When they told me my fiancé was nine years older than me, I looked at Aunt Fia as if she had announced I was being married off to something recently excavated from beneath a museum. “Nine years?” I said. “That isn’t an age gap. That’s a guided tour with complimentary headphones.”
Chapter 2
The next two weeks should have been about architectural surveys and financing.
Instead, they became half restoration project and half private war.
I sent Adrian a bonsai with a card reading FUTURE BURIAL SITE.
He sent it back with a brass plaque beneath mine.
RESERVATION POSTPONED PENDING WIFE’S APPROVAL.
I mailed him a museum membership labeled HANDSOME FOSSIL.
He framed it.
Then he gained access to our shared project calendar and added an appointment to my Thursday schedule.
9:00 P.M.—ADMIT FIANCÉ IS ATTRACTIVE.
I changed it.
9:00 P.M.—ADMIT FIANCÉ HAS ACCEPTABLE BONE STRUCTURE.
Five minutes later, he changed it again.
9:05 P.M.—PROGRESS IS PROGRESS.
Aunt Fia discovered the exchange and announced, “In my day, we called this flirting.”
“In your day, people mailed letters by horse.”
“I was born in 1952.”
“Exactly. Historic period.”
She threatened me with her cane.
Meanwhile, Madeline began doing what Madeline did best.
Whispering.
She told donors my engagement was distracting me. She suggested I had become emotionally unstable under pressure. She hinted that Adrian’s interest in my design work came only because Aunt Fia was manipulating him.
Then she convinced a junior assistant to give her access to an old project folder.
Unfortunately for Madeline, I had been waiting.
The folder contained a complete version of the Midnight Garden concept.
It was also fake.
Not obviously fake. That would have been insulting.
The drawings were beautiful. The presentation was polished. But I inserted outdated lighting routes, false sponsorship notes, metadata tracking access, a private archive watermark, and one deliberately incorrect Latin plant name so ridiculous any trained conservator would know something was wrong.
Inside a camellia leaf, I placed a fox.
And buried in the file metadata was one sentence.
If Madeline presents this as hers, check the watermark.
Aunt Fia caught me smiling over lunch.
“That is not your happy expression.”
“I’m happy.”
“No. That is your ‘someone is about to become educational material’ expression.”
“She stole the poison draft.”
Aunt Fia put a hand to her chest.
“I’m so proud.”
“My mother also raised me.”
“She taught you manners. I taught you timing.”
Two days later, Adrian walked into the Glass House carrying coffee and a folder.
“Did you intentionally put a fake botanical name in a design file?”
I accepted the coffee.
“Define intentionally.”
“Leah.”
“Yes.”
His eyes brightened.
“You planted evidence.”
“I prefer ‘created a learning opportunity.’”
“I found the access logs.”
“Good.”
“The watermark.”
“Better.”
“The fox.”
I froze.
He smiled.
“I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“You’re Red Fox.”
“No.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
“I am excellent at lying.”
“You hid a fox in a poisonous draft.”
“Artistic branding.”
He stepped closer.
“I’ve admired your work for four years.”
Something inside me went unexpectedly quiet.
“You didn’t know it was mine when you agreed to meet me.”
“No.”
“You liked my work before you liked me.”
“Yes.”
That frightened me more than compliments about my appearance ever could.
He had valued something I made before he knew who had made it.
I looked away.
“Don’t make this romantic.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
His calm expression told me he was lying.
Then he opened the folder.
“I also built a trap.”
My head snapped back.
“You what?”
“I introduced Madeline to a potential donor.”
“A real donor?”
“A private investigator.”
I stared at him.
“He told her he might fund an independent design venture if she could prove you were unstable and replace you quietly.”
“You recorded it legally?”
“With counsel present.”
“What did she say?”
Adrian’s smile disappeared.
“She admitted she had encouraged anonymous accounts to spread rumors about you. She admitted taking draft material. She said if enough people described you as difficult, the board would eventually prefer her.”
For several seconds, I could only stare.
“You built a second trap.”
“You said I couldn’t be boring.”
Then I laughed.
A real laugh.
Adrian watched me with an expression that made my ribs feel structurally unsound.
“This is not courtship,” I told him.
“No?”
“This is competitive villain disposal.”
“I feel strangely closer to you already.”
And unfortunately, so did I.
