Page 129 of Cakes for the Grump

Luke spots my expression and whispers in my ear, “It’s a Joseph Stalin quote. He’s being sardonic.”

I still don’t get it, but cover it by taking a sip of my drink.

“You two are very different,” says a man with a long pale face and closely cropped brown hair. He’s the CEO of the fourth largest shipping facility in the world and eyeing me with green, unimpressed eyes. They flick between Luke and me. Me and Luke. Is this a cataloging of differences? Brown skin. White skin. Poor. Rich. Punjabi. Caucasian.

“Share with the class. How did you meet?” he demands.

“During volunteering,” says Mr. Duncan, answering for me.

“Ahhh,” a few people say as if that explains it.

I don’t know how that explains it.

“Love is lucky.”

That’s the matriarch of Intel speaking, Agatha Cox. She’s seated beside me, dressed in satin. Her jewelry and hair match in their slight off-whiteness. Despite the sunken wrinkles around her eyes, her pupils have distinct luster. There is deep intelligence there. A grandma who looks like she’s earned her life and still has machinations up her sleeves.

“Actually, the real proposal was rather sweet,” I tell her. “It was intimate. The two of us. Nothing loud, no frills. He wrote me a letter because he wanted to make sure he said everything the right way. Because otherwise he was afraid he wouldn’t get it right, too overcome with emotion. I would share the words but?—”

“It’s private, I understand.”

“How’s your evening going? I’m glad we got to sit together.”

“Coincidentally, I’m sure.” When I don’t agree or disagree, she laughs. “I know what your fiancé is trying to get done. He’s got some nerve going behind the back of his board.” Her finger plays on the rim of her wineglass. “Let’s see how that turns out.”

Luke is occupied by another conversation. He’s left me alone with this one, trusting me to handle it even though my mouth feels too big for me. Ill-fitted to this dinner. Ill-fitted to this task. Ill-fitted to this conference. “If there is anything you would like to discuss, I am here.”

“I like your dress. Good posture.”

It’s supposed to be a compliment, but why do I weirdly feel like she’s telling me I’m an artifact, some anthropomorphized object sitting on a podium?

The lunch ends too shortly after that for me to recover.

Afterward, the troops convene back in the war room for a little reprieve. I tell everyone how Agatha Cox is aware of our plans.

“I expected as much,” says Mr. Duncan. “She may be the symbolic head, but she’ll also feel the squeeze if we get others in the family to flip.” He turns to Luke. “The rest of the people from Intel have arrived. I’ve pulled ties so you’ll have face time with them in fifteen, and I’ve found you another supporter from the inside. The niece. She’s our safe hands to land this whole thing. Get ready. Now is when we hit them.”

Orders are given. We’re marching soon to the next site of attack.

Before I leave the room, Luke touches my elbow.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m here for you. I believe in you. You’ve got this.”

“You’re preten?—”

Mr. Duncan pokes his head back in the room. “We can’t keep them waiting. This is your window.”

I squeeze Luke’s hand and tug him outside. It’s time.

The niece—Vistoria Cox—has a quaint, literary name, so I’m subconsciously expecting a mousey or eccentric woman. That’s not true at all. She’s a bombshell with skin as smooth as the inside of a seashell. If I met her on the street, I would think a movie star is walking around in the real world without bothering to disguise themselves. She has shapely curved lips, clear blue eyes, and blonde hair that rolls down her back like a multi-hued golden waterfall. Cliché metaphor, but so apt.

She leads us into the gardens, a developed circular field next to a duck pond surrounded by soaring forestry. Lounge chairs are set up under a veranda, but most of the Intel people are standing and chatting with each other. I expect to see catering staff amble around here too with drinks and food, but there are none. We’re safe from any eyes or ears overhearing the conversation.

Vistoria is our guide, making introductions. Agatha is there, alongside her two sons, Victor and Vincent. I spy a naming pattern, but don’t allow myself to be amused by it. There are far too many nerves snapping around inside me to be distracted.

“Your accent is barely there, Ms. Singh.” Vincent drums his fingers on the flat of his stomach. “I’ve visited India numerous times, but can hardly hear it from your voice.”