Intimate Mergers

by Raleigh Davis

  Grace. Somehow her name has become a touchstone to me, something I have to internally echo each time I hear it. “I’m giving her a very generous amount of money after this, enough for her to do whatever she wants, even in Beijing.” I adjust my cuffs even though they’re mostly fine. “We’ve run out of options with Immigration. So this is the next best thing.”

  Then why do I feel like such a shit bag about it? Grace is smart, savvy—I didn’t force her into anything. I really did try everything with her visa situation. I’m the fucking nice one around here, the least bastardly of the Bastards. I shouldn’t be feeling like this. I never feel like this.

  “What about the Fuchs thing?” Finn asks. “Did Grace figure out who the mole was?”

  I realize then I have to explain to all of them—except for Finn—about the whole Fuchs thing. “Fuchs contacted Grace, told her he’d fix her visa problems if she’d tell him who leaked all that stuff to Doc and Finn,” I say quickly to everyone. “No”—I look at Finn—“she hasn’t. We’re supposed to meet with him tomorrow, feel him out.”

  “That’s really generous of him,” Elliott says coldly, “considering he’s the source of all her visa problems.”

  I nod tiredly. “Yeah, well, he’s kind of an asshole if you hadn’t noticed. Anyway, if she can give him some names and get him to drop his bullshit, that problem’s solved. But she doesn’t know exactly who it could be.”

  Finn taps his knuckles against the table. “She did suggest Minerva.”

  Elliott laughs at that, a nasty, ugly noise. “Right, because Minerva’s definitely going to turn against her lord and master. Fuck, she worships that asshole. Did you see how she gets off on carrying out his orders, ruining people’s lives when he tells her to?”

  None of us like Minerva, but with Elliott it’s deeper. It’s almost like he can’t forgive her for her role in Fuchs’s schemes. Fuchs he can understand at least—the dude’s a certified sociopath and there’s no reasoning with that—but Minerva at least still seems human, somewhat. Maybe it’s her sadism, cold, clinical, that really hits at Elliott.

  Dev takes a deep breath, steepling his fingers. “It’s interesting that Fuchs—notorious for the control he has over his employees’ lives—seems to have no idea what’s happening within one of his most secure divisions.”

  “Interesting and a definite show of weakness,” I say. “He wouldn’t have come to Grace if he wasn’t desperate and in the dark. That gives her leverage.”

  Dev stares off at nothing for a moment, then suddenly rises. “I have to make some calls.” He leaves without another word.

  We all stare after him, because what the fuck was that?

  “Is anyone noticing that he’s getting…” Logan cocks his head as he searches for the right word.

  “More secretive?” I supply.

  “Colder?” Mark offers.

  “Weirder?” Finn suggests.

  Elliott frowns at the door Dev just shut behind him. “I haven’t noticed anything.”

  Logan sighs in that older sibling way, the one I use with Lucy all the time. “Dude.” The word drips with exasperation and resignation.

  “What?” Elliott’s offended now.

  “Look, as great as this has been”—I shoot back my cuff to check my watch—“I need to get ready for dinner tonight. Hopefully Fuchs will somehow spill everything tomorrow during our meeting and clear all this confusion up for us, just like a villain monologueing in the last act.”

  “Good luck,” Logan says. “With everything.”

  “Punch Fuchs in the balls for me,” Mark says cheerily. “And say hi to Grace.”

  I grab my jacket from the back of my chair. “I can definitely do one of those.”

  “Man, Grace is gonna be so pissed when you don’t say hi to her,” Finn deadpans.

  I sling my jacket over my shoulder and head for the door. I could stay here and trade insults all day, but I’ve got to go see my fake fiancée and tell her hi. Strangely, I’ve kind of missed her today, even after seeing her at lunch and talking with her parents.

  And as enjoyable as punching Fuchs in the balls would be, I’d much rather greet Grace at the end of the day.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It turns out that the “small dining room” is actually bigger than my entire apartment. My old one, not the one Paul is letting me live in.

  “It’ll just be a simple dinner,” Paul had said. “In the small dining room.”

