Chapter Six: Ghosts and Gossip
The rain-slicked streets of Manhattan glistened under the streetlights as Henry Carter sat in the back of his chauffeured car, his phone glowing in his hand. The text was simple, almost innocuous, but it hit him like a punch: Hey, Henry. I'm in town for a while. Can we grab coffee? —Sophia.
He stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the reply button. It had been a week since the gala, since Sophia Gray had walked back into his life like a melody he'd forgotten the words to. Her message shouldn't have rattled him—he was engaged, even if it was a sham, and his life was a carefully constructed machine of ambition and control. But Sophia wasn't just a memory; she was a crack in that machine, and he wasn't sure he could seal it shut.
The car pulled up to his Tribeca penthouse, and he slipped the phone into his pocket, unresolved. Inside, the apartment was quiet, the city's hum muted by soundproof windows. Ava was there tonight—one of her contracted "two nights a week" to keep up appearances. He found her in the living room, curled up on the couch with a glass of red wine and a legal brief, her hair loose and her glasses perched on her nose. She looked softer here, less like the fierce lawyer who'd dominated the Carter family dinner and more like… someone he could know.
"You're late," she said without looking up, her pen scratching notes in the margin. "Board meeting run long?"
"Something like that," Henry said, loosening his tie as he crossed to the bar to pour himself a scotch. "You're working late too. That deposition keeping you up?"
"Always," she said, setting the brief down and adjusting her glasses. "But it's under control. What about you? You look like you've seen a ghost."
He froze, the glass halfway to his lips. "Just a long day," he said, deflecting. "You ready for tomorrow? The Met's fundraiser is a big one. Press will be there."
Ava's lips quirked, but her eyes were sharp. "I read the brief your PR team sent. Smile, hold your hand, laugh at your terrible jokes. I've got it covered."
"My jokes aren't terrible," he said, settling into an armchair across from her. "And you're getting good at this. Almost too good."
She raised an eyebrow, sipping her wine. "Careful, Carter. That sounds like a compliment."
"It was," he said, his voice quieter than he intended. For a moment, they held each other's gaze, the air between them charged with something unspoken. Ava broke it first, looking back at her brief.
"Get some sleep," she said. "We've got a show to put on tomorrow."
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was a spectacle of wealth and culture, its Great Hall transformed for the fundraiser with cascading floral arrangements and soft golden lighting. Ava stood beside Henry, her navy silk gown hugging her curves, a single diamond pendant at her throat catching the light. They moved through the crowd like a well-rehearsed dance, his hand on her lower back, her smile warm but calculated. Photographers snapped their every move, and Ava felt the weight of their lenses, the pressure to be perfect.
"Henry, Ava, over here!" a reporter called, her voice cutting through the chatter. "How's the engagement going? Any wedding plans yet?"
Henry fielded the question with ease, his arm slipping around Ava's waist. "We're taking it one day at a time," he said, his tone smooth. "Right now, we're just enjoying this moment."
Ava leaned into him, her smile radiant. "Couldn't have said it better," she added, her voice carrying just enough warmth to sell the lie. The reporter beamed, scribbling notes, but Ava caught a whisper from a nearby group of socialites: "They're perfect, but is it real? I heard she's just in it for the merger."
Her smile didn't falter, but her grip on Henry's arm tightened. He glanced at her, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if sensing her tension. "Ignore them," he murmured as they moved toward the bar. "Gossip's just noise."
"Easy for you to say," she replied, keeping her voice low. "You're used to this. I'm not."
He ordered two champagnes, handing her a flute. "You're doing fine. Better than fine. Those vultures don't know what to make of you."
She took a sip, the bubbles sharp on her tongue. "Good. Let them stay confused."
But the whispers followed them, fueled by a tabloid piece Mia had warned her about. The headline—"Wall Street's Power Couple or Corporate Ploy?"—had been tame compared to the speculation inside, hinting at a loveless arrangement driven by money. Ava had brushed it off, but standing here, under the scrutiny of New York's elite, she felt exposed, like a fraud in a designer dress.
