Chapter 8: The Only One Brave Enough
1725 Words
Maren stared at the competition packet on her desk.
Around her, the applause continued with suspicious enthusiasm.
Her coworkers looked relieved enough to have survived a natural disaster.
“You’re all terrible people,” she said.
A designer across from her placed one hand over his heart. “We believe in you.”
“You avoided eye contact until my manager chose me.”
“That was silent encouragement.”
Another coworker leaned over the divider. “Vantelle’s competition could change your career.”
“It could also consume every evening I have for the next three weeks.”
“But imagine the exposure.”
“Imagine the sleep deprivation.”
Her manager tapped the folder.
“The preliminary submission requires one central concept, three supporting sketches, and a brief design statement. If you pass the first round, the studio will cover material and production costs.”
Maren opened the packet.
The theme appeared again in elegant black lettering.
MUSE.
Broad enough to inspire anything.
Broad enough to mean nothing.
She had designed jewelry before entering this world, though most of her professional work had involved fashion accessories and brand development. This body remembered design training too, even if the theft accusation and dismissal from Alden & Rowe had damaged its confidence.
The skills remained.
So did the instincts.
Maren ran one finger over the page.
This was not a problem created by Dominic, Elise, or a family that had already decided she was guilty.
This was hers.
A challenge she could actually control.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
Her coworkers applauded again.
This time, at least, it sounded sincere.
Her manager nodded. “Good. I want your first concept notes by Monday.”
Maren’s smile disappeared.
“Today is Friday.”
“Yes.”
“That is not three weeks.”
“That is the beginning of three weeks.”
The manager walked away.
Maren looked at the packet, then at her coworkers.
“Anyone who asks me for a favor before Monday is dead to me.”
They returned to their screens with remarkable speed.
By the time Maren left the studio, her bag contained the competition packet, two sketchbooks, a stack of reference printouts, and enough snacks to sustain a small expedition.
A Ravenscroft car waited outside.
The driver opened the rear door as she approached.
Maren paused.
Lucian had made good on his instruction.
She now had transportation whenever she left the residence, whether she requested it or not.
It should have felt restrictive.
Instead, after Dominic had found her outside Chloe’s home, it felt uncomfortably sensible.
She climbed inside.
“Good evening, Mrs. Ravenscroft.”
“Good evening.”
The driver glanced at the overflowing bag.
“Would you like me to put that in the trunk?”
“No. If I let go of it, I might pretend the competition doesn’t exist.”
He wisely did not ask.
When Maren entered the residence, Arthur was arranging fresh flowers in the entrance hall.
His attention moved immediately to the canvas bag hanging from her shoulder.
“Your snack bag appears to have returned heavier.”
“It contains work now.”
“That sounds serious.”
“It’s devastating.”
She set the bag on a console table and pulled out the nearly empty snack pouch Arthur had prepared that morning.
“I distributed most of the supplies.”
“To your coworkers?”
“Yes. Your pastries secured valuable intelligence.”
Arthur looked concerned. “About the competition?”
“About a political heir, an actress, and a suspiciously expensive art gallery.”
“I see.”
“You are the greatest provider of workplace diplomacy I have ever known.”
Arthur accepted the empty pouch.
“I’ll increase tomorrow’s supply.”
Maren brightened. “You’re a remarkable man.”
“I’ve been told.”
She followed him into the sitting room, talking as he checked the household schedule.
“I also got volunteered for an international jewelry competition.”
Arthur looked up.
“Volunteered?”
“I coughed at the wrong moment.”
“That is an unusual selection process.”
“My manager interpreted respiratory distress as ambition.”
“What competition?”
“Vantelle International Design Prize. The theme is Muse.”
Recognition appeared in Arthur’s expression.
“The Vantelle International Design Prize.”
“You know it?”
“It is one of the largest emerging-design competitions in the industry. Vantelle receives thousands of submissions from multiple countries.”
Maren stopped smiling.
“Thousands?”
Arthur nodded.
“Some years, more than ten thousand.”
“Why would you tell me that?”
“You asked.”
“I was happier before.”
The front door opened.
Lucian entered with one of his assistants behind him.
His dark overcoat rested across his shoulders, and a phone call had clearly followed him all the way from the office. He spoke in a quiet, precise tone about a delayed acquisition while his assistant took notes.
Maren lowered her voice.
“He works like that all day?”