  I should have known that the small dining room in a house like Paul’s would be like something out of the Forbidden Palace. There’s a chandelier and a massive walnut table and servants refilling our glasses and plates before we’ve even noticed they’re low. It’s an intimate luxury, but a luxury nonetheless.

  While this dinner is more intimate than the large, loud gathering last night—it’s me, Paul, his mother, Lucy, and Archie and his wife—the currents of family dynamics I’m swimming through are just as complex. Maybe even more so.

  For example, why is Archie here? He’s not part of the immediate family, and I can tell that Lillian—thinking of her by that name is odd, but I can’t call her “Paul’s mom” all the time—doesn’t particularly like him. She hides it well, but there’s the faintest curl to her lip, a tightness at the edges of her mouth, each time he speaks.

  Mostly he’s been talking about business deals and ideas for investments. I can’t tell if he’s trying to impress Lillian or Paul or if he’s simply making the case that he should have inherited control rather than Paul. I don’t know enough about real estate in Hong Kong to say if his ideas are good or not, but I can tell that Paul’s had enough of it by the time the fish is served.

  I take up the serving fork when the maid comes in, the fish still steaming with heat, offering the fish cheeks to Lillian. She takes them with a brief expression of thanks.

  “Tell us,” I say to her, ignoring Archie’s attempt to keep going about another deal, “how has your trip been so far?”

  Archie has to stop talking unless he wants to insult me. And if Lillian answers, he’ll be insulting her. And if he insults me, he’ll be insulting Paul too. I’m just trying to defuse the tension in the room, but I’m also realizing that as Paul’s fiancée, I have a strange kind of social power.

  And if I’ve violated any unspoken rules by speaking over Archie, they can excuse it due to my mainland upbringing.

  “It’s been cold,” Lillian says, disapproval in her tone. I can’t tell if she’s disappointed in the weather or me, as if I should have done something personally about the cold snap the area’s been having. She sniffs, then takes a bite of fish cheek.

  I catch Paul’s eye from the corner of my gaze, and he’s got a half smile of approval. He quirks his eyebrows once, quickly, when our gazes meet. Thanks for shutting Archie up, his expression says.

  “You came at a bad time,” Paul says mildly. At his mother’s sharp look, he adds, “Weather-wise.”

  “Does your apartment have heat?” she asks me out of the blue. Her expression is so intense I know she’s not asking out of any concern for my comfort.

  “Um, yes.” My cheeks flush as I remember exactly who owns the apartment where I’m supposed to be staying. And who owns the house where I slept last night. If she asks where I live, she might be able to figure out her family owns the building I’m in. That wouldn’t be as bad as her knowing I’m staying in Paul’s house, but it wouldn’t be good.

  “Were you warm enough last night? Because I wasn’t.”

  My mouth almost drops open when she says that. Because… does she actually suspect we stayed under the same roof last night? Is that what she’s getting at?

  Lillian Tsai didn’t make her money by being a fool, but I’m starting to suspect she’s more cunning than I ever dreamed.

  I plaster on an apologetic smile. “Paul, turn up the heat for your mother. That’s what I did last night,” I say to her. “I turned up the thermostat. In my apartment.”

  She must hear the em
phasis I put on my, but she doesn’t react. She makes a noise acknowledging that she heard me, but she’s not going to continue the conversation.

  “Mother, that wing has its own AC and heater and climate control,” Paul says. “If you were cold, you could have done something about it.”

  I can’t tell if Paul suspects what his mother is up to with her line of questions. Or if maybe she’s a touch eccentric and I’m too paranoid about it.

  I serve the fish to the rest of the table, saving Lucy for last. “You’re doing great,” she whispers to me as I lean over her plate.

  “It doesn’t feel great,” I whisper back. Mostly I’ve been quiet while Archie has lectured us. I don’t know that my redirection of the conversation was that successful in the end.

  After I serve myself, I sit back down. There’s a lull in the conversation as everyone starts their fish, and luckily Archie doesn’t seem inclined to fill the silence.

