The relief that floods my chest surprises me. Zachary isn't just following orders. He's actually on my side.
We retreat to my father's office—the inner sanctum I've only seen a handful of times in my life. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Manhattan like a painting. The desk is mahogany and massive, designed to intimidate anyone who sits across from it.
Jake positions himself near the door, arms crossed, still radiating tension from the confrontation.
Zachary closes the door and turns to face us both. "We need to establish your presence, Miss Ward. Gather allies. Build momentum before the board has time to organize opposition."
"What do you suggest?" I settle into one of the leather chairs, trying to feel like I belong in this room.
"A charity gala." He pulls out his tablet, already scrolling through options. "Visible. Prestigious. Exactly the kind of event that showcases competence and connections."
"The Ward Foundation benefit." I recognize the date he's highlighting. "That's in two weeks."
"Can you handle it?"
The question isn't condescending. It's practical. Strategic. I respect him for asking.
"I was trained for precisely this kind of performance." The words taste bitter, but they're true. "Charity galas are my native language."
Jake shifts near the door. "What exactly happens at these things?" His voice carries genuine curiosity beneath the wariness. "Never been to anything fancier than the Cedar Falls rodeo auction."
Zachary sets down his tablet. "Networking, primarily. Silent auction items. Speeches about whatever cause justifies the champagne budget. Everyone assessing everyone else's position while pretending to discuss philanthropy."
"Sounds exhausting." Jake shows this with his facial expression.
"It is." Zachary's tone sharpens slightly. "And you'll attend as Richard's friend. Nothing more. Restraint will be essential."
The words hang in the air—another reminder of the performance we're required to give.
Jake's expression hardens. "I'll decide for myself how to behave."
Zachary opens his mouth to respond, but I cut in before another confrontation can build. "We'll discuss the details later. Thank you, Zachary. For everything today."
He recognizes the dismissal. Nods once. Leaves us alone in my father's office.
The silence that follows feels heavy with everything we can't say.
* * *
Evening finds me returning from the hospital, exhausted in ways that have nothing to do with sleep deprivation.
Jake is waiting in the penthouse living room, silhouetted against Manhattan's glittering skyline. He turns when he hears my heels on the marble.
"Hey." His voice is soft. Careful.
"Hey."
I cross to him, and his arms open automatically. The embrace is gentle, restrained—stolen contact that feels both precious and insufficient. His hands rest on my lower back, thumbs tracing absent circles through my blouse.
"How's Richard?" He asks the question like it costs him something.
"Stable. Tired." I pull back enough to see his face. "Pleased, actually. Word reached him about the shareholders meeting. How I established authority."
Jake's mouth curves slightly. "You were something in that room."
"I was my father's daughter." The observation doesn't feel like a compliment anymore. "For better or worse."
His hand comes up to cup my face, rough palm against my cheek. The touch grounds me in ways I desperately need.
"Next time someone challenges you like that," he says quietly, "I won't hold back."
I almost laugh. "You didn't hold back this time."
"That was me holding back." His eyes carry something serious beneath the dry humor. "Trust me."
"Jake." I turn my face to kiss his palm. "You can't fight everyone who disrespects me. That's not how this world works."
"Maybe it should be."
The argument stays light, teasing—neither of us willing to push toward the real conflict underneath. The impossible balance between who he is and what Manhattan demands.
I step closer, pressing my forehead against his chest. Feel his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek.
"I'll come to your room tonight." The promise comes out barely above a whisper. "After everyone's asleep."
Jake's arms tighten around me. I feel something in him soften—the protective tension easing into something warmer.
"I'll leave the door unlocked." His lips brush my forehead, tender and devastating. "Don't make me wait too long."
He pulls back. Holds my gaze for one charged moment.
Then he walks away, disappearing down the hallway toward the guest wing, and I stand alone in the penthouse living room watching the city lights blur through sudden, unwanted tears.
This is what we've become. Stolen touches in borrowed rooms. Promises whispered like secrets. Love reduced to logistics and careful timing.
But it's still love.
That's the part I'm clinging to.