[Maverick’s POV]
My grandfather's office hasn't changed in thirty years. Same mahogany desk, same oil paintings of ancestors who probably disapproved of everyone, same leather chair that creaks like it's judging you.
What has changed is Harrison Finley himself.
Sitting behind that desk looking not furious, not coldly calculating, but tired. Genuinely, bone-deep exhausted. That's somehow worse.
"Eighteen months," he says, not looking up from the folder in front of him. "Eighteen months of introductions. Caroline, Sophia, Vivian, Charlotte… Shall I continue, or do you remember all of the women you've systematically driven away?"
"I remember." I keep my voice neutral, my posture impeccable.
Show nothing. Give nothing.
"Do you also remember why we're doing this then, Maverick?"
He finally meets my eyes, and I see something I've rarely seen in Harrison Finley—disappointment that goes deeper than strategy.
"The succession terms are quite clear. You inherit controlling shares of this company when you produce an heir. A legitimate heir, born within a legal marriage. No wife, no child, no inheritance. The board won't bend those rules for you, and neither will I."
"I'm aware of the terms, Grandfather."
"Are you? Because your behavior suggests otherwise." He closes the folder with a decisive snap. "I've spent eighteen months doing the work for you—vetting candidates, arranging introductions, practically gift-wrapping suitable women. And you've sabotaged every single one."
"Charlotte was—"
"Perfectly acceptable," he cuts me off. "Connected family, excellent education, understood the arrangement. And you froze her out like she was furniture. Again. You fought me for years to build Aerospace.”
He continues, driving nails in the proverbial coffin and freezing me with his stare.
“Sat in this office and told me it would be worth billions. That it would employ thousands, that it would mean something… You were right, congratulations. Now you're going to watch Richard Hale sell it for parts because you couldn't stomach a marriage of convenience."
The irony isn't lost on me.
I've been accused of treating women like furniture by a man who treats marriage like a merger acquisition. But I don't say that, I never say what I'm actually thinking to him. I know better than to do something stupid like that.
"I still have two years," I say instead. "The deadline isn't until I'm thirty-one."
"Two years already and no candidates from your side."
Grandfather's voice carries a weight I'm not used to hearing. And I don’t like that.
"I'm done, Maverick. I'm done doing the work for someone who won't meet me halfway. From now on, you find your own bride." He pauses. "Though I still get final approval, of course. That condition remains non-negotiable."
I nod, because what else is there to do? The terms haven't changed—wife and heir by thirty-one, or the company goes to the board's chosen successor. My entire life's work, handed to someone else because I couldn't perform the one task my grandfather considers essential.
No. Fucking. Way.
"Is there anything else?" I ask.
"Just this." He looks at me the way he used to when I was a child who'd disappointed him—which was often. "I wanted this to work for you, I genuinely did. But I can't force you to want it for yourself."
I nod once again and leave his office carrying that disappointment like a physical thing, heavier than any anger he's ever directed at me.
Two years. No candidates. And a pattern of failure I don't know how to break.
The flight to Singapore should be a relief. Six hours of work without interruption, without grandfather's expectations, without the parade of women I'm supposed to want. Instead, my concentration keeps fracturing.
And it's completely her fault. Floris Blossom.
With her ridiculous name and her relentless sunshine energy, moving through the cabin like the laws of physics don't apply to optimistic people.
She's small—almost delicate, really—but she takes up more space than someone her size should. It's the way she moves, I think. All that restless energy contained in a petite frame, brown hair catching the cabin lights every time she turns her head.
She hums while she works—actually hums, like she's in a musical and the orchestra is about to kick in. She rearranges the already-perfect napkins. She adjusts the temperature before I can feel cold.
I catch myself watching her and forcefully redirect my attention to quarterly reports. Revenue projections. Market analysis. Numbers that don't have wide hazel eyes or a scattering of freckles across their nose.
I'm annoyed that I noticed the freckles. I shouldn’t notice the freckles.
"Mr. Finley?"
I look up and there she is—standing beside my seat, holding a small plastic container that definitely doesn't belong to our standard service equipment. Her cheeks are faintly pink, and she's biting her bottom lip in a way that shouldn't be distracting but absolutely is.
"Miss Blossom." I keep my voice level. Professional. "Is there a problem?"
"No! No problem. The opposite of a problem, actually. I just… I made you cookies. As a thank-you, for the Miss Campbell thing. The standing-up-for-me thing. Not that you asked for thanks, but I felt like I should do something and…"
She thrusts the container toward me like it might explode if she holds it too long.
"And I can't exactly buy you a gift because you literally own everything, so I made cookies. In the hotel kitchen, they let me use the oven, which was very nice of them, and I only set off the smoke alarm once. Which I consider a win."
I stare at the container. The cookies inside are slightly uneven, edges a bit burnt, clearly amateur. Nothing like the precise pastries at every business function I attend.
"You made these," I say. Not a question.
"With my own two hands and a questionable amount of chocolate chips. Fair warning—some of them might be more chocolate than cookies. I got a bit enthusiastic, I guess."
I can't remember the last time someone made me something with their own hands. Not purchased, not ordered, not delegated to an assistant. Just... made.
For me.
"Thank you," I say, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears.
Softer than I intended.
Her face lights up like I've given her something precious instead of two words.
"You're welcome! I hope you like chocolate. I assumed everyone likes chocolate, but I realize now that's a very presumptuous assumption. Do you like chocolate, though? Because I can make different ones if you don't—"
"I like chocolate, Miss Blossom."
"Oh, good. That's… good. Okay. I'll just…" She gestures vaguely toward the galley, almost trips over her own feet, and retreats with her cheeks now burning bright red.
I look down at the cookies again.
Uneven. Amateur. Imperfect.
For one unguarded moment, I let myself wonder what it would be like to come home to someone like her. Someone who bakes clumsy cookies and hums while she works and lights up when you say two words that aren't even particularly kind.
Then I crush the thought. Completely. Ruthlessly.
She's not what I need. Not polished, not connected, not appropriate. My grandfather would never approve, and even if he did, she deserves better than becoming another woman I freeze out when the arrangement becomes inconvenient.
Well, not her specifically. Surely.
She’s just an example, a placeholder, if you will.
James appears at my elbow as Floris retreats to the galley, her humming faintly audible even from here. He settles into the seat across from me, glancing at the cookie container, then at my face, then back at the container.
"Don't," I warn.
"I didn't say anything."
"You're thinking it."
"I'm thinking many things." He leans back, arms crossed, wearing that infuriatingly knowing expression and that smile that irritated me even at the high school. "For instance, I'm thinking about how you just watched her walk away for a solid eight seconds."
"I did not."
"I counted."
I return my attention to the laptop screen with more force than necessary, and James doesn't take the hint. He never does.
"You know, the crew's still freezing her out," he says, casual. "Marina's leading the charge, but everyone else follows suit."
My fingers pause on the keyboard. "And?"
"And you've been treating her like furniture for two weeks. What did you expect them to do?"
I did that? I set the temperature, and now she's freezing because of me?
"Good to know," I say, because I don't know what else to say.
James huffs—what else did I expect?—and returns to his own work.
But later, I find myself staring at the empty cookie container and I know I should throw it away. It's plastic, utilitarian, nothing special. There's no reason to keep it.
I set it aside instead.
I'll return it tomorrow. It would be rude not to. Professional courtesy. Nothing more.