Chapter 68 The Brunch
The Winslow-Vance Thanksgiving brunch was less a celebration and more a geopolitical summit dressed in festive linen. We were deep inside the baroque splendor of the venue, and the sound of polite, elite Bostonian chatter washed over me like a suffocating wave. I wore my cranberry-colored sheath dress like a uniform, the perfect accessory to Rhys Vance’s tailored composure.
Standing beside Rhys, I felt the phantom pressure of his hand on my back, the one that had steered me away from Damon only an hour earlier, his silent promise of corporate and personal ruin still chillingly fresh in my memory. We were the perfect pair: the engaged power couple, gliding from one well-wisher to the next, while beneath the surface, a private nuclear war was brewing.
My mother, Cass, was weeping quietly into a silk handkerchief across the room, watching us with a look of pure, unconditional happiness. Next to her, Helena, Rhys’s mother, was discussing the logistics of our future life with the focused intensity of a military commander planning an invasion.
“Ellie, honey, you look magnificent,” Cass murmured when they finally cornered us, her voice thick with emotion. “That veil of my grandmother’s… it’s meant for you. This whole thing, it just feels so right. You deserve this stability, darling.”
“And Rhys, we are going to make this wedding seamless,” Helena announced. “You both just focus on your careers. We will handle the logistics. No stress, just joy.”
No stress? The irony was a physical weight on my chest. I couldn't bear their genuine affection, because it was built on a foundation of lies and fueled by a transaction that had escalated into emotional blackmail.
I scanned the room, desperate for a point of stability, and found my brother, Owen. He was pressed into a corner, looking like a bomb disposal expert trying to decide which wire to cut. He was the one who feared chaos, and our sudden, convenient engagement was the ultimate destabilizing force in his life.
“Rhys, we need a tactical withdrawal,” I murmured into his ear, relying on the private language of our arrangement. “Owen looks like he’s about to demand a peer review of your intentions.”
“Agreed. He’s two questions away from demanding my financial statements,” Rhys said, his voice low and practiced. He was so adept at switching between personas—the devoted fiancé, the corporate handler, the indifferent lover.
When we reached Owen, he immediately demanded reassurance. “You and I both know… what she needs. Are you taking this seriously? Are you absolutely sure this is solid, and you’re not going to hurt her?”
Rhys, ever the professional, gave Owen the assurance he needed, bypassing the truth but delivering the required emotional outcome. “Owen, look at me. I am not going anywhere. I am committed. I know exactly who Ellie is, and I know exactly what I’m doing.”
It silenced Owen, but the moment was fleeting.
Then, the inevitable peak of the event: the toast. Helena tapped her glass.
“To Rhys and Ellie!” she announced, beaming. “To the beautiful future and the generations of little Winslow-Vances who will only ever know peace and pride!”
The room erupted. The word generations hit me like a physical blow. I met Rhys’s eyes over the cheering heads, and in that single, shared glance, the façade cracked. All the public charm vanished, replaced by a pure, paralyzing jolt of mutual terror. We were utterly, irrevocably trapped.
Rhys pulled me into a genuine hug, burying his face near my ear, and I felt the vibration of his desperate, fearful plea: What have we done?
I clung to him, offering a sharp, silent intake of breath. We had started this as a simple contractual arrangement, and it had somehow morphed into an emotional tsunami that was about to drown us both.
“More champagne,” I muttered, pulling back from Rhys with a manufactured look of calm composure. I needed to escape the sheer gravity of his presence.
We moved away from the main cluster of guests toward a quieter alcove near the coat check. The moment we were out of earshot, the air thickened. Rhys didn't even pretend to search for a glass. His expression was granite-hard.
“We need to discuss the new parameters of our arrangement,” he said, his voice clipped and precise, entirely devoid of warmth. This wasn't about the party; it was the final, devastating confirmation of his threat from earlier. “The last three days have proven the volatility of our personal boundary. It complicates the mission, and it introduced a vulnerability you cannot afford right now. The night we spent together was a failure of focus, a tactical miscalculation—a mistake. It will not be repeated, and it must not influence our professional conduct.”
A mistake. Not a moment of connection. Not even a simple lapse. Just a mathematical error in the elegant equation of our contract.
The word was like a physical strike. He had not just rejected me; he had classified the most intimate thing we had shared as a liability, an anomaly to be corrected. The humiliation was overwhelming, instantly replaced by a cold, searing intellectual fury. He had used my deepest professional commitment—the need to solve the deepfake threat—as a weapon to enforce his control. Now, I would prove to him that my volatility was not a vulnerability, but a weapon of my own.
“Duly noted, Rhys,” I said, my voice dangerously even, like perfectly stilled water before a tidal wave. “A mistake. An outlier that will not be factored into future projections. Boundary restored. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I need to find a new factor to stabilize my emotional calculations.”
I turned, ready to execute my newly revised strategy. Rhys’s threat to expose our relationship to my family and jeopardize the sabotage investigation had been his final move to assert control. My countermove was to prove his possessiveness was a greater threat to the façade than my independence ever could be.
I walked directly to the bar, ignoring Rhys’s tightening posture. I didn't stop there. I continued my path, scanning the room until I spotted the one person whose presence would violate every boundary Rhys had just imposed, both unspoken and shouted: Damon Hayes.
Damon was exactly where I had left him before Rhys dragged me away: near the window, talking to a nervous-looking Owen. He was the perfect, uncomplicated, and tactile anti-Rhys.
I approached them with a blindingly brilliant smile, moving with the deceptive ease of a predator. “Owen, darling, save me from the endless discussions of venture capital and second mortgages. Damon, you’re still here! I thought Rhys’s cold efficiency would have driven you straight back to the firehouse.”
Damon smiled easily, his gaze warm and direct. “Couldn’t miss a chance to catch up with Owen. And I hear your dissertation is a beast. You’re close, right?”
“Tantalizingly close,” I said, and this time, I ignored Owen completely, placing my hand deliberately back on Damon’s thick forearm—exactly where I had placed it before Rhys's interception. I let my fingers trace a line of appreciation, holding his gaze while keeping my peripheral vision fixed on the one man whose composure I was determined to shatter.