[Maverick’s POV]
Harrison's office hasn't changed since the last time. Same mahogany desk, same oil paintings of disapproving ancestors, same leather chair that creaks like it's personally offended by my existence. What has changed is the temperature—arctic now, matching the expression on my grandfather's face as I take my seat across from him.
"I've done my research," he says without preamble, sliding a folder across the desk. "Miss Blossom has been employed for mere months, not years. The love story you attempted to sell me is riddled with holes large enough to drive a fleet of company vehicles through. Did you think I wouldn't verify?"
I don't reach for the folder. I already know what's inside—employment records, background checks, the cold documentation of a fairy tale that doesn't hold up to scrutiny. "Grandfather—"
"The choice is simple, Maverick." He cuts me off with the efficiency of a man who's never wasted a syllable in his life. "Commit to Priscilla publicly. Secure the engagement within the month. The company remains in your hands, as intended."
"And if I refuse?"
"Everything goes to the board's chosen successor. Richard Hale has been quite eager, as you know." Harrison's voice carries no emotion, no negotiation. Just facts.
"The aerospace division you built. The international expansion you orchestrated. All of it—gone. You'll retain your trust fund, of course. You won't starve. But you'll be exactly what your parents were: a disappointment with a comfortable bank account."
The words land like calculated blows, each one finding its mark. He knows exactly where to strike—not at my wealth, but at my worth. At the only proof I've ever had that I'm more than just another rich man's disappointing heir.
"I need time to consider," I manage, which is coward's language for I need time to figure out how to have everything without losing anything.
"You have until the Harrington gala next month. Priscilla will expect a public announcement." Harrison rises, signaling dismissal. "Don't disappoint me again, Maverick. My patience has limits, even for you."
The drive to Floris's apartment takes forty-three minutes. I know this because I count every single one, watching the neighborhoods transform from gleaming high-rises to modest walk-ups, from doormen to buzzers, from everything I know to everything I don't.
Her address came from the employee file—a fact that feels like an indictment. We've shared beds, secrets, scars. I've memorized the sounds she makes when she comes apart. And yet I've never seen where she actually lives.
The company isn't just money. It isn't just power or prestige. It's the only thing my grandfather ever trusted me with—the only evidence that I'm capable of building something that matters.
I expanded it. I shaped it. I made it mine in ways that have nothing to do with inheritance and everything to do with proving I'm not just a waste of genetic material with good bone structure. Losing it means losing the only version of myself I've ever been proud of.
But then there's Floris.
I'd give it all up for her. The realization crystallizes somewhere around minute thirty-seven, sharp and undeniable.
Every expansion deal, every board meeting, every sleepless night building something my grandfather might finally approve of—I'd trade all of it for the woman who bakes nice cookies and talks to pigeons and makes me feel like maybe I'm worth something beyond quarterly earnings.
The thought should terrify me. It doesn't.
My mind spirals to alternatives as I navigate her street. What if Priscilla agreed to an arrangement? A real one—marriage on paper, an heir to satisfy Harrison's medieval requirements, then separation. I'd take care of the child, take care of her financially, and then I'd be free. Free to be with Floris properly, openly, without hiding.
It's cold. Calculated. Exactly the kind of transaction my grandfather would approve of. The thought makes me physically sick.
Her building is a walk-up with a buzzer system that's seen better decades. I climb three flights of stairs that creak under my weight and find her door—plain, unremarkable, with a small welcome mat that says "Go Away" in cheerful script.
She opens on the second knock, and I can tell immediately she's been bracing for this since the gala. The sunshine is muted today, clouds gathering behind her eyes, and she's wearing that oversized sweater I've started associating with vulnerability.
"Maverick." Not surprised. Not hopeful. Just my name, stated like a fact she's been expecting.
"Can I come in?"
She steps aside, and her apartment is exactly what I should have anticipated—small, modest, filled with personality that expensive square footage can't replicate. Plants on every surface. Books stacked in precarious towers. A kitchen that probably fits one person comfortably.
I don't soften it. She deserves better than soft lies wrapped in pretty packaging.
"I have to be seen with Priscilla," I say, watching her face carefully. "Publicly. The gala next month, other events—whatever Harrison requires to believe this is real. But it means nothing. No relationship, no intimacy. Just theater until the inheritance is secured. Then we can be together properly, openly, without any of this pretense."
She goes very still. The kind of stillness that precedes storms.
"You're asking me to be your secret," she says, and her voice is flat in a way that cuts deeper than anger would. "Your mistress. The woman you hide while you parade someone appropriate for the cameras."
I hate the way she says it. Hate that she expected this, that some part of her was waiting for exactly this betrayal dressed up as pragmatism.
"We agreed on six months," I remind her, desperate now. "That hasn't changed. The timeline is the same—"
"Six months of pretending to be your fiancée," she interrupts, shaking her head slowly, "is not the same as six months of hiding while you pretend with someone else. Before, I was the performance. Now I'm what you're hiding from. Do you understand the difference, or do I need to draw a diagram?"
I don't have a response. She's right, and we both know it, and my silence confirms everything she's already concluded.
"This is temporary," I try, switching angles because I'm desperate and desperation makes us into people we don't recognize. "A means to an end. Once I secure the inheritance, Harrison loses his leverage. I can make my own choices then, and I'll choose you. I've already chosen you, Floris. I just need time. I need you to trust me."
I know it's unfair to ask. I'm asking anyway, because I'm selfish and terrified and I can't imagine walking out of this apartment without some thread of hope to cling to.
She's quiet for a long moment, and I watch the sunshine in her dim—not extinguish completely, but flicker. Like a candle in a draft, fighting to stay lit against winds that want to blow it out.
"Okay," she says finally, quietly. "I'll wait."
I should feel relieved. This is what I wanted—her agreement, her patience, time to navigate the impossible. Instead, watching her close the door behind me, I feel like I've already lost her.
Like the version of us that existed before this moment has slipped through my fingers, replaced by something smaller, dimmer, held together by promises I'm not sure I can keep.
The walk down three flights of creaking stairs feels longer than the drive over.