Chapter 1 The Lunch Invitation
Amelia Pierce hadn’t planned on stepping foot in Bryson Hearst’s office that day.
But Carl, her husband, had asked her to lunch. “Meet me at my office for lunch. We’ll grab something quick between meetings,” he’d said over breakfast that morning — one of the rare times lately they’d sat together at the same table. His office was in downtown Manhattan.
When she came downstairs, Carl was already in the kitchen, dressed in a blue suit she’d never thought worked for him. The red tie didn’t help — too loud for his usual sleek taste and clashing against the early October light streaming through the wide windows. He stood at the counter with a mug of coffee in one hand, scrolling through his phone with the other, barely glancing up as she entered.
She placed her handbag and phone on the counter, then crossed to make herself a cup of tea. “We got another donation in for the art program this morning,” she said, glancing at the email on her tablet. “That brings us closer to the goal.”
“Good for you,” Carl said without looking up.
She buttered a slice of toast, then pulled the slow cooker from the cabinet and set it on the counter. A cut of beef went in with potatoes, carrots, onions, and broth until the meat was covered. She snapped the lid into place, the gesture practiced and automatic, before reaching for her tea again.
She had barely set the mug down before Carl’s voice came from behind her.
“We’re riding separately today. Ben will take you — he’s your personal driver from here on out.”
Her eyes flicked up, the quick, involuntary disapproval almost as soon as it appeared. But Carl caught it.
She set down the knife she’d been holding. “You have a driver. Why would I need one?”
Carl didn’t look up from his phone. “Because I said so. Ben works for us now.”
The explanation was thin, and Amelia knew it. “Funny… he works for us, but this is the first I’m hearing his name.”
That earned her a glance, sharp and deliberate, before his gaze slid back to the glowing screen. “You’ll get used to him.”
“We always ride together when I have work near your office,” she said, keeping her tone light, though her hands stilled on the plate.
“Meet me at my office for lunch. We’ll grab something quick between meetings,” he said suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
She knew exactly why he’d added it — he’d seen her face. They hadn’t had lunch together in years.
“I’m only headed to the gala venue,” she replied evenly. “Final walk-through before tomorrow night.”
Carl’s smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Then Ben will wait outside and take you wherever you need to go after. I’ll see you at noon.”
The shift in his tone was subtle, colder, and it made her wonder what had triggered it. But she only nodded in agreement, unwilling to start the morning with another sparring match.
By the time she slipped on her camel coat and stepped outside, a sleek black town car was waiting at the curb. The driver stepped out as she approached, mid-forties, neatly pressed in a dark suit, with kind eyes and a posture that hinted at a military past.
“Mrs. Pierce?” he asked.
“Yes,” Amelia said, offering a polite smile as she accepted his hand. “And it’s just Amelia, please. I get enough ‘Mrs. Pierce’ from everyone else.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “Amelia,” he said with a small nod. “Ben. Mr. Pierce asked me to take you wherever you need to go.”
“Thank you, Ben,” she said before sliding into the back seat, the leather cool against her legs.
As the gates of their small estate swung open, she watched the maple-lined streets of their neighborhood give way to the rush of the main road toward Manhattan.
The car glided up the sweeping drive of the Bellamy Grand Hotel, sunlight flashing against its glass façade. Inside, the staff moved like a well-rehearsed orchestra — floral arrangements arriving in tall crystal vases, catering teams in crisp whites adjusting silver chafing dishes, a string quartet running scales in the corner.
Amelia walked the perimeter of the grand ballroom, checking the sightlines to the stage, the positioning of the donor tables, and the placement of the silent auction display. The gala was a little more than twenty-four hours away, and everything had to be flawless.
By the time she stepped back outside, the morning sun was higher, glinting off the polished hood of the waiting car. She slid into the back seat, smoothing her skirt as the door shut behind her.
Carl’s words from breakfast echoed in her mind — Meet me at my office for lunch. We’ll grab something quick between meetings.
It had been years since they’d had lunch together, and she knew the only reason he’d suggested it was because he’d caught the quick flicker of disapproval when he announced they’d be riding separately.
When the car eased to a stop in front of Hearst & Pierce Global, Ben was there to open her door.
The lobby of Hearst & Pierce Global screamed money from the moment she stepped through the revolving doors. Cool marble stretched across the floor in a pristine expanse, polished to a mirror-like sheen that reflected the gold-veined pillars and the massive crystal chandelier dripping from the twenty-foot ceiling. The air was subtly perfumed — not overpowering, just expensive — and the low hum of conversation from sharply dressed executives moving between elevators blended with the faint strains of classical music from hidden speakers. Every detail whispered wealth and power.
Amelia’s gaze found George behind the security desk. He looked up at the same moment, and a slow, warm smile spread across his face.
They’d met years ago, the very first time she’d come to visit Carl here. She remembered him because that visit had started with Carl forgetting to put her name on the visitors’ list. She’d stood right where she was now, pretending to read a sports magazine with a baseball team splashed across the cover — the team favored to make it to the World Series that year — while George worked to get her verified.
He must have noticed the annoyance she’d tried to hide because he’d struck up a conversation to distract her. Told her he and his wife loved that team and were hoping to go to the Series if they made it. She’d asked how long they’d been married, and he’d grinned, telling her they were coming up on their first anniversary — and that those tickets would be the perfect gift.
Now, years later, George’s smile hadn’t changed.
“Morning, Mrs. Pierce,” he said warmly. “Here to see your husband?”
Amelia stepped up to the desk, already half-smiling. “Yes — but I’m guessing I’m not on the list again?”