Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
I step inside. It feels like I’ve just entered the gates of hell. Dark wood. Heavy doors. The scent of scotch clings to everything.
He’s seated behind the enormous mahogany desk.
I hate it in here. It’s always cold and dark. And honestly scary.
A chill runs down my spine.
He doesn’t need to gesture, because I know the drill.
Not my first rodeo…
Like the obedient daughter I am, I sit.
Back straight. Hands folded.
The perfect daughter. Or whatever version of that he’s rewritten in his head.
He eyes me for a long moment, sipping from his glass, gaze moving over me.
“There’s an important dinner tonight,” he says.
My spine tightens. “Yes, sir.”
He nods once. Slowly. Too slow for my liking.
“Not just important. Pivotal.”
I stay quiet. My pulse doesn’t.
He leans back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid.
“You’re old enough now to understand the pressure this family is under. The world is changing. Markets are unpredictable. And the competition is more cutthroat than ever.”
Translation: Profits are down, and the empire is crumbling.
“Yes, sir,” I say again, quieter.
He sets the glass down with a dull thud.
“Our biggest competitor is arriving tonight for dinner. Jameson & Company. We’ve danced around each other for years, but now... we may need to lie in bed with them.”
I blink.
“Lie in bed?” I echo, my brows lifting.
He gives a humorless smile.
“It’s a metaphor. Though, in this case, not entirely.”
Something in my stomach twists.
“Their son will be attending,” he adds, casual, like he’s inviting me to tea with a dead man.
I say nothing. My silence does the screaming for me.
“He’s older. Polished. Runs the financial side of their business. Doesn’t suffer from your generation’s sensitivity issues.”
“Meaning?” I ask, throat dry, voice steady only because I’ve been trained to make it so.
“Meaning he’s not afraid of hard work. Or difficult women.”
I flinch.
Just slightly.
He clocks it. Of course he does.
“You’re going to be seated next to him. I expect you to smile. Be gracious. Charming. The future of this business may very well rest on your ability to be likable.”
My nails dig into my palms.
So that’s what this is.
A trade.
My freedom for the business.
“Of course,” I manage, voice calm despite the way my insides scream.
He stands and moves toward the bar in the corner, refilling his glass like it’s water. Ice clinks. His shoulders stay relaxed, like he didn’t just seal my fate.
“Don’t give me that look,” he says.
“What look?” I tilt my head, letting my hair fall over one shoulder.
“Like you have thoughts.”
“I do have thoughts.”
He laughs. “You’re a Danforth, Victoria. It’s time you started acting like it. Stop thinking.”
I rise slowly from the chair.
My knees shake beneath my skirt, but I don’t let it show.
He returns to his desk, already dismissing me with the tilt of his head.
“Wear the blue dress. The one that makes you look softer.”
“Yes, sir.”
I walk out before I say something that burns the whole house down.
My hands are trembling as I close the door behind me.
But my back stays straight.
Because tonight, I will smile.
And tomorrow, I will find a way to never need this man again.
The day turns into night way too fast.
And before I know it, I’m sitting at the long formal table, hands in my lap, pretending to be something I don’t want to be. The dining room has never felt more like a courtroom.
I sit at the long, polished table, blue silk clinging to my skin like a bribe. My father’s voice echoes through the vaulted ceiling as he laughs.
The sound bounces off every surface of the room. Vibrating off chandeliers and dishes like he’s the most important person in the world.
The guest of honor tonight is Richard Jameson, the man my father has spent years calling an arrogant, shortsighted bastard. Now he’s grinning like they're old college roommates.
Next to Mr. Jameson sits his son.
Grant.
Grant Jameson is all teeth and entitlement. A few years older than me. Impeccably dressed. Expensive watch. Dead eyes.
He’s seated to my right, of course.
Where else would the future bargaining chip go?
Dinner starts with wine. Grant pours one for me before I can protest, leaning in so his cologne almost suffocates me.
“You clean up nice,” he says, smirking, eyes dragging slowly over my dress. “Your father said you were pretty. He undersold it.”
I grip the stem of my glass. Smile. Don’t scream.
“How generous of him,” I say, voice sweet as poisoned honey, turning my head just enough to slice him with a look.
“I always appreciate an obedient daughter,” he adds, loud enough for both fathers to hear, his tone smug and performative.
My father lets out a chuckle.
“She can be a handful,” he says.
My skin crawls.
Luckily for me, the conversation is cut short when the first course is served.
However, it’s fleeting as Grant shifts closer. His knee brushes mine.
I move. He follows.
“So,” Grant says, voice casual as his hand lands on my thigh beneath the tablecloth, “you planning to work for the family empire, or just marry into one that can keep up?”