  Underneath the table, Paul brushes my thigh. He doesn’t look at me as he does it, and I’m guessing he meant it as a gesture of support, but my lips throb anyway when he does it. I’ve never been so achingly aware of another person, another body, and my own at the same time.

  He reaches for his wineglass, his fingers elegant but strong, and my own fingers tingle. His throat works as he swallows, and my own throat tightens. His shirt pulls against his shoulders, his body straining the fabric, and my own skin strains to touch his.

  The moment lasts less than two heartbeats, but it turns something in me around, an awareness that completely, fully focuses on Paul and can’t be budged.

  “We’ll go shopping later this week,” Lucy says to me, and I force myself to breathe, to pay attention to her. “The sooner you choose a dress, the sooner the alterations can be done. Really, we’re cutting it very close.”

  She’s leaped too far ahead for me. Surely she can’t mean a wedding gown?

  Oh, but Paul would look devastating in a tux, waiting at the front of a church, the Bastards assembled next to him, his hands clasped and a small smile on his face as he waits for his bride. The image is almost painfully romantic.

  His knee brushes mine, entirely by accident I think, and my heart sighs.

  “Um, what for?” I ask Lucy, telling my silly body and brain to calm the eff down. I’m supposed to be pretending here, not fantasizing.

  “The gala.” She laughs like she finds me too silly for words. I have to smile because she has a compelling laugh. “You’ll need a gown. I ordered mine months ago—they’re flying it in next week. Or at least they should be. Oh, Paul, I’m going to need the plane that week.”

  She’s going to use her family’s private jet to fly in a dress. Right. Of course. “Where… where did you get the dress?”

  I already know it’s going to be Paris or Milan or some European city so trendy I don’t even know it’s trendy yet. Maybe Kiev’s designers have upped their game.

  “From Henri Zidane.” Lucy tosses that off like they’re old friends. I don’t recognize the name, but I’m sure if I picked up the latest copy of Vogue, I’d see him in there. “He’s still deciding what to do now that he’s left Chanel. I keep telling him, ‘Start your own house!’ but he wants to revive some old luxury name. It’s a dream of his.”

  I nod as if that’s a perfectly reasonable dream to have, that all my schoolmates dreamed the same thing.

  Archie’s wife sees her opportunity. “How lovely that he agreed to do it. I was just telling Aja—he took over from Henri,” she says to me, “that I so hope Henri lands on his feet.”

  Lucy tilts her head. “Is Aja doing your gown?”

  “Of course.” Archie’s wife laughs, but it’s nowhere near as charming as Lucy’s. “That’s why I was talking with him.” She turns to me. “I’m sure you’ll find something perfectly… adequate off the rack.”

  It’s clear she intends that to be deeply wounding, but I’m mostly amused. Whatever off-the-rack gown Lucy finds for me is going to be the most expensive item of clothing I’ve ever worn, and I’m perfectly fine with that. “I’m sure I’ll find something I love,” I say. “I’m not picky. For a programmer, buying new sneakers is considered dressing up.”

  That seems to catch his mother by surprise. “You’re a programmer? You make software?”

  I nod. I’m not just your son’s fake fiancée. “I’ve been working in tech since I graduated university. Or before, actually—I got my first job as a coder the summer I turned sixteen.”

  His mother looks impressed by my work ethic, which is why I mentioned it. I wonder nastily for a moment if Amelia has ever had a job in her life. Probably not. And then I feel guilty even though Amelia doesn’t need my sympathy.

  “What exactly are you doing now?” Lillian asks.

  I know better than to detail my long, sad story with Corvus and my current unemployment status. She probably already suspects I’m marrying Paul for his money—no need to have her thinking I’m marrying him for a green card too.

  Not that I’m going to marry him at all. Remember?

  “I’m doing some security work,” I say, which is true. Combing through the leaked files to find the mole is security related. “Mostly involving encryption.” Again true, although the code I’m trying to break is a person’s identity rather than a secret message.

  His mother sits back, her mouth pursing. “Interesting. That’s a rapidly growing market back home. I’ve been considering several options recently in that field.”

