The black Maybach glided to a halt in front of an exclusive, heavily guarded private club on the Upper East Side.
Fitz stepped out of the car first. He walked around the back, opened Harlow's door, and offered his arm with perfect, mechanical chivalry.
Harlow took a deep breath, steadying her racing heart. She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. They exchanged a brief, intense look. The battle was about to begin.
A silent waiter led them through a maze of dimly lit corridors into a lavish, antique-filled private dining room.
Sitting at the head of the long mahogany table was Fitzgerald Sr. He rested both hands on a gold-tipped walking cane. His eyes were closed.
As their footsteps echoed on the Persian rug, the old man's eyes snapped open. His gaze was like a hawk's, sharp and unforgiving. He scanned Fitz, then locked his piercing stare onto Harlow.
Fitz cleared his throat. "Grandfather, this is my girlfriend, Harlow."
The old man let out a loud, contemptuous snort. He slammed the tip of his cane hard against the floor.
"Girlfriend?" Fitzgerald Sr. sneered. "She is currently filing for divorce. And Holman Industries is a sinking ship. She is completely unworthy of the Monroe name."
Fitz's jaw tightened. A muscle twitched in his cheek. He opened his mouth to defend his "girlfriend."
Harlow gently squeezed Fitz's bicep, signaling him to stop. She stepped forward, a polite, unbothered smile on her face.
She looked directly at the old man. Using flawless, high-level corporate jargon, she calmly dissected the current financial trap Holman Industries was in, and subtly hinted at the massive, hidden capital she had prepared to reverse the situation.
Fitzgerald Sr.'s eyes flickered with a brief flash of surprise. But he quickly masked it. He wasn't going to let her off that easily.
He let out a heavy sigh, shifting the topic. He complained loudly about a cutting-edge AI project the Monroe Group had invested in. The core algorithm was stuck, and the project was bleeding money.
The old man tossed a stack of encrypted blueprints and code printouts onto the table. "My highly-paid engineers are useless idiots," he grumbled.
Fitz's expression darkened. He knew his grandfather was deliberately humiliating Harlow. No socialite knew how to read advanced machine learning architecture. He reached out to pull the papers away.
Harlow let go of Fitz's arm. She walked straight to the table and picked up the blueprints.
Her eyes darted across the complex lines of code. A spark of recognition hit her. This was an early architectural concept she had created under her "King" alias. The Monroe engineers had applied the logic backward.
Harlow reached into her purse and pulled out a silver fountain pen. Right there, on the blank margin of the blueprint, she began to write.
She quickly scribbled down a highly condensed, elegant string of corrective code.
She slid the paper back across the table to the old man. Her voice was perfectly calm. "Perhaps your engineers reversed the logical sequence. Try this approach."
Fitzgerald Sr. glanced at the paper dismissively.
Then, his eyes froze. His pupils dilated rapidly.
His trembling hands picked up the paper. He stared at the handwritten code. He recognized the brutal efficiency, the unique structural signature. "This syntax..." the old man muttered, his eyes wide. "I've only seen this exact style in an early, unreleased concept paper by the anonymous AI god known as 'King.' It's nearly identical."
The old man's head snapped up. He stared at Harlow in absolute shock. "How... how do you know this architecture?"
Harlow offered a modest, gentle smile. She didn't answer directly. "I enjoy reading cutting-edge technical papers in my spare time. I just know a little bit."
The old man instantly understood she was hiding her true depth. His attitude flipped completely. He looked at Harlow as if she were a priceless diamond.
He threw his head back and laughed loudly, slapping his knee. "Fitz, you have excellent taste! We need to set a date for the engagement immediately!"
Fitz watched the entire exchange in silence. His deep blue eyes were fixed on Harlow's calm profile. The curiosity and burning intrigue in his gaze were palpable.
The hostile interrogation had transformed into a warm family dinner.
An hour later, they walked out of the private room.
As they turned the corner into an empty, dimly lit hallway, Fitz suddenly spun around. He stepped into Harlow's space, forcing her backward until her shoulders hit the wall.
He planted one hand flat against the wallpaper beside her head. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. His hot breath brushed against her ear.
"How many more secrets are you hiding, my 'girlfriend'?" Fitz asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
Harlow raised her hands and pressed them flat against his solid, muscular chest, maintaining a physical boundary.
She looked up into his eyes and smiled. "The more secrets I have, the bigger my bargaining chips are, right? Are my divorce papers ready, my lawyer?"
