The First Meeting

Chapter 2: 

The silence in David Loriss’s office stretched too long.  

Jennifer stared at the photo under his hand. It was unmistakable. Her dad’s crooked grin, the way her mum’s arm was slung around his shoulders, the cake with “Happy 10th, Jenny” smeared in blue icing. She hadn’t seen that photo since the funeral. Her aunt said it was lost in the fire. 

But there was no fire.  

David moved his hand. Not enough to let her take it. Just enough to say he knew she’d seen. 

“Explain,” she said. Her voice came out steadier than she felt. 

“Personal matter,” he replied. “Irrelevant to the contract.” 

“Irrelevant?” She set the pen down. “You’re hiring me to pretend to be your wife. I think my dead parents showing up on your desk is relevant.” 

David leaned back. For the first time, he actually looked at her. Not through her. At her. 

“You look like her,” he said quietly. 

“Like who?” 

“Your mother.” 

Jennifer’s chest tightened. She hadn’t heard that in years. The last person who said it was her dad, right before he strapped her into the back seat of the car. 

“Sign the contract, Ms. Benz,” David said, sliding it back. “We don’t have time for this.” 

“What if I don’t?” 

“Then you go back to scrubbing dogs and waiting for Ravenna to sell the last of your inheritance.” 

Her breath caught. He knew about Ravenna. About the company. About everything. 

“How—” 

“My legal team does background checks. Standard procedure.” He stood, signaling the meeting was over. “You have five minutes to decide. After that, I contact the next candidate.” 

Jennifer’s eyes dropped to the contract. £500,000. Two years. A way out. A way back.  

And a man who knew things he shouldn’t. 

She picked up the pen. 

“I want it in writing that you’ll answer one question about my parents after the engagement is announced.” 

David’s jaw tightened. “No negotiations.” 

“Then no signature.” She pushed the contract back. 

For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Irritation. Or maybe respect.  

“One question,” he said finally. “Written. After the press conference. Not before.” 

Jennifer signed.  

The pen felt heavier than it should have.  

---

David’s driver dropped her at a boutique in Mayfair an hour later. 

“Mr. Loriss said to get you fitted for the press conference,” the driver said, holding the door open. “Don’t argue. He hates being kept waiting.” 

Jennifer walked into a store where a single dress cost more than her monthly rent. Three women in black blazers descended on her immediately. 

“Ms. Benz?” the lead woman asked. “I’m Elise. We have 90 minutes.” 

She was measured, prodded, zipped into a navy dress that felt like it cost more than her entire wardrobe. The fabric was silk. It slid against her skin like water. 

“You have good posture,” Elise said, pinning the hem. “Most girls come in slouching. You’ve had to carry things, haven’t you?” 

Jennifer didn’t answer.  

When she stepped out of the dressing room, Elise nodded once. “Perfect. David will approve.” 

“David?” Jennifer frowned. “I thought he was Mr. Loriss.” 

“Not to me,” Elise said with a small smile. “I’ve been dressing him since he was 22.” 

Jennifer didn’t ask what that meant. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.  

---

The press conference was held in Loriss Corp’s main hall. Cameras, reporters, microphones. David stood at the podium in a tailored suit, looking bored and dangerous.  

When Jennifer walked in on his arm, the room went quiet. 

She looked good. Too good. The navy dress hugged her frame, her hair was down in soft waves, and Elise had done something with her eyes that made them look bigger, sharper.  

David’s hand at her lower back was warm. Professional. Not intimate. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the microphone. “This is Jennifer Benz. My fiancée.” 

Flashbulbs exploded.  

“Mr. Loriss, is this a love match?” a reporter shouted.  

“Ms. Benz, how did you meet the CEO?” another called.  

“Any comments on the merger with Argent Industries?” 

David answered none of them. He just smiled—cold, practiced—and said, “Thank you. No questions.” 

He led her off the stage before she could panic.  

In the private elevator, the second the doors closed, he let go of her.  

“You did well,” he said. 

“That was terrifying,” she said honestly. 

He glanced at her. “You didn’t freeze. Most would have.” 

“Should I be flattered?” 

“Be prepared,” he said. “Carmilla Darko just posted a photo of you scrubbing a dog on I*******m. Caption: ‘Some people never change.’”

Jennifer’s stomach dropped. Carmilla. Of course. 

David watched her face. “Can you handle it?” 

“I can handle Carmilla,” Jennifer said. “She’s predictable.” 

“Good,” David said. “Because she’s not the only one who’ll come for you now.” 

---

Back at his penthouse, David handed her a tablet.  

“Your new identity. Bank accounts, credit cards, ID. All legal. All under Jennifer Loriss.” 

Jennifer scrolled through it. The numbers were absurd. 

“You don’t trust me with the real one?” she asked. 

“You’re not ready for the real one,” he said. “Not yet.” 

“What does that mean?” 

He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked to his desk and opened a drawer. He pulled out a manila folder and set it in front of her. 

“Your question,” he said. 

Jennifer opened it. Inside were copies of emails. Dated two weeks before her parents’ accident. Between her father and David’s father. 

Subject: _Final Terms – Benz-Loriss Partnership_  

The emails were cordial. Professional. Until the last one.  

_We need to meet in person. This isn’t safe over email. If they find out, we’re both finished.  

— R. Benz_  

Jennifer’s hands shook. 

“What does ‘they’ mean?” she asked. 

David closed the folder. “That’s your one question.” 

“That’s not an answer!” 

“It’s all you get for now.” He stood. “The penthouse is yours while we’re engaged. Don’t go into the east wing. Don’t touch my safe. And don’t fall for me, Ms. Benz. Clause 7 still applies.” 

He left her standing there with a folder full of lies and a contract that felt like a noose. 

---

That night, Jennifer couldn’t sleep. 

She lay in the guest bedroom, staring at the ceiling, the tablet’s glow illuminating her face. £500,000. A chance to sue Ravenna. A chance to find out what really happened to her parents. 

But David was hiding something. Something big. 

She got out of bed and walked to the door. The hallway was silent. The penthouse was too big, too empty. 

She wasn’t supposed to go into the east wing.  

Of course she went. 

The east wing was darker. Quieter. At the end of the hall was a door made of solid oak. No handle. Only a keypad.  

Jennifer reached out, then stopped.  

A sound. Footsteps.  

She turned.  

David stood there in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, hair damp like he’d just showered. He looked younger. Dangerous. 

“What are you doing?” he asked. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said. 

He stepped closer. “You’re not supposed to be here.” 

“Neither are you,” she shot back.  

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them felt charged, like before a storm. 

Then David’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his expression hardened. 

“Get back to your room,” he said. “Now.” 

“Why?” 

“Because Harry Argent just posted your address online.” 

Jennifer’s blood ran cold. 

David was already moving, pulling out his phone, barking orders into it. 

“Get security on the building. Now. And find out how he got it.” 

Jennifer stepped back. Her hands trembled. 

“Why would he do that?” she whispered. 

David looked at her. For the first time, he didn’t look cold. He looked worried. 

“Because he wants you,” he said quietly. “And he knows I can’t let him have you.” 

He grabbed her arm and pulled her back toward the bedroom. 

“Stay inside. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.” 

“What about you?” 

“I have to deal with this,” he said. “And Jennifer—” 

He stopped. 

“What?” 

“Don’t open that door in the east wing,” he said. “Not yet.” 

He left, and the sound of his footsteps echoed down the hall.  

Jennifer stood alone in the dark, her heart pounding.  

On the floor outside the east wing door, a single white envelope had been slipped under it. 

No name. No return address.  

Just one line typed in black ink:  

*If you want to know how your parents really died, open me.*