As they mingled, Ava's gaze caught a familiar figure across the room. Sophia Gray, in a flowing black dress, her blonde hair swept up, talking animatedly with a group of art patrons. Ava's stomach tightened, and she glanced at Henry, who hadn't noticed yet, his attention on a conversation with a museum trustee.
"Henry," she said, her voice low. "Your 'old friend' is here."
He followed her gaze, and for a split second, his expression betrayed him—surprise, longing, regret. Then the mask was back, his jaw set. "She's on the museum's artist committee," he said, as if that explained everything. "It's not a big deal."
"Right," Ava said, her tone dry. "Just like her texting you isn't a big deal."
Henry's head snapped toward her. "How did you—"
"I saw your phone this morning," she said, cutting him off. "You left it on the counter. I wasn't snooping, but 'Sophia' isn't exactly a subtle name."
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "It's nothing, Ava. She just wants to catch up."
"Then catch up," she said, her voice sharper than she intended. "But don't expect me to play the oblivious fiancée while you're chasing ghosts."
She turned away, heading for the bar to compose herself, but Henry caught her wrist gently. "Ava, wait."
She stopped, looking back at him, her eyes fierce. "What, Henry? You want to talk about her now? Here?"
He released her, his voice low. "I'm not chasing anything. Sophia's in the past. You're my partner now."
"Partner," she echoed, the word tasting bitter. "Not your lover, not your friend. Just a signature on a contract. Let's keep it that way."
His eyes darkened, but before he could respond, Sophia approached, her smile tentative but warm. "Henry, Ava," she said, her voice soft. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You're not," Ava said, her tone polite but cool. "Just catching up on business."
Sophia's eyes flickered to Henry, then back to Ava. "You two make a striking couple. The papers can't stop talking about you."
"Papers love a story," Ava said, forcing a smile. "Even if they have to make it up."
Sophia laughed, but there was an edge to it. "True. Well, I'll let you get back to it. Henry, let me know about that coffee?"
He nodded, his expression neutral. "Sure. I'll text you."
As Sophia walked away, Ava felt a pang she couldn't name—jealousy, maybe, or just frustration at being caught in a game she hadn't chosen. She turned to Henry, her voice low. "If you're meeting her, keep it discreet. I'm not here to clean up your messes."
He met her gaze, his voice steady. "I don't make messes, Ava. And I meant what I said. You're my partner in this."
She wanted to believe him, but the memory of his face at the gala, the way he'd looked at Sophia, lingered like a bruise. "Prove it," she said, then turned to rejoin the crowd, her head high, her heart unsteady.
Later that night, back at the penthouse, Ava stood on the balcony, the city sprawling beneath her. The fundraiser had been a success—no major gaffes, no damning headlines—but she felt drained, the weight of their charade heavier than ever. Henry joined her, his jacket off, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
"You were incredible tonight," he said, leaning against the railing. "Even with the vultures circling."
She didn't look at him, her eyes fixed on the skyline. "I'm tired, Henry. Tired of smiling, tired of pretending, tired of wondering what's real."
He was quiet for a moment, then said, "I know it's not easy. But we're in this together."
"Are we?" she asked, turning to face him. "Because it feels like I'm playing a role you wrote, while you're still stuck on a script from ten years ago."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't deny it. "Sophia's not part of this, Ava. She's just… a memory."
"Then why does she keep showing up?" Ava asked, her voice softer now, almost vulnerable. "And why do you look at her like she's the one who got away?"
Henry didn't answer right away, his gaze drifting to the city. "Because she was," he said finally, his voice raw. "But that doesn't mean I want her back. It just means I'm human."
Ava's chest ached, but she nodded, stepping back. "Good to know. Just don't forget who's standing in front of you."
She turned to go inside, leaving him on the balcony, the weight of his admission hanging between them. This was a deal, she reminded herself, a contract. But as she closed her bedroom door, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was starting to care—a dangerous mistake she wasn't sure she could undo.