TEST
1251 Words
MAXWELL’S POV
The word sloppy hung in the air like a guillotine blade waiting to drop.
My hand tightened instinctively on Andrea’s waist. I felt her stiffen against my side, her breathing hitching for a fraction of a second. Anger, hot and unfamiliar, flared in my chest.
I was used to Edward tearing into me, I had thirty-two years of practice ignoring his criticisms but seeing him target Andrea, who was only here because I dragged her into this mess, felt different. It felt personal.
I opened my mouth to defend her, to tell the old man that he was being ridiculous, but Andrea beat me to it.
She didn't step back and neither didn't look down at her feet in shame. Instead, she gently pulled away from my grasp and took a small step toward Edward. She held up her left hand, displaying the faint blue smudge near her cuticle that the scrubbing hadn't erased.
"It isn't dirt, Mr. Harrington," she said, her voice surprisingly steady, though I could see the pulse jumping in her throat in nervousness. "It is Cobalt Blue oil paint. It takes days to fade from the skin. It doesn't mean I'm sloppy. It means I work with my hands to create something from nothing. I would think a man who built an empire would respect the concept of hard work."
The silence that followed was deafening.
I stared at her because nobody, I mean nobody spoke to Edward Harrington like that. Not his board members, not his family, and certainly not a twenty-four-year-old student wearing boots she probably bought on sale.
Edward’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her hand, then up to her face. For a terrifying moment, I thought he was going to strike her with his cane.
Then, the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Hard work," Edward muttered, testing the words. "We shall see. Breakfast is served. Do not keep me waiting."
He turned and marched toward the dining room, his cane clicking rhythmically against the marble floor.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and looked at Andrea. She was trembling slightly now that the moment had passed, her adrenaline crashing.
"You have a death wish," I whispered, leaning down to her ear. "But that was impressive."
"I hate bullies," she whispered back, her jaw set tight. "Even rich ones."
"Come on," I said, placing my hand on the small of her back again. "Round one is over. But don't get cocky. He's just warming up."
We walked into the dining room. It was a cold, cavernous space dominated by a long mahogany table that could seat twenty people.
Edward sat at the head, naturally. A terrified member of the kitchen staff had already placed a spread of pastries, fruit, and coffee on the table, but the room felt as appetizing as a funeral parlor.
I pulled out a chair for Andrea to my right, and I sat directly across from her. Edward sat between us at the head, acting as the judge and jury.
"Coffee," Edward commanded.
A maid rushed forward to pour. Andrea took a cup but didn't touch the food. She sat with her back perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap, hiding the paint stain.
"So," Edward began, slicing into a grapefruit with surgical precision. "Rostova. That is Russian, is it not?"
"My father was Russian," Andrea answered. "He died when I was young."
"And your mother?"
"She is American. She... she is retired."
"Retired from what?" Edward pressed, not looking up from his plate. "What is her pedigree? Who are her people?"
"She was a nurse," Andrea said, her voice tightening defensively. "She worked in the emergency room at St. Jude’s for thirty years. She saved lives."
"A noble profession for the working class," Edward dismissed, waving his knife. "And now? Where does she live? The Hamptons? Martha's Vineyard?"
"She lives in Queens," Andrea said. "In the apartment where I grew up."
"Queens," Edward said the word like it was a disease. He finally looked up, pinning Andrea with that icy stare. "So, you are a scholarship student with a dead father, a sick mother living in a rent-controlled apartment, and no assets to speak of. And yet, you managed to catch the eye of the most eligible bachelor in New York City."
I clenched my jaw. "Grandfather, that is enough."
"Is it?" Edward turned his gaze to me. "I am simply establishing the facts, Maxwell. This girl has every reason to target you. She is desperate. You are wealthy. It is a classic predatory equation."
"I didn't target him," Andrea said. Her voice was louder this time. "I didn't even know who he was when we met. I thought he was just another jogger who didn't know how to apologize for interrupting my work."
I suppressed a smile because damn, she was sticking to the script.
Edward turned back to her, his knife pausing mid-air. "Ah, yes. The park. Maxwell told me the fairy tale on the phone. You were sketching. The wind blew. He rescued your paper."
"That's right," Andrea said.
"And when was this exactly?" Edward asked casually. "Three months ago, correct?"
"Yes," I answered for her, sensing a trap. "Early November."
"November," Edward mused. He took a sip of his black coffee. "November in New York can be treacherous. I recall that month vividly because our shipping logistics in the harbor were delayed by a massive storm system."
My stomach tightened as I tried to remember the weather in November. I had been in Tokyo for half the month and I had no idea if it had rained on the Sundays I was back.
Edward leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Andrea. He looked like a wolf circling a wounded deer.
"Tell me, Miss Rostova," Edward said softly. "On that Sunday... the day you claim you met my grandson... were you sketching in oil paints?"
"No," Andrea said, confused. "Charcoal. Oils are too messy for the park."
"Charcoal," Edward nodded. "And you were sitting on a bench?"
"Yes."
"Which one? The ones by the reservoir are metal. The ones by the Great Lawn are wood."
"The reservoir," she said. "I like the water."
"And the weather?" Edward asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Maxwell said he was running. You were sitting. It was the first Sunday of November."
I froze because honestly, I didn't know the answer. If I said it was sunny and it had been raining, he would know we were lying. If I said it was raining and it had been sunny, he would know.
Edward smiled, a cruel, thin stretching of his lips.
"Well?" he pressed. "It is a simple question. It was the day you fell in love, wasn't it? Surely you remember if the sun was shining on your face or if you were huddled under an umbrella."
I looked at Andrea and her face was pale as a white sheet. She looked at me, panic flaring in her eyes for just a second. We hadn't checked the weather reports for November.
We were dead.
Edward chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "Silence. How telling. You don't remember, do you? Because you weren't there."
He slammed his hand on the table, making the silverware jump.
"The truth, Maxwell!" Edward barked. "Now! Before I cut you out of the will entirely!"
I opened my mouth to confess, to tell him to go to hell, but Andrea spoke first.
"It was overcast," she said.
- Writer