  Meaning China is looking to spy harder on its citizens and clamp down on even more information within the country, and several tech companies want to make some money off that. My hands aren’t clean—they never could be since I worked at Corvus—but I still shudder inside. “I imagine you could get a very nice return on your investment with some of those companies,” I say carefully. “But you’d have to consider who you’d be doing business with.”

  Meaning a government that represses its own people, one that doesn’t even consider her country to be independent. To China, Taiwan is a naughty child that will one day get the thrashing it so richly deserves.

  I don’t think Lillian Tsai views her home like that though.

  She nods slowly, wisely. “True. We want to invest with an eye for centuries rather than months. It’s the only way the family will endure.” She shifts, subtly, and suddenly seems older, smaller. “But it will be Paul’s responsibility from now on.”

  Paul meets his mother’s gaze, and he transforms too, his jaw squaring, his chest lifting. He’s turning from a prince into a king, right before my very eyes. “You have nothing to worry about. I know my duty.”

  It’s such a lovely moment, my eyes start to water. Lucy’s mouth is wobbling and she’s blinking, affected by it too.

  And then Archie opens his mouth and ruins it. “We’ll be here to help him too.”

  Paul looks right at me and rolls his eyes. He doesn’t look at his mother or even his sister—he looks at me, shares that emotion with me.

  I smile very sweetly at Paul while addressing Archie. “I know Paul is so relieved to hear that.” I’m amazed at how sincere I sound.

  Archie is convinced by my act—I can tell by the contempt at the edges of his smile. You silly girl, that expression says. “And he’ll have you.”

  “Which I’m very grateful for,” Paul says without missing a beat, taking my hand and running his thumb over my knuckles. The gesture is both possessive and cherishing. I have to forcefully remind myself that it’s fake as hell too.

  “How did you two meet?” Archie asks, like he’s expecting a supercute, superromantic story. But his eyes are sharp.

  Paul looks at me, his expression fond, as if he’s waiting for me to begin a story that’s all too familiar to him.

  “I’m good friends with January Harris,” I explain. “She’s dating Mark, Paul’s partner.”

  No recognition flashes across their faces, and I remember that they’ve never met Mark. I wonder exactly how much about his part
ners Paul’s told his family. I’m guessing not much.

  “Mark Taylor,” I clarify. “At… From their venture capital firm.”

  I was just about to say Bastard Capital when I caught myself in time. I can’t say a word that rude to his mother even if it is the name of the place where her son is a partner.

  “There’s more to it than that,” Paul says. “You’re leaving out all the good bits.”

  Meaning all the details we so carefully worked out together, the ones that were supposed to make our story more believable.

  “Like what?” Lucy demands. She looks between us, and I can tell she wants Paul to pick up some slack and do some telling himself.

  Thank goodness for little sisters who aren’t impressed by their brothers.

  “There was a get-together at the office.” Paul watches me as he speaks. “We’d just finished a very intense, very tricky project, and January and Grace came to celebrate with us.”

  “I didn’t know about this project,” Lillian says. “What was it? Was the deal announced in the financial papers?”

  Paul shakes his head. “It was a few months ago. Very secret. We were worried it would never happen, that we’d fail.” He takes a moment, remembering, but since he’s making all this up, I don’t know what he could be recalling. “But we didn’t, and it was such a triumph and a relief, and then there was Grace.”

  Oh. Oh. He is remembering something real, but it wasn’t a few months ago, it was a few weeks ago. Almost five, actually.

  He’s talking about when they got me out of Corvus. That’s the very first time I met him, saw him. Rescuing me was the thing they were worried wouldn’t happen.

  I was horribly shaken up that night, but I still remember Paul, how struck I was by his presence. And he’s pretending here that he was as impressed by that moment as I was.

  “It was quite an accomplishment,” I say. “And I’m glad I was there to celebrate.”

  We share a brief, secret smile at my little joke.

  “January wanted me to meet Mark,” I say. Which is a lie, because I had no idea at the time who Mark was. I was cut off from everything by Corvus. “So she dragged me along. Mark was nice, of course, but Paul…”