Arthur glanced at Lucian.
“Most days.”
“And all night.”
“Frequently.”
“That seems unhealthy.”
“Mr. Ravenscroft has never been especially persuaded by that argument.”
Lucian ended the call and handed the phone to his assistant.
The other man excused himself.
Maren immediately crossed the entrance hall.
“You’re home.”
Lucian’s gaze settled on her.
The words sounded natural when she said them, as though she had been waiting.
He removed his overcoat.
Before Arthur could step forward, Maren took it.
Lucian’s hand remained on the fabric for half a second.
Then he let go.
Arthur’s eyes moved from the coat to Lucian’s face.
Maren carried it to the stand near the wall and hung it carefully.
When she turned back, Arthur was staring at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked alarmed.”
“I was observing.”
“Did I hang it incorrectly?”
“No, Mrs. Ravenscroft.”
Lucian glanced at Arthur.
The butler immediately returned his attention to the household tablet.
Maren walked back toward Lucian.
“I entered an international jewelry competition today.”
“You entered voluntarily?”
“Define voluntarily.”
His gaze remained steady.
“My manager asked whether anyone wanted the opportunity. Everyone avoided eye contact. I coughed.”
Lucian understood immediately.
“You were selected.”
“Against my will and in front of witnesses.”
“What is the competition?”
“Vantelle International Design Prize. Theme: Muse.”
Something in his expression suggested he recognized the name.
“Competitive.”
“Arthur has already damaged my confidence with statistics.”
“I gave accurate information,” Arthur said.
Maren pointed at him.
“That is exactly the problem.”
Lucian’s gaze lowered briefly to the packet visible inside her bag.
“Will you withdraw?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
Lucian looked at her again.
Maren lifted her chin.
“I can complain and still win.”
A faint curve touched one corner of his mouth.
It vanished so quickly she almost thought she had imagined it.
Arthur had not.
The butler turned away before either of them noticed his expression.
Dinner was served an hour later.
Maren sat across from Lucian at the long table, though the space between them no longer felt as severe as it had during their first breakfast.
She had spent part of the evening researching previous Vantelle finalists.
Lucian had spent it answering messages that appeared to involve multiple continents and at least one government regulator.
Maren watched him ignore the vegetables beside his plate.
She made a mental note.
Lucian preferred simple food, avoided overly sweet sauces, and apparently considered green vegetables decorative.
Useful information.
A competent contract wife should understand her employer’s dietary habits.
She reached for the serving utensils and placed a portion of vegetables on his plate.
Lucian looked down at them.
Then at her.
“You need those,” Maren said.
“Why?”
“For survival.”
“I have survived without your supervision.”
“Barely. You were working at three in the morning.”
Arthur, standing near the wall, became very interested in the arrangement of the curtains.
Lucian’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“You were awake.”
“I needed water.”
“And then decided to monitor my schedule?”
“I decided you were behaving like a man who owns several companies but has misplaced basic human limitations.”
“I drank the milk.”
Maren stopped.
“You did?”
Lucian returned his attention to his plate.
“Yes.”
A smile spread across her face.
“Good.”
“It was acceptable.”
“Acceptable?”
“It was warm.”
“That was the purpose.”
“It contained too much honey.”
“You drank all of it.”
Lucian did not respond.
Maren looked toward Arthur.
“Did he drink all of it?”
Arthur maintained a professional expression.
“The cup was empty this morning.”
Maren turned back to Lucian, victorious.
“You liked it.”
“I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Lucian picked up his fork and ate one of the vegetables she had placed on his plate.
Maren’s smile became brighter.
The entire room seemed to notice.
Arthur watched in silence.
Lucian Ravenscroft did not allow people to rearrange his meals.
He also did not drink beverages left outside his room by near strangers, accept his coat being taken from him, or tolerate commentary on his sleep schedule.
Yet Maren had broken each rule without appearing to know the rules existed.
More strangely, Lucian had allowed it.
Maren continued eating.
A moment later, a piece of glazed meat appeared in her bowl.
She looked up.
Lucian had used the serving utensils and was already returning them to the table.
“What is this?”
“Food.”
“I can see that.”
“You gave me something. I returned the gesture.”
Maren stared at him.
“Is that how you understand marriage?”
“It is how I understand basic courtesy.”
“Very romantic.”
“This is not a romantic marriage.”
- Writer
