"okay"...
The word hung between them, fragile as glass. Okay.
Lysander didn't smile, didn't look triumphant. He simply gave a sharp, businesslike nod, as if she'd agreed to a minor clause in a contract.
But the relief in his eyes was a stark, bright flash, there and gone so fast she might have imagined it.
"Sebastian will handle the logistics. We leave first thing in the morning.
The press conference is scheduled for 10 a.m." He was already pulling out his phone, his mind racing ahead to the next tactical move.
"Wait," Evie said, her voice stronger now, finding its footing on this new, treacherous ground.
A deal was a deal, and she would be damned if she didn't negotiate its terms. "Not so fast. We do this my way."
His thumb paused over the screen. He looked up, a flicker of impatience in his gaze. "Your way?"
"My way," she repeated, crossing her arms. "First, the children do not come. They stay here with Maya.
Your security protects them, but no one from your team interacts with them. They have been through enough."
He considered this, then gave a curt nod. "Agreed."
"Second, we are not 'joyfully navigating' anything. We stick to the barest facts. We confirm the children's existence.
We state that we are working together to ensure their well-being and privacy. We ask for the media to respect that. No gushing. No lies. And you will not refer to them as your 'heirs' or any other corporate-sounding term. They are children."
A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he nodded again. "Fine."
"And third," she said, stepping closer, her eyes locking with his. "When this is over, when the story dies down, you and I will have a real conversation.
A long one. About everything. The past. The future. No lawyers. No bodyguards. Just us."
This gave him pause. The CEO mask slipped, revealing the wary, wounded man beneath. A conversation meant vulnerability.
It meant answering for the past five years. It was a greater risk for him than any press conference.
"Just us," he finally echoed, the words a quiet concession.
"Those are my terms," she said, holding her ground.
He watched her for a long moment, a new, grudging respect in his silver eyes. She was no longer the terrified woman from the penthouse or the furious mother from the living room. She was a strategist, protecting her own.
"Accepted," he said.
The deal was struck.
The night was a whirlwind of silent activity. Sebastian and Lorna coordinated with a quiet efficiency that was both impressive and unnerving. A small suitcase was packed for Evie.
Sebastian had somehow procured a simple, elegant, navy-blue sheath dress and a pair of heels, along with a change of clothes. It was tasteful, appropriate, and felt like another uniform.
Evie spent the evening with Leo and Luna, her heart breaking as she fabricated a half-truth.
"Mommy has to go back to the city for one day," she said, sitting on the floor of their pillow fort. "To talk to some people so that the men with the cameras will go away."
Leo's eyes, so like his father's, were filled with a deep, unsettling understanding. "Is the castle man making you go?"
"No, baby," she said, pulling him close. It wasn't entirely a lie. She had chosen this. "We're… we're going to fix this together. So we can all be safe."
Luna clung to her neck. "I don't want you to go."
"I'll be back before you know it," Evie whispered, kissing her hair, breathing in her scent. "Auntie Maya will be here, and you can have pancakes for dinner."
It was a weak bribe, but it earned her a small, wobbly smile.
She didn't sleep. She lay in her bed, listening to the sounds of the house, of her children breathing, memorizing it.
She was about to step onto the world's stage and perform the role of a lifetime: the contented, unified partner of Lysander Crowe. The thought made her stomach churn.
At 5 a.m., she kissed her sleeping children goodbye, her throat tight. Maya gave her a fierce, wordless hug at the door. "You can do this," she whispered. "For them."
Evie nodded, unable to speak, and walked out into the cool, pre-dawn mist.
The black SUV idled in the lane. Lysander was already inside, staring at his tablet, the blue light etching harsh lines on his face.
He glanced up as she slid in beside him, his gaze sweeping over her simple dress and flat shoes.
"The dress is for the conference," Sebastian said from the driver's seat. "It will be delivered to the hotel."
They drove to the airstrip in silence. The flight was silent. He worked.
She stared out the window, watching the patchwork of Maine forests and coastline shrink beneath them, replaced by the sprawling, gray enormity of New York.
A car was waiting on the tarmac. It didn't take them to a hotel, but to a sleek, anonymous skyscraper in Midtown.
A private elevator whisked them directly to a penthouse apartment different from the first, but just as cold and impersonal. This was clearly a corporate bolt-hole.
Waiting for them was a team of three people: a stern woman with a razor-sharp bob and a tablet, introduced as his PR director, Olivia; a jovial-looking man who was his stylist; and a retired news anchor hired as a media coach.
For the next two hours, Evie was processed.
The stylist did her hair and makeup, his touch impersonal, transforming her from a weary mother into a polished, poised accessory.
The media coach drilled her on talking points, on how to sit, where to look, how to keep her voice steady.
"Stick to the script," Olivia instructed, her voice crisp. "Maintain eye contact with Mr. Crowe.
A slight, soft smile. You are a united front. You are private people thrust into the public eye, appealing for understanding."
Through it all, Lysander observed, occasionally interjecting with a correction. "Less 'navigating,' more 'focused on their well-being.'"
He was in his element, micromanaging every variable.
Finally, they were declared ready. The stylist handed Evie the navy sheath dress and the heels. She changed in a sterile bedroom, the fabric feeling like a costume. When she emerged, Lysander was waiting by the door, dressed in a flawless charcoal-gray suit.
He looked her up and down, a critical, assessing glance. "You look…"
He trailed off, and for a second, the professional detachment in his eyes wavered.
Something else flickered there, a spark of memory, of recognition. It was the same look he'd given her on the rooftop a lifetime ago, just before he'd kissed her for the first time.
"You look appropriate," he finished, the moment gone, his mask firmly back in place.
Appropriate. Not beautiful. Not strong. Appropriate.
The word was a bucket of cold water. This was a transaction. She was a prop.
Sebastian opened the door. "The car is ready. The press pool is assembled downstairs."
Lysander offered her his arm. It was a gesture for the cameras, a part of the performance.
After a heartbeat's hesitation, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. His forearm was rock-hard beneath the fine wool of his suit.
His touch was both familiar and alien, a ghost from the past and a brand from the present.
It sent a confusing jolt through her system, a treacherous mix of revulsion and a long-buried, undeniable electricity.
"Remember," he murmured, his voice for her ears only as they stepped into the elevator. "United front."
The doors slid shut, descending toward the storm of flashing lights and shouted questions. Evie tightened her grip on his arm, her knuckles white.
She was walking into the lion's den, arm-in-arm with the lion himself.