The elevator dings, and I straighten my shoulders, plastering on a smile that feels brittle enough to crack if I breathe wrong. I need to get through this dinner without falling apart. Me coming back here rather than talking to Noah shows me just how muchI’m trying to avoid the confrontation with him. Even despite needing to deflect Maeve’s questions about the Chanel bag and pretend that my entire world hasn’t been turned upside down in the span of twenty-four hours, I’d still rather be here.
When I walk back into the penthouse, all eyes turn to me. Martin’s practically vibrating with curiosity, Maeve’s gaze is laser-focused on my face, and even Ezra looks intrigued.Great.
“Is Noah okay?” Ezra asks, his voice carefully neutral.
“Fine,” I say, sliding back onto my stool and reaching for my wine glass. “Just tired, I think.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Martin’s smile is pure mischief. “And you’re just his concerned assistant making sure he got downstairs safely?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I am.” I meet his gaze steadily, challenging him to push further.
“Interesting,” he drawls.
Maeve sets a plate of risotto in front of me, her eyes never leaving my face. “So what’s the deal with Grandma’s Chanel?”
I force myself to take a bite of risotto, buying time. It’s delicious—creamy and perfectly cooked—but I can barely taste it through the panic rising in my throat.
“Nothing. Noah was just making a joke.” The lie feels awkward on my tongue. “It’s fine.”
“That didn’t sound like a joke,” Maeve persists, sliding into the seat beside me. “What happened to the bag, Bea?”
I take another bite, desperately searching for a convincing lie. “I had to get it repaired. The strap was fraying.”
Ezra’s eyebrows rise slightly. “And Noah knows about this because…?”
“Because I mentioned needing to take a long lunch for the repair,” I say, the words tumbling out too fast. “Noah’s very particular about the schedule. You know how he is.”
Maeve narrows her eyes, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. She’s always been able to tell when I’m lying, ever since we were kids and I’d steal her chocolate and deny it even when I was caught with my hand in a cookie jar.
“Uh-huh,” she says slowly. “And that’s why he offered to buy you the suit? Because he’s so concerned about your schedule?”
“It was a joke,” I insist, stabbing at my risotto with more force than necessary. “Can we please talk about something else?”
Martin leans forward, his chin propped on his hand. “Oh, I’m much more interested in this story. Noah King offering to buy an exclusive designer item for his assistant? That doesn’t sound like the tight-ass we all know and tolerate.”
I feel heat creeping up my neck. “It’s not like that.”
“Like what?” Martin’s eyes gleam with unholy delight. “I didn’t specify whatthatwas. Interesting that your mind went there immediately.”
I want to crawl under the table and disappear. Or better yet, rewind time to yesterday morning, before I decided to follow Noah to that warehouse and everything spiraled so spectacularly out of control. One pitiful spoonful of risotto sits heavy in my stomach because anxiety is making it hard to swallow.
“Nothing happened,” I say firmly, meeting Martin’s gaze. “Noah’s just being Noah.”
“Oh, honey.” Martin’s smile is downright predatory now. “Something definitely happened. The question is what.”
Ezra clears his throat, and I send him a silent prayer of gratitude for the interruption. “Let’s ease up on the interrogation, shall we? Bea’s had a long day.”
“Right.” Maeve’s eyes narrow at me. “Handling Noah’s schedule while he was ‘home with food poisoning.’ The same food poisoning that apparently gives a person bruised knuckles and a black eye.”
I probably should have picked the standoff with Noah tonight instead of this because the conversation is spiraling, and I’m losing control of it fast. I need to redirect, to change the subject, to do anything but sit here while they piece together what happened.
“I have a headache,” I announce suddenly, pushing my plate away. “I think I should go home.”
“Without finishing your risotto?” Ezra looks genuinely disappointed, and I feel a twinge of guilt. A tiny one.
“It’s delicious,” I assure him. “I’m just not feeling well.”
“Food poisoning?” Martin suggests innocently.
