90 days probation

"Tell me more," Amara said again, sliding onto the chair beside her mother.

Celeste's smile didn't flicker. "Oh, it's a long story."

"I love long stories. Where did you two meet?"

"At university. Oxford."

"Julian went to Oxford?" Amara tilted her head. "I thought he studied in Boston."

A tiny pause. "He transferred. After the first year."

"Which year was that? I'd love to tell my sister the details. She's a big romantic."

"I don't remember the exact year." Celeste lifted her teacup and, for the first time, actually drank from it. "It was so long ago."

"Of course," Amara said sweetly. "It must have been before you were nineteen, when your father started arranging your marriage. Julian turned you down then, didn't he? Wasn't it ten years ago? That's a long time to remember exactly who you were dating."

The cup stopped halfway to Celeste's mouth.

Amara hadn't planned to say it. It came out of her like a coin she had been keeping in her pocket. Celeste herself had told her, in that hallway, in her own words, that Julian had been refusing her for years.

"That was, ah, a different kind of arrangement," Celeste said.

"I'm sure."

"On and off, I said. It was complicated."

"Mm. Isn't it always?"

Mrs. Bennett's gaze moved between them. She said nothing. She picked up the teapot, topped up Celeste's cup, and said in the gentlest possible voice, "You must be tired, dear. It's late. Let me wrap you some shortbread for the car."

It took Celeste another four minutes to leave. She hugged Mrs. Bennett. She told Amara she was so glad they'd cleared the air. At the door, she turned back and gave a small, wounded little wave that would have fooled a jury.

The bell jingled. The door shut. Silver headlights swept the front window and were gone.

Mrs. Bennett sat very still for a moment. Then she took a cookie off the plate, bit it in half, and said, "I am fifty-three years old, my daughter. I raised two girls in a flour shop. I know when a woman is stirring her tea for an hour without drinking it."

Amara stared at her. "Mama, you knew?"

"I know a liar when she sits at my table. I just wanted to watch you handle her." Her mother's mouth twitched. "You handled her very well. It was educational."

Amara dropped her forehead onto the table and laughed until her ribs hurt.

------

The boardroom on the forty-fifth floor had never felt so cold.

At 8:58 on Monday morning, Amara stood against the back wall in her best navy suit. She was not on the board, not on the agenda, and not technically supposed to be there. But Julian had asked for her, in a text sent at 6 a.m. that said only: Please come. I'd rather have one friendly face.

She'd read it four times before deciding the word friendly was not the one that made her pulse jump.

The table held nine chairs. Eight were filled. Daniel sat near the middle in a charcoal suit, reading his phone with exaggerated boredom. Celeste sat two seats down as the Halloran "observer," pale pink and serene. And at the head of the table, Marcus Webb opened a leather folder and cleared his throat.

"Before we begin," said Webb, "I have a letter of resignation." He glanced at the empty ninth chair. "Mr. Harlan Pierce has withdrawn from the board, effective this morning, citing health reasons."

A ripple went around the table. Daniel's head snapped up. He looked toward Julian with open fury, and Julian, at the far end, turned a page in his notes without looking at anyone.

Ruthless, Amara thought, with something that was half awe and half unease. That's what he does with people who threaten what he has. She watched the line of his jaw, the stillness of his hands, and tried to square it with the man who had held her palm in a dark car on Saturday night.

It was the same man. That was the unsettling part.

"Eight members remain," Webb went on. "The motion before us is whether Mr. Julian Whitlock's conduct falls under clause fourteen of the late Mr. Whitlock's will. Daniel, you may present."

Daniel stood. He was good at this. He laid out the photographs, one after the other, on the polished wood, the New Year's kiss, the sidewalk, the dinner at Bellamy's, with a slow, regretful voice that made it sound like he took no pleasure in any of it.

"I'm not saying my brother is a bad man," he finished. "I'm saying a CEO's judgment is the company's most valuable asset, and his has proven unreliable. A man who dates his employees is a man who can be compromised."

"Is there anything between you and Ms. Bennett?" asked an older woman on the board, adjusting her glasses. Margaret Voss, the chair.

Every head turned toward the back wall.

Amara kept her face perfectly pleasant and her hands flat against her skirt.

Julian didn't look at her. "Ms. Bennett is my employee, and she leads the Halloran account. Our relationship is entirely professional."

Entirely professional.

It was what they'd agreed to say. She knew it was what they'd agreed to say. It was the lie that kept the company safe. But it landed in her chest like a dropped plate, and she was astonished by how much it stung.

"I second that," said Celeste, in her warm, careful voice. She half rose, hand pressed to her heart. "I've spent a great deal of time with both of them these past days. I have seen nothing improper." A tiny, reluctant pause. "Though I do think, for everyone's peace of mind, it might be wise if their contact were more... supervised."

Margaret Voss nodded slowly.

Amara closed her eyes for one second. Nothing improper, but. It was the most elegant knife she had ever seen. Celeste had defended him and cut him in a single breath, and now every person in the room would remember the but and forget the rest.

"We'll vote," said Voss. "All in favor of finding that Mr. Whitlock has violated clause fourteen?"

Four hands rose. Daniel's. Two of his allies. And, to Amara's horror, a gray-haired man near the window who had been smiling at Julian only an hour ago.

Four against Julian, four for him.

"A tie," Webb said. "Under the bylaws, the chair breaks it."

All eyes turned to Margaret Voss. She studied Julian for a long moment, over her glasses.

"I will not remove a man who has just brought me proof of misconduct by one of my own board members," she said at last, "because it would be both hypocritical and stupid." She tapped the table once. "However. Mr. Whitlock, I am placing you on ninety days' probation. One further incident, one photograph, one rumor I cannot disprove, and I will personally sign the order that hands this company to your brother. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Then we are adjourned."

The room emptied slowly. Daniel left first, without a word, with a look at Amara so cold it chilled her through her jacket. Celeste lingered at Julian's side for a minute, murmuring in his ear, and then glided out, squeezing his arm.

Amara waited until the corridor outside the boardroom was empty before she let herself exhale.

She heard their voices before she saw them.

The door to the small conference room next to the boardroom stood a few inches ajar. Julian was inside, and so was Celeste, and Celeste's voice was low and fierce, as if she'd shed a mask.

"They'll be watching you now, Julian. Every move. The only thing that will make Margaret relax is if the press sees you with someone safe." A rustle of silk. "Me. Friday night. The Halloran gala. We smile for the cameras, we're photographed together, and by Monday the world forgets there was ever a girl in green."

A silence followed. It was long, and it hurt.

Then Julian's voice, tired and flat.

"Fine."

Amara's hand tightened on the wall.

She didn't wait to hear the rest. She turned on her heel and walked back down the hall, past the glass offices and the whispering interns, with her face composed and her heart beating hard against her ribs.

It's strategy, she told herself. It's what he has to do. It's what I told him to do, if I'm honest. Be sensible. Be professional.

She was nearly at the elevator when her phone buzzed.

Julian Whitlock: Lisbon launch is Wednesday. Halloran wants everyone there. Ms. Bennett leads the pitch. Pack warm.

A second message arrived almost at once.

I'd like you on the same flight as me. Please.

She stared at the screen. Then the elevator doors slid open, and she stepped in. Daniel stood alone inside, his hands in his pockets, his smile a thin and dangerous thing.

"Lisbon," he said pleasantly. "How lovely. I hear it's beautiful this time of year." He pressed the button for the lobby and glanced sideways at her phone. "I'm coming too, of course. Someone has to keep an eye on the probation."

The doors closed.