"I don't know. Who sends a wrapped envelope?" I open it and pull out a thick card with the same scrawled writing. The letterhead makes my throat close.
"It's from Acture Capital."
Victor groans. "Read it."
"Victor. We were both pleased and surprised to hear the news. Congratulations are in order, it seems. To celebrate, you're both welcome to dinner on Saturday the twenty-fourth at the Conways'."
"Who signed it?"
"All three," I whisper. "Tristan Conway, Anthony Winter, and Carter Kingsley."
The partners in his venture capitalist firm, and one of them used to be my boss. I'd worked side by side with Tristan, organizing his inbox, his work schedule, his life.
And now I'm invited to dinner at his place.
"Damn," Victor mutters. "I thought this would be a quiet, private thing. I see now that it's not."
"No," I say. "Doesn't seem like it."
He runs a hand over his jawline. The rain in his hair has started to dry, leaving it a tousled, half-curled, dark blond mess. It's a side of him I've never seen at work. Pissed off, sure. Aggravated, often. But not looking at me with calculation, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to display muscular forearms.
"We can go," he says. "It'll get them off my back, answer some questions, and we won't interact with them and their girlfriends again."
"You want me to come," I say. "To meet your co-founders?"
He nods. "Yes. People know. We're going to have to own it, even if it's not in a big way. You want me to frequent an art gallery, right?"
"Right."
"Well, that'll go over better if we're seen as a couple. You love the art, I'll buy a ton of it to please you."
"Pretend to be a couple," I murmur. "Will Tristan Conway be there? At the dinner?"
His eyes narrow. "Yes. It'll be at his place."
I swallow, meeting the unforgiving gaze. For so long, what I'd wanted was to be brave, to dare, just like these men did. To go after my dreams of running my own company. I've given up ever earning Victor St. Clair's respect.
But I didn't want Tristan Conway to ask me why I'd married his successor and have no answer.
"Will you tell them?" I ask. "About the reason why we married?"
"No. I don't want anyone to know about that apart from us and the staff."
His voice doesn't broker questions. But I'm already sitting on the floor in my old sweaty gym clothes, and he's still here, leaning against the wall like we're hanging out. Any dignity I had is gone.
"How come?" I ask.
He looks from me to the line of gifts that litter the floor, sweeping his gaze from one to the next. "I don't want anyone to know my grandfather wrote a clause like that into the will."
"Oh," I say. "I understand."
He clears his throat and pushes away from the wall. "Take what you want from all of this up to your room. Throw out the rest."
"I'll donate what we don't want," I say. "Bonnie and I are writing thank-you notes tomorrow. Do you want-"
"No. Sign them for me."
"Will you come into the office? When Miss Fleming's replacement starts."
"You're asking me to train your new assistant? And attend a dinner with your co-founders, pretending I'm now your wife."
Ice-cold blue eyes meet mine. "You are now my wife."
"The point still stands, though. You're raising the requirements."
His eyes narrow. "Yes, I am."
"Then you're going to have to up your ante."
"Fine," he says. The word is spoken through clenched teeth. "I'll give you my entire Sunday to work on your start-up. Give me everything you have so far and I'll give you my thoughts."
"Thank you," I say. "That will be perfect."
He tosses back the rest of his beer and turns to the kitchen. "Wedding gifts," he mutters. Then his eyes snag on the console table. "Why the fuck is there a glass dick on my hallway table?"
The house is empty and quiet, just like it had been when its occupant was still alive. But it hadn't been this dark.
I look at the windows on the second story, and even up to the small, round one in the attic. All dark.
I spin the key around in my hand once, twice, before taking the steps up the old porch. The door creaks when it opens. I can't remember it ever doing that before. There'd been a time when Grandfather would call Stanley's name at the top of his lungs and the door'd be fixed in thirty minutes. Or, if Stanley had the day off, he'd march off to the gardener's shed himself to get the oil.
Now the house smells dusty and shut-in. The bank hasn't been here to keep the place clean and aired, and no wonder. Why would they?
I turn on the lights as I go, walking past the double-staircases in the hallway and into the dining room. The giant table is empty. We'd once been many people around it on the holidays, but when I lived here, there had been only me and him.
I make my way upstairs and pass the room that had been mine without looking inside. The door to his study is half-open, the way he liked to keep it. Half-open to let people know they could come in if they needed to talk to him. But half-shut to signal it would be preferable if they didn't.
That was one of the many business and life maxims he liked to spread around him, always told in the same crusty voice, damaged from a life of whiskey and smoke. He'd let those tidbits drop like jewels, expecting me to treasure them. To live by them.
I push the door open and turn on the lights.
His office looks as it did the day we read the will. The giant oak desk in the middle of the room with the leather inlay, the bookshelves that line the walls. Two large windows open up to the giant oak trees on the property, clothed now in darkness.
I run a hand over the desk's surface. The jade ashtray is empty. It would have had half-smoked cigars in it had he been here.
I look at the drawers in the desk. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe… I pull one open at random.
Papers are neatly stacked inside. His handwriting is unmistakable. Lists. Lists of everything, and for everything, as was his way.