The next forty-eight hours were a whirlwind of conflicting currents. Britney felt like she was standing at the confluence of three raging rivers, each threatening to pull her under.
The first was work. The Verity acquisition was accelerating, and Klaus's directive meant she was now looped into emails far above her pay grade, her carefully drafted footnote included in the latest version of the agreement. Higgins's responses to her were now icily formal, a stark contrast to the barely-veiled contempt he'd shown before. She'd earned a sliver of respect, or at least, a healthy dose of fear.
The second current was the Finch family. James's assistant had indeed texted the details for the dinner party. The address was a legendary building on Fifth Avenue. The dress code was "Black Tie." The event screamed old money and exclusivity. Every instinct told her it was a terrible idea, a viper's nest hosted by the man who might be her father and the woman who had raised his enemy. Yet, the pull was magnetic. How could she not go?
The third, and most confusing current, was Klaus Smith. His "car will pick you up" email played on a loop in her mind. It wasn't a request. It was a decree. He was orchestrating her entrance into his world with the same detached efficiency he managed a corporate takeover.
The immediate problem, however, was practical. The gala was before the dinner party. And as Serene's text had so cheerfully pointed out, she had nothing to wear.
During her lunch break, fueled by a strange mix of defiance and desperation, she found herself in a department store she'd only ever walked through to get to the subway. The evening wear section was a forest of silk, chiffon, and price tags that made her student loan debt look like a rounding error.
A sales associate with impeccably coiffed hair and a judgmental eyebrow glided over. "Can I help you, miss?" The question dripped with polite skepticism.
"I need a dress. For the Metropolitan Museum gala," Britney said, trying to project a confidence she didn't feel.
The associate's eyebrow lifted another millimeter. "I see. Our collection this season starts around four thousand. Will that be suitable?"
Britney's stomach dropped. Four thousand dollars. For one dress. It was more than her rent. She was about to mutter an apology and flee when a familiar, cool voice cut through the perfumed air.
"She's with me."
Britney turned. Klaus Smith stood there, looking utterly out of place amidst the racks of finery. He was on his phone, but his eyes were fixed on the sales associate, who had instantly transformed from a hawk into a startled sparrow.
"M-Mr. Smith! Of course, sir. My apologies, I didn't realize…"
"Clearly," he said, his tone flat. He ended his call and slipped the phone into his pocket. His gaze swept over Britney, taking in her overwhelmed expression and the terrifying price tag she was clutching. "You're attempting to solve the wrong problem, Carter."
"The problem is a dress code, sir," Britney replied, her cheeks flushing. "I'm solving it."
"No. The problem is navigation. You don't storm a beach without a map." He turned to the now-terrified associate. "Find Ms. Laurent. Tell her Klaus Smith requires her services. Immediately."
The associate scurried away. Britney stared at him. "Ms. Laurent?"
"A stylist. She understands the… topography of these events. The right designer, the right cut, the right message." He looked at her again, this time his assessment was purely strategic. "You are attending as a representative of Titan Global. Your appearance will be scrutinized. It must convey competence, not aspiration. Confidence, not desperation."
This was why he was here. Not to rescue her, but to ensure his asset was properly equipped. It should have felt cold. Instead, it felt like a lifeline.
"The dinner," she blurted out, before she could lose her nerve. "At the Finches'. This weekend. James Finch invited me."
For the first time, a flicker of genuine surprise crossed Klaus's features. It was there and gone in a nanosecond, replaced by a sharp, calculating intensity. "Did he." It wasn't a question. He processed this new intel with terrifying speed. "Your social capital is appreciating faster than anticipated."
"I don't know if I should go," she admitted quietly, the words feeling like a dangerous confession.
"Why wouldn't you?" he asked, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world. "It's a superior tactical position. You gain intelligence on your opponent on her home turf. James Finch doesn't invite junior employees to his home. His interest in you is significant. You will go."
He made it sound so simple. A move on a chessboard.
A petite, sharply dressed woman with kind eyes and a measuring tape around her neck appeared—Ms. Laurent. "Klaus, darling! You never call me for yourself. This must be the poor lamb." She smiled warmly at Britney. "Don't worry, dear. We'll have you sorted. Let's find you something that says 'future CEO,' not 'first-time guest.'"
Klaus gave a curt nod. "Bill Titan." He turned to leave, his part in this bizarre intervention complete.
"Mr. Smith," Britney called after him. He paused. "Thank you."
He didn't smile. But his gaze held hers for a beat longer than necessary. "Don't thank me. The bill for the dress will be added to your internship program. Consider it an interest-free loan against your future… performance."
And with that, he was gone, leaving her with the best stylist in the city and a debt for a dress that cost more than a car.
An hour later, Britney stood in front of a three-way mirror. She barely recognized herself. The dress Ms. Laurent had chosen was deceptively simple: a column of deep emerald green silk that clung to her frame without being overt, its only detail a single, dramatic drape over one shoulder. It was elegant, powerful, and utterly unlike anything she had ever owned.
"It's perfect," she whispered.
"It's armor, darling," Ms. Laurent corrected gently, pinning the hem. "Just like he said. Now, shoes. Jewelry. We're not done yet."
Later that evening, her phone buzzed. It was Klaus.
KS: Laurent's selection?
BC: Emerald green. She called it armor.
KS: Adequate.
A pause. Then another message arrived.
KS: The Finch dinner. You'll need a cover story. A reason for the invitation that isn't James Finch's unexplained interest.
BC: I was planning to say we discussed publishing law at the meeting.
KS: Weak. He's a publisher, not a lawyer. You're a corporate intern, not a literary agent.
BC: Do you have a better suggestion?
KS: Yes. You'll tell them you're accompanying me.
Britney stared at the screen. Accompanying him? To a dinner at her… at the Finches'?
BC: I thought the gala was the work event.
KS: The gala is business. The dinner is a deeper level of reconnaissance. My presence provides plausible deniability for James's invitation and limits Serene's ability to attack you directly. She's less likely to poison the champagne if I'm holding the glass.
The logic was impeccable. Cold, calculating, and utterly brilliant. He wasn't offering to be her date. He was offering to be her shield. Her heavily armed, terrifyingly effective shield.
BC: I see. Thank you.
KS: Don't thank me. I have a vested interest in ensuring my new legal analyst isn't socially assassinated before she can prove useful. The car will pick you up at 7 for the dinner as well.
Legal Analyst. Not intern. The title change was noted, another promotion earned in a text message.
Britney put her phone down, her head spinning. She looked at the gorgeous, terrifying dress hanging on her closet door. She had an armor for the gala. And for the dinner, she had something far more potent: Klaus Smith himself.
For the first time since seeing that DNA result, she didn't feel like she was drowning. She felt like she was learning to swim with sharks. And she had just been paired with the deadliest one in the ocean.