Chapter Five: The Family Stage
The Carter family's Upper East Side townhouse was a monument to old money, its limestone facade and wrought-iron gates a quiet declaration of power. Inside, the dining room glowed under a crystal chandelier, its long mahogany table set with bone china and silver that gleamed like a promise. Ava Lin sat at one end, her burgundy dress a subtle contrast to the room's opulence, her posture impeccable as she navigated the minefield of small talk with Henry's parents, Edward and Margaret Carter, her own parents, Clara and David Lin, and a handful of investors whose names she'd memorized from Henry's briefing.
Henry sat beside her, his hand resting lightly on the back of her chair—a gesture that looked affectionate but felt like a contract clause. He was in his element, charming the room with anecdotes about Carter Capital's latest ventures, his voice smooth as the aged Bordeaux being poured. Ava played her part, smiling at the right moments, nodding at Edward's boasts about the family legacy, but her mind was elsewhere, replaying the morning in Henry's penthouse, the way his laugh had felt almost… real.
"To Henry and Ava," Edward said, raising his glass, his baritone cutting through the chatter. "A union that will strengthen both our families and redefine the future of American enterprise."
The table echoed with clinks and murmurs of agreement, but Ava's smile tightened. She lifted her glass, meeting Henry's eyes across the rim. He gave her a slight nod, a silent acknowledgment of their shared performance. She sipped the wine, its bitterness mirroring the knot in her chest. This wasn't her world—grand toasts, calculated alliances—but she'd chosen it, for her family, for Lin Ventures, for herself.
Clara, her mother, leaned toward her, her voice low. "You're doing wonderfully, darling. The investors are impressed."
Ava nodded, her expression neutral. "Good to know."
Margaret Carter, elegant in a pearl-gray gown, chimed in from across the table. "Ava, dear, tell us about your work at Lin Ventures. Henry says you're quite the legal mind."
Ava set her glass down, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation away from wedding plans. "I'm currently overseeing our intellectual property strategy," she said, her voice steady. "We're navigating some complex patent disputes with a rival firm. It's challenging, but I enjoy the fight."
One of the investors, a silver-haired man named Richard Hale, raised an eyebrow. "Impressive. Not many women in your position would take on such high-stakes cases. You must thrive under pressure."
Ava's smile was polite but sharp. "Pressure's just part of the job, Mr. Hale. I find it clarifying."
Henry's hand brushed her arm, a subtle signal of support, but she didn't need it. She'd spent years in rooms like this, proving herself to men who assumed she was decorative rather than dangerous. She launched into a brief explanation of her latest case, weaving legal jargon with just enough charm to keep the table engaged. By the time she finished, even Edward Carter was nodding, a rare glint of approval in his eyes.
"Well done," Henry murmured as the conversation shifted to dessert. "You just won over the toughest room in Manhattan."
"Don't sound so surprised," she whispered back, her lips curving. "I told you I don't lose."
He chuckled, but his gaze lingered, and for a moment, Ava felt the air between them shift—less like a contract, more like a connection. She pushed the thought away, focusing on the tiramisu being served. This was a performance, nothing more. But as the dinner wound down, her mind drifted to a memory she'd buried long ago, one that explained why she guarded her heart so fiercely.
Six years earlier, Ava had been twenty-four, fresh out of Harvard Law, living in a cramped Brooklyn apartment with Mark Sullivan, a journalist with a quick smile and a restless spirit. They'd met at a campus lecture, bonded over late-night debates about justice and truth, and fallen into a love that felt like it could conquer anything. Mark was her opposite—chaotic where she was ordered, idealistic where she was pragmatic—but he'd made her laugh, made her believe in something bigger than herself.
Until he didn't.
The fight that ended it was etched in her memory. They'd been in their tiny kitchen, dishes piled in the sink, Mark pacing as he told her about a job offer in Syria, covering the conflict for a major outlet. "It's my chance, Ava," he'd said, his eyes bright with conviction. "To tell stories that matter."
"And what about us?" she'd asked, her voice trembling. "What about our life here?"
He'd looked at her like she was a stranger. "You don't get it, do you? You're so… cold. Always planning, always controlling. I need more than that."
The words had cut deeper than she'd admitted, slicing through the trust she'd built with him. She'd let him go, watched him pack his bags and leave for a war zone, and promised herself she'd never let anyone make her feel small again. Mark had chosen his dreams over her, and she'd chosen her strength over love. It was a trade she'd never regretted—until moments like this, when Henry's quiet warmth made her wonder what she was missing.
Back in the present, the dinner ended with handshakes and promises of future meetings. Ava and Henry stood at the townhouse's entrance, waving as the investors' cars pulled away. Her parents lingered, Clara pulling her into a quick hug. "You were perfect, Ava," she whispered. "This merger will change everything."
Ava nodded, her throat tight. "I know, Mom."
David, her father, clapped Henry on the shoulder. "Take care of her, son."
Henry's smile was practiced. "Always."
As her parents left, Ava turned to Henry, her arms crossed against the autumn chill. "We pulled it off," she said, her voice lighter than she felt. "No scandals, no slip-ups."
"Not yet," he said, his tone teasing but his eyes serious. "You were… remarkable tonight. Hale doesn't impress easily."
She shrugged, deflecting the compliment. "It's just business. Like you said."
He studied her, his expression unreadable. "Is it?"
The question hung between them, heavy with implication. Ava's heart thudded, but before she could respond, her phone buzzed in her clutch. She pulled it out, expecting a work email, but it was a text from Mia: Saw a tabloid piece about you and Henry. They're calling you 'Wall Street's Power Couple.' Watch your back—gossip's brewing.
Ava's stomach sank. She showed the text to Henry, who frowned, his jaw tightening. "Let me handle it," he said. "I'll have my PR team squash any rumors."
"Good," she said, slipping the phone back into her clutch. "Because I'm not here to be tabloid fodder."
He nodded, but his gaze lingered, searching her face. "You okay, Ava? You seemed… distant tonight."
She bristled, her defenses snapping into place. "I'm fine. Just tired of performing."
He stepped closer, his voice low. "You don't have to perform with me. Not when it's just us."
The sincerity in his tone caught her off guard, and for a moment, she wanted to believe him. But the memory of Mark's words—you're so cold—echoed in her mind, reminding her why she kept her walls up. "There is no 'just us,' Henry," she said, her voice steady. "This is a deal. Let's not pretend it's anything else."
His expression flickered—hurt, maybe, or frustration—but he nodded. "Fair enough. Let's get you home."
They rode back to the penthouse in silence, the city's lights blurring past the car windows. Ava stared out, her mind a tangle of past and present. Henry wasn't Mark, but he wasn't hers either. He was a partner, a contract, a means to an end. And yet, as she glanced at his profile, his hands tight on the steering wheel, she couldn't shake the feeling that this deal was starting to feel like something more.