Chapter 2: The Crack In the Armor

POV : AUDREY 

I spent the next three weeks pretending the photo at the St. Regis gala was a minor media blip.

When reporters cornered me at Vogue’s spring preview, I laughed and called it a business misunderstanding. When my mother asked if the wedding was still on, I gave her a calm, rehearsed smile and reassured her that the Bridgerton-Cross merger was stronger than ever.

I told everyone what they wanted to hear. But deep down, I was counting the red flags like landmines.

"You're paying more attention to that iPad than your bride, Carter."

My mother’s voice broke through the silence of the private bridal suite at Bergdorf Goodman. I stood on the raised wooden pedestal in a hand-stitched Vera Wang gown, the train trailing ten feet behind me like a silver waterfall.

Carter was slumped on the velvet couch across from me, his eyes glued to his phone screen, thumb scrolling rapidly.

"I’m monitoring the European market, Eleanor," Carter said without looking up. "Belmont Logistics just opened their secondary trade route in Hamburg. If I don't sign this contract with Chloe’s father before Friday, we lose the exclusivity rights."

"Your wedding is in seven days," I said, my voice dangerously level as the seamstress pinned the lace around my waist. "You missed our final menu tasting on Tuesday. You skipped the rehearsal walk-through with the officiant yesterday. And now you’re doing corporate negotiation in my dress fitting."

Carter finally lowered his phone. He looked at me, but his eyes were flat, devoid of the warmth he used to fake so well when we first started dating.

"The menu is fine, Audrey. You have great taste, pick whatever you want," he said, rising from the couch. He adjusted his jacket, completely ignoring the sharp look my mother shot him. "I have to take this call in the hall. Mr. Belmont is on the line."

He didn't wait for my response. He walked out of the suite, the heavy glass door clicking shut behind him.

My mother let out a sharp sigh, crossing her arms over her Chanel tweed suit. "Audrey darling... are you sure about this? A man who is distracted a week before his wedding is a man whose priorities are somewhere else."

"He’s ambitious, Mom," I said, staring at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. "You always said ambition was the most important quality in a Cross."

"Ambition is fine," she replied coldly. "Greed is different. And right now, Carter looks hungry for something that isn't you."

Before I could answer, my phone buzzed on the nearby vanity table. I stepped down from the pedestal, careful not to trip on the lace, and picked it up.

It was an unknown number.

I unlocked the screen and opened the text message. It contained a single high-resolution image: Carter’s silver Aston Martin parked in the private garage of the Baccarat Hotel. Attached was a brief timestamp from two hours ago, during the exact window Carter had told me he was stuck in an emergency board meeting.

My thumb hovered over the screen. Then another message popped up from the same number:

He’s playing a game he can’t win, Audrey. Check his calendar for next Thursday.

I knew that tone. I didn't need a caller ID to recognize the arrogant, calculated precision behind those words.

Xavier.

My chest tightened. I locked the phone and slid it under my robe on the vanity table, turning back to the mirror before my mother could notice the shift in my posture.

"Unpin me," I told the seamstress softly. "We're done for today."

An hour later, I stood outside Carter’s corner office on the top floor of the Cross Enterprises tower in Midtown.

The floor was quiet. Most of the executive staff had already gone home for the evening, but the dim ambient light from Carter’s office spilled out into the marble hallway.

I didn't knock. I pushed the double frosted-glass doors open and stepped inside.

Carter was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, a glass of crystal scotch in his hand. Sitting in the plush leather armchair across from his mahogany desk was Chloe Belmont.

She was wearing a emerald-green silk dress that looked far too cocktail-ready for a corporate office at eight in the evening. Her legs were crossed carelessly, a folder of legal documents resting on her lap.

When the door opened, neither of them jumped. Chloe simply turned her head, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her painted lips.

"Audrey," Chloe purred, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "What a surprise. We were just wrapping up the final clauses for the Hamburg logistics integration."

"It’s late, Chloe," I said, ignoring her entirely as I walked straight up to Carter’s desk. "And Carter has a dinner with my father in thirty minutes."

Carter took a slow sip of his scotch, his expression hardening. "I canceled dinner with your father an hour ago, Audrey. I told your secretary."

"You canceled on my father?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave. "We’ve had that dinner scheduled for three months to review the Bridgerton family trust contributions to the wedding."

"Business comes first," Carter said flatly. "Mr. Belmont made it clear that if we don't finalize the terms tonight, he’s taking the Hamburg contract to another firm. I don't have time to sit through a three-hour dinner talking about wedding centerpieces."

Chloe let out a soft, delicate laugh from the armchair. "Don't be so hard on him, Audrey. A multi-billion-dollar expansion requires sacrifice. You should be proud of how dedicated your fiancé is to his future."

I turned my head slowly, looking Chloe dead in the eye.

"My fiancé’s future is tied to mine," I said, my voice cold enough to freeze the air in the room. "And unless you want your father’s logistics company dragged through a public audit regarding your offshore holding accounts, I suggest you pick up your folder and leave this office."

Chloe’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, her blue eyes flashing with sudden anger. She looked over at Carter, waiting for him to defend her.

Carter frowned, stepping away from the window. "Audrey, that’s enough. You don't speak to my business partners like that."

"She isn't your partner, Carter," I said, leaning over his desk, my hands planted flat on the dark wood. "She’s a distraction. And you’re too blind to see it."

Chloe stood up, smoothing down her silk dress with slow, deliberate movements. She picked up her leather handbag, casting a lingering, possessive look at Carter before turning to me.

"I’ll leave you two to settle your marital disputes," Chloe said softly, leaning close as she passed me. "But remember, Audrey... a contract is only as strong as the man who signs it."

She walked out, the soft click of her red-bottom heels echoing down the corridor until the heavy doors shut behind her.

The silence between Carter and me was suffocating.

"You made a mistake coming here tonight," Carter said, tossing the rest of his scotch back. "You humiliated me in front of a client."

"You humiliated me at the Baccarat Hotel two hours ago," I shot back, stepping around the desk.

Carter froze, his glass stopping halfway to the desk surface. "What are you talking about?"

"I know where you were, Carter," I said quietly. "I know who you were with. You have six days until we walk down the aisle at St. Patrick’s. If you think I’m going to stand at that altar while you play house with Chloe Belmont in luxury suites, you have severely underestimated me."

Carter’s eyes narrowed, his posture shifting into something cold and menacing. He walked up to me, standing so close I could feel the heat radiating off his chest.

"Listen to me carefully, Audrey," Carter whispered, his voice dark. "You are a Bridgerton. Your family needs this union just as much as mine does. You will wear that dress, you will walk down that aisle, and you will smile for the cameras. Because without the Cross name behind you, your father’s firm collapses in six months."

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear with a fake softness that made my skin crawl.

"Don't threaten me again," he added softly. "You have nowhere else to go."

He grabbed his suit jacket from the rack and walked out of the office, leaving me alone in the dark room overlooking the city lights.

My hands were shaking, but not from fear. From rage.

I reached into my purse, pulled out my phone, and opened the message thread from the unknown number.

I need to talk to you, I typed.

The reply came back in less than five seconds.

Meet me at the Roof of the Peninsula Hotel. In 20 minutes.