Chapter 28

Cecilia

"Mrs. Ashford." I kept my voice level, professional. "No, not at all. What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to reach out personally to welcome you to Saturday's celebration." Her tone was warm, but there was something underneath it—assessment, maybe. Calculation. "Carter mentioned that Arthur would be bringing you, and I thought it would be nice to connect beforehand."

Translation: she wanted to get a read on me before I showed up at her son's engagement party. Fair enough.

"That's very thoughtful of you," I said carefully.

"I'll be frank, Ms. Locke." The warmth dropped a degree. "The past few weeks have been difficult for everyone in our circle. What happened with William Winston... well. It's been the talk of every dinner party from here to the Vineyard."

"I imagine it has been."

"Arthur is a dear friend to my son. And given everything that's happened, I wanted to make sure you felt welcome at our home. Despite what some people might think or say."

Ah. There it was. The polite warning wrapped in a veneer of hospitality.

"I appreciate that, Mrs. Ashford." I kept my voice pleasant but firm. "And I want to be equally frank with you. I'm not coming to your son's party to cause drama or make a statement. I'm coming because Arthur was invited, and I'm his partner. If people have issues with that, they're welcome to take it up with me directly."

A pause. Then, unexpectedly, a laugh. "Carter said you were direct. I like that. Too many people in our world spend all their time dancing around what they actually mean."

"Life's too short for subtext."

"Indeed." Another pause. "I look forward to meeting you properly, Ms. Locke. And for what it's worth? What you did—standing up to William, taking your rightful place—that took courage. Not everyone appreciates it, but some of us do."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that. "Thank you."

"See you Saturday." She hung up before I could say anything else.

I stared at my phone, trying to process what had just happened. Catherine Ashford—old money royalty, the kind of woman who probably had opinions about which fork to use for which course—had just essentially given me her blessing. Or at least, hadn't threatened to have me thrown out.

My phone buzzed with a text from Arthur: My mother called Carter's mother. Apparently, you're now the topic of "concerned conversation." Fair warning.

I typed back: Just got off the phone with Catherine Ashford. She seems okay with me not being a doormat.

Arthur's response came quickly: That's because Catherine Ashford respects people who don't back down. Unlike my mother, who respects people who know their place.

The bitterness in that text was palpable, even through the screen. I knew Arthur's relationship with Irene was complicated—more complicated than I'd ever fully understand. But seeing it spelled out like that, the contrast between the woman who'd raised him and the world he was choosing to build with me...

We're going to be fine, I texted back. Saturday will be fine. And if it's not, we'll deal with it together.

Together, he confirmed. I'll pick you up at 6 on Friday. Wear something comfortable—we might be at this for a while.

Comfortable and Fifth Avenue don't usually go together.

Trust me.

I set my phone down and looked around my apartment—the space that had become "ours" over the past few weeks, filled with Arthur's coffee mugs and my scattered papers, his expensive suits hanging next to my jeans in the closet. The life we were building, piece by piece, despite everything trying to tear it apart.

Saturday would be a test. Not of whether we belonged together—we'd already proven that, in the server room, in the boardroom, in every moment we'd chosen each other over the easier path. This would be a test of whether we could exist in his world without losing ourselves in the process.

I pulled my laptop back open and returned to the volatility model. The market didn't care about society parties or family drama or the complicated dance of old money politics. It just moved, indifferent and relentless, and either you understood it or you didn't.

Kind of like life, really.

Arthur

Friday evening came faster than I'd expected. But right now, standing outside Ceci's building waiting for her to come down, none of that mattered. What mattered was making sure she had what she needed to walk into that party tomorrow feeling invincible.

She emerged from the lobby in jeans and a blazer, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, looking more like she was heading to a coffee shop than a high-end shopping trip.

God, I loved that about her—the way she refused to perform for anyone, even when the situation might call for it.

"Ready?" I asked as she slid into the car.

"Ready as I'll ever be." She buckled her seatbelt and turned to me. "Fair warning: I have no idea what I'm looking for."

"That's fine. I do."

She raised an eyebrow. "Since when are you a fashion expert?"

"Since I spent thirty-four years watching people use clothes as armor in social warfare." I pulled into traffic, heading toward Fifth Avenue. "You'd be surprised how much you can communicate without saying a word."

"Great. So we're going for psychological warfare chic."

"Something like that." I glanced at her. "But mostly, we're going for 'this is who I am, and I'm not apologizing for it.'"

The boutique I'd chosen was one of those places that didn't advertise, didn't have a sign, and required an appointment made weeks in advance. Fortunately, I'd called in a favor with the owner, who owed me from a business deal years ago.

We were met at the door by Elena, the owner of this boutique, a woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and an even sharper sense of style. She took one look at Ceci and smiled.

"My goodness," Elena said, circling Ceci slowly, her gaze clinical but appreciative.

"Arthur, you didn't tell me she was a natural canvas. Those bone structure, that height, the way she carries herself—" She paused, tilting her head.

"It's rare to see someone who doesn't need the clothes to make a statement. The clothes will simply... amplify what's already there."

I watched Ceci's reaction carefully. She didn't preen or deflect with false modesty like so many women would have. Instead, she met Elena's assessment with that same level gaze she'd used in the boardroom when someone underestimated her.

"That's a generous way of saying I look like I rolled out of bed," Ceci joked.

Elena laughed, delighted. "No, darling. That's my way of saying you have something most of my clients spend millions trying to buy—authenticity."

She gestured toward the interior of the boutique. "Come. Let me show you what I have in mind. By the time we're done, every woman at that party will be asking who dressed you, and every man will be wondering why they didn't notice you first."

"Ms. Locke. Mr. Winston. Please, come in."