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The pretense of casual interest drops from his face like a mask. "You're more perceptive than I gave you credit for."
"And you're more transparent than you think." I close the portfolio with deliberate calm. "You don't want me for my talent. You want me because he does."
Grant sits back, reassessing me. "Perhaps both are true."
"And you certainly don't care about my sister's talent," I continue, anger simmering just below my professional veneer. "You just want leverage. Another way to hurt Roman through the people connected to him."
"Your sister does have talent," Grant counters. "That much is evident from her work. But yes, the connection to you—and by extension, to Roman—makes her particularly interesting."
"That's despicable," I say quietly.
"That's business." He shrugs, unapologetic. "Roman understands the game we're playing."
"This isn't a game to me," I say, gathering my things. "Or to my sister. We're actual people with careers and aspirations that have nothing to do with your vendetta."
"Everyone's connected to something larger than themselves," Grant says. "The question is whether you recognize those connections and use them to your advantage."
I stand, my decision clear. "Thank you for breakfast, Maxwell. I'll consider your offer."
"Will you?" His skepticism is evident. "Or will you run straight to Roman to tell him everything I said?"
The question stops me short. Because that's exactly what part of me wants to do—to warn Roman, to stand firmly by his side against this strange, calculating man.
But another part—the part still smarting from his presumption that he could direct my professional interactions—bristles at the idea of playing the loyal lieutenant, reporting back to the general.
"What I do with your offer is my business," I say finally. "But know this—if you approach my sister or attempt to use her in any way, our interactions will become significantly less civilized."
Grant's laugh holds genuine amusement this time. "You really are perfect for him, aren't you? That fire, that loyalty, that protective instinct. It's exactly what draws him to you."
"You don't know the first thing about what's between Roman and me," I say, though the words sound hollow even to my ears.
"Don't I?" Grant rises as well, extending his hand one final time. "For what it's worth, I do admire your talent. And myoffer stands, should you decide that a fresh start is worth considering."
I shake his hand briefly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a snub. "Goodbye, Maxwell."
As I walk out of the restaurant into the crisp morning air, his words follow me like persistent shadows. ‘You really are perfect for him, aren't you?’
Am I?
Or am I just repeating past patterns, letting another powerful man define my choices, my future?
The parallels between Camden and Roman aren't completely unfair—both successful, both used to getting their way, both with clear ideas about how things should be done.
But there's a fundamental difference that Maxwell Grant either doesn't see or chooses to ignore. Camden wanted me smaller, quieter, less. Roman wants me bold, confident, more.
The question now is: what do I want? And is it possible to stand with someone without standing in their shadow?
I pull out my phone to text Olivia, knowing I need her clear-eyed perspective before I make any decisions.
Before I see Roman and have to decide what—if anything—to tell him about this meeting.
Breakfast over. Grant as slimy as expected. Offered double salary, tried to leverage Mia, clearly just wants to hurt Roman. Need wine and wisdom. Lunch?
Her response is immediate:
Already ordered pizza and opened emergency rosé. My place at 1. Bring ALL the details.
I slip my phone back into my purse, my mind still churning with Grant's words, with the choice before me, with the realization that whatever "arrangement" Roman and I thought we had has evolved into something far more complicated than either of us intended.