Chapter Ten
Mine
The Ashford lunch was a quarterly meeting between Lancaster Group and one of its oldest development partners. Lucas had mentioned it in passing — I hadn't been invited, hadn't been expected, had no reason to be there.
But my studio was in the same building. I'd come up to borrow a conference room, per my arrangement with Clara. I walked in as the dessert course was being served.
Lucas saw me from across the room.
I started to turn — I'd come back later — when I heard it.
Gerald Ashford, senior partner, gesturing toward me with the casual authority of a man who'd never been corrected in company: "Ah, and is that the wife? Nice hobby she has, the little studio. I suppose it keeps her busy while you run the actual business."
Three people laughed.
I went still.
Lucas did not laugh.
What Lucas did was go very quiet in a particular way — a quality of silence I'd begun to recognize over the past months. The kind that preceded something irrevocable.
"Lancaster Group is acquiring a forty percent stake in Bennett Studio," he said, "effective next week."
No one had a response to that. Including me.
"The valuation reflects market rate for an emerging luxury brand with a thirty percent year-over-year growth trajectory." He set down his fork. "Bennett Studio is not a hobby. It's an asset." He looked at Ashford with the kind of steadiness that required no volume. "And if I hear my wife's work described that way again, this partnership ends today."
The room was very still.
Ashford cleared his throat. Reached for his water.
"Of course," he said. "My apologies."
The meeting concluded twenty minutes later. I waited in the hallway. When Lucas came out, alone, I fell into step beside him.
"You didn't ask me," I said.
"You would have said no."
"That's not your decision."
He stopped walking. Turned to face me. For once, something in his expression was uncertain — or as close to uncertain as I had ever seen him.
"You're right," he said. "Read the offer before you decide. If you want to decline, I'll withdraw it."
That was not what I'd expected him to say.
I read the offer that night. Alone at the dining table, surrounded by my own sketches, a glass of wine going warm beside me.
The valuation was fair. Beyond fair.
By midnight, the clip of Lucas's statement had already been lifted from someone's phone recording and cut to thirty seconds. By two AM it had three million views.
The headline read: Lucas Lancaster is obsessed with his wife.
I read it three times.
Then I looked across the apartment at the light still burning under his study door.
I felt something shift — tectonic, deep, the kind of movement you can't unfeel once it's happened.
I closed my laptop.
I was in trouble.
