The text arrives mid-morning like a perfectly timed grenade.
Tea? Just the two of us. Woman to woman. I think it's time we had a proper conversation about the situation. Priscilla's message sits on my screen, innocent and devastating, each word dripping with implications I don't want to examine.
I should decline. Every survival instinct I possess—honed through years of reading dangerous moods—screams at me to delete this message and pretend it never existed. Nothing good can come from having tea with my fake fiancé's real fiancée. That's not pessimism; that's basic mathematics of romantic catastrophe.
I don't decline.
Maybe I'm a masochist. Maybe I need to understand what I'm fighting against. Whatever the reason, I find myself texting back a time and address, sealing my fate with a thumbs-up emoji that feels aggressively inadequate for the occasion.
The restaurant she's chosen is all white tablecloths and whispered money—the kind of place where prices aren't listed because if you have to ask, you can't afford to breathe the air. Crystal chandeliers cast soft light over tables spaced far enough apart for private conversations about stock portfolios and strategic marriages.
Priscilla is already seated when I arrive, immaculate as always, a pot of tea steaming between us like a prop in some elaborate theatrical production.
She's wearing cream silk that probably required the sacrifice of several innocent silkworms and a small fortune. Her smile when she sees me is warm enough to fool anyone who isn't looking closely at her eyes.
"Floris, darling. Thank you for coming. I wasn't sure you would, given how awkward things have been between us." She gestures to the chair across from her with the grace of someone who's never questioned her right to occupy any space she chooses.
"Please, sit. I've ordered us the jasmine blend—I hope that's acceptable. The oolong here is divine, but jasmine felt more appropriate for a heart-to-heart, don't you think?"
"Jasmine is perfect," I manage, settling into my seat with what I hope is casual confidence rather than barely concealed terror. "I appreciate the invitation. It's very... mature of you. Given everything."
"Well, we're both adults, aren't we? And we both care about Maverick's happiness." She pours tea with practiced elegance, the liquid amber and fragrant. "I thought it was time we cleared the air. No more dancing around the elephant in the room, as they say. Sugar? I find a touch of sweetness helps these conversations go down easier."
The pleasantries flow like the tea—smooth, warm, utterly superficial. She asks about work, about travel, about how I'm adjusting to private aviation. She mentions that Maverick speaks highly of the crew, that he appreciates dedication and discretion in his employees.
Each word is perfectly chosen, perfectly delivered, perfectly designed to remind me exactly what I am in this equation. Staff. Help. The hired girl who forgot her place.
I play along because what else can I do? I compliment her earrings, ask about her legal practice, pretend we're two civilized women having a civilized conversation rather than predator and prey sharing a watering hole during drought season.
Then her smile sharpens, and the pleasant facade cracks like ice over dark water.
"I assume he told you about the wedding?" Her voice remains casual, but her eyes are fixed on my face with predatory attention.
"Three weeks. Very intimate ceremony—Harrison wants it handled as soon as possible. Something about tax implications and board meetings and various tedious business concerns I won't bore you with. The point is, we're moving forward rather quickly now."
The ground tilts beneath me.
Three weeks. He didn't tell me. I saw him yesterday, felt his hands on my skin, heard him whisper that I was the only thing that felt real—and he didn't mention that his wedding is in three weeks.
That he's actually going through with it. That everything he promised about choosing me eventually was apparently just pretty words to keep me compliant—because yes, the wedding was in the picture from the start. He just decided to carefully omit the timings.
"Three weeks," I repeat, and my voice sounds strange. Distant. "That's... soon. Congratulations, I suppose. Have you chosen a venue? A dress? These things usually take months to plan, from what I understand."
"Harrison has connections. Amazing what money can accomplish when you have enough of it, isn't it?" Priscilla sips her tea with visible satisfaction.
"And of course, there's the heir clause to consider. The inheritance requires a child—a legitimate heir born within the marriage. So—"
My teacup freezes halfway to my lips.
"The... heir clause?" The words taste like ash and broken glass.
"Oh dear." Priscilla's sympathy is exquisitely performed. "He didn't tell you that part either, did he? The poor thing, always so protective of people's feelings. The Finley inheritance has very specific requirements—marriage and an heir, both necessary.”
“Harrison is quite traditional about bloodlines and legacy.” Then she has the guts to look almost dreamy. “I've always wanted children myself. Two, maybe three. The Finley name deserves a proper legacy, don't you think?"
I can't breathe.
The wedding timeline—maybe he didn't know, maybe Harrison sprung it on him. But the heir requirement? He knew about that from the beginning. Before he ever proposed our arrangement in that hotel suite. Before he kissed me like I was air and he was drowning. Before he traced my scars and made me feel seen instead of damaged.
He knew the inheritance came with strings he never mentioned, let me fall in love with him while hiding the full picture. I thought I understood the terms of our deal.
I didn't know there was always more—always another obstacle he conveniently forgot to share. Every promise of "after the inheritance" feels hollow now, built on foundations of sand and selective truth. What else hasn't he told me?
Priscilla watches me crumble with barely concealed satisfaction, sipping her jasmine tea like she's observing a particularly entertaining show. She got exactly what she came for—my devastation, served alongside expensive pastries in a restaurant where I'll never belong.
"I should go." I stand abruptly, nearly knocking over my untouched teacup. "Thank you for the tea. For the... information. I hope the wedding is everything you've dreamed of. Excuse me."
I don't wait for her response. I walk through the restaurant with measured steps, refusing to run, refusing to let anyone see me break. The hostess wishes me a lovely afternoon. A waiter asks if everything was satisfactory. I smile and nod and keep moving until I'm through the doors and standing on the sidewalk.
The city continues around me—taxis honking, people walking, the ordinary chaos of a million lives intersecting. I stand shaking in the middle of it, betrayal settling into my bones like ice, so cold it burns.
My phone buzzes.
Maverick. Where are you? We need to talk. It's important. Come to the penthouse.
I stare at the message, at the words that would have made my heart race yesterday. Now he wants to talk. Now, after Priscilla has already delivered every devastating truth he couldn't be bothered to share himself. Now, when I'm standing on a sidewalk feeling like the ground has opened beneath me and I'm falling with nothing to grab onto.
I hail a cab, fury and heartbreak warring in my chest like two armies fighting over scorched earth. The driver asks where I'm headed. I give him the address of Maverick's building, because apparently I'm still making terrible decisions.
At least this one, I'm making with my eyes open.