OVERCAST
1470 Words
ANDREA'S POV
"Overcast," Edward repeated, the word rolling around in his mouth like a bitter olive.
He didn't look convinced. He looked like a prosecutor who had just found a hole in a witness's testimony.
"Is that so? My logs from the shipping company indicate there were high winds and scattered showers. Hardly ideal sketching weather."
My heart was hammering against my ribs, but I forced my hands to remain still in my lap. I thought back to every Sunday I had spent in the park. I went there every week, regardless of the weather, because it was the only place in the city where I could breathe for free.
"It was windy," I said, my voice gaining strength. "And the air was damp, which makes the charcoal adhere differently to the paper. But it wasn't raining. The sky was a flat, slate grey. Artists call it 'cloudy bright' lighting. It diffuses the shadows, making it perfect for portraiture because you don't get harsh contrast on the faces. If it had been sunny, I wouldn't have been sitting on that specific bench because the glare off the water would have been blinding."
I looked Edward straight in the eye.
"I remember exactly what the sky looked like, Mr. Harrington," I said softly. "Because it was the same color as Maxwell's eyes when he stopped to hand me my paper."
Under the table, Maxwell’s knee bumped against mine. It was a jolt of electricity that traveled up my thigh.
"She's right," Maxwell said smoothly. He reached across the table and covered my hand with his. His palm was warm, his fingers strong and reassuring. He gave my hand a squeeze, a signal. "I remember thinking she was insane for sitting out there in that wind without a proper coat. That was actually my opening line, Grandfather. I asked her if she was trying to catch pneumonia or if she just hated warmth."
Edward looked at our joined hands and looked back at the way Maxwell was leaning toward me, his body language protective and open. He looked at me, waiting for a c***k in the veneer.
But I didn't c***k. I looked back at Maxwell and offered him a small, shy smile, the kind a woman in love would give her partner when they shared a private memory.
"And I told you that art requires sacrifice," I murmured to Maxwell.
Maxwell smiled back. It was a dazzling, devastating smile that didn't reach his eyes, but it looked genuine enough to fool the devil himself. "And then I bought you coffee to warm you up. And you critiqued the foam art for twenty minutes."
Edward stared at us for a long, agonizing moment. The only sound in the room was the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.
Then, Edward grunted.
"Hmph."
He picked up his fork and stabbed a piece of melon.
"Well," Edward said, chewing slowly. "It seems you have a memory for detail, Miss Rostova. That will serve you well if you intend to survive in this family. We do not tolerate forgetfulness."
I let out a breath, feeling my shoulders drop an inch. We had done it. We had passed the test.
"Eat," Edward commanded, waving his fork at my untouched plate. "You look anemic. I won't have the press saying we starve our women."
I picked up a croissant, though my stomach was still twisted in knots. I forced myself to take a bite. It tasted like butter and victory.
The rest of the breakfast passed in a blur of mundane interrogation. Edward asked about my classes (he scoffed at Art History), my living situation (he grimaced at the mention of Queens), and my plans for the future (he nodded approvingly when I mentioned I wanted to open my own gallery one day, calling it "an acceptable hobby for a wife").
Maxwell held my hand the entire time. He ate with his left hand so he didn't have to let go of me. It was a performance, I knew that. It was part of the contract. But every time his thumb brushed over my knuckles, I felt a strange flutter in my chest that had nothing to do with fear.
Finally, Edward dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin and threw it onto the table. He pushed his chair back and stood up. Maxwell and I immediately stood up as well, like soldiers snapping to attention.
"This has been... illuminating," Edward said. He grabbed his cane and adjusted his cuffs. "You are rough around the edges, Miss Rostova. You lack polish. You lack connections. But you seem to possess a backbone. My grandson needs a wife who won't crumble the first time the market dips."
"Thank you, sir," I said.
"Do not thank me yet," Edward snapped. "I have not given my blessing. I am merely suspending my disapproval."
He walked toward the door, but stopped just before he reached the archway. He turned around slowly, a gleam of malicious amusement in his eyes.
"There is one more thing," Edward said. "Tonight is the Harrington Foundation's Annual Charity Ball. It is the biggest event of the season. Every major investor, partner, and rival will be there."
Maxwell stiffened beside me. "Grandfather, that's too soon. Andrea isn't ready for a press line of that magnitude. We need more time to prepare."
"Nonsense," Edward waved his hand dismissively. "If she is to be your wife, she must be introduced to society. You will bring her tonight. Seven o'clock. The Plaza Hotel."
Edward’s gaze slid to me, his eyes narrowing.
"And do make sure you dress appropriately, my dear," he said, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "Isabella Vance is on the planning committee. She will be there. And I imagine she will be very eager to meet the woman who stole her fiancé."
My blood ran cold as the name Isabella washed over me. The woman Maxwell was supposed to marry. The woman who was perfect, sophisticated, and rich.
"Isabella is a spirited young woman," Edward added, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "She does not lose gracefully. I suggest you wear armor under your gown, Miss Rostova. You are going to need it."
With that, Edward turned and walked out. The rhythmic tap, tap, tap of his cane faded down the hallway until the elevator doors chimed and closed.
The silence that rushed back into the room was heavy and suffocating.
Maxwell let go of my hand instantly. He walked to the table, picked up his coffee cup, and downed the rest of the black liquid in one gulp. He slammed the cup back onto the saucer with a loud clatter.
"Dammit," Maxwell cursed, running a hand through his hair. "He just couldn't make it easy, could he?"
I stood there, feeling the cold air where his hand had been. "Isabella Vance. That's the ex, right? The one you were supposed to marry?"
"She isn't my ex," Maxwell said grimly. "We never dated. It was a business arrangement. But in her mind, she has already picked out the china patterns for our wedding. She thinks she owns me."
He turned to look at me, his face was hard, the playful partner from breakfast gone, replaced by the ruthless CEO.
"Edward is right about one thing," Maxwell said. "Isabella is dangerous. She is petty, vindictive, and she has the entire social elite of New York wrapped around her finger. Tonight, she is going to come for you."
"Great," I muttered, hugging my arms around myself. "So I survived the shark just to be thrown into a tank of piranhas."
Maxwell walked over to me, reached out and tilted my chin up so I had to look him in the eye. His expression was intense, serious like that off a boss, or dare I say a soldier.
"Listen to me, Andrea," he said. "Edward tested you to see if you were smart. Isabella will test you to see if you break. She will insult you. She will try to humiliate you. She will probably spill red wine on whatever dress you wear."
"I can handle a stain," I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. "I'm a painter. I live in stains."
"It's not about the dress," Maxwell said. "It's about the territory. She sees me as her property. And tonight, you have to walk into that ballroom and prove to her, and everyone else, that you are the one who owns me."
He dropped his hand and stepped back, pulling his phone from his pocket.
"Go find Leo," Maxwell ordered, already typing a message. "Tell him to call the stylist. We need a dress that screams 'war'. Because tonight isn't a party, Andrea. It's a battlefield you will have to fight with all you have”
- Writer
