Chapter 3 - Arrival at the Estate
The sun struggled to break through the overcast Seattle sky the next morning as a matte-black luxury sedan slid smoothly to the curb outside Maya’s apartment building.
Maya stood on the concrete stoop, adjusting the strap of her emerald-green dress. She had spent an hour trying to tame her unruly brown hair into something resembling sophisticated, settling on a soft half-up twist that made her look professional yet approachable.
The rear door of the sedan opened silently.
Mason Reed stepped out.
He had discarded the business tie, wearing an open-collared navy shirt beneath a charcoal blazer that fit his broad shoulders with lethal precision. He looked less like a corporate investor this morning and more like an undercover operative who had paused his mission to attend a society wedding.
“You clean up reasonably well, Daniel,” Maya joked nervously as she walked down the steps.
“Good morning, Maya,” Mason said, ignoring the joke as he reached out to take her elbow, guiding her smoothly toward the rear door of the car. His touch was warm, firm, and entirely professional, yet it sent an immediate, electric awareness racing up her arm. “You look exceptional.”
“That’s rule number two,” Maya whispered as he closed the door behind her and slid into the seat beside her. “No grand compliments. We’re establishing a baseline of mild, comfortable affection, not a romance novel.”
Mason turned toward her, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Noted. I will endeavor to look appropriately indifferent by the time we reach the appetizers.”
The drive out to the sprawling suburban estate where her cousin Chloe was marrying a man named Chad took forty-five minutes. As the miles ticked away, Maya found herself actually relaxing. Mason was an easy conversationalist when he chose to be, asking precise, intelligent questions about her architectural design projects and listening to her complaints about difficult municipal zoning boards with genuine, focused attention.
For a fake boyfriend, he was remarkably competent.
When the car finally turned down the long, tree-lined gravel driveway of the St. Clair Country Club—rented out for the entire weekend by Aunt Judith—Maya’s stomach performed a sudden, violent acrobatic flip.
Through the tinted windows, she could see the manicured lawns, the white marquee tents, and the formidable, terrifying silhouette of her mother and aunt standing by the grand entrance like two medieval gatekeepers inspecting incoming tribute.
“Brace yourself,” Maya muttered, smoothing down her green dress. “Aunt Judith is currently holding a clipboard. That is her combat weapon of choice.”
Mason turned his head, his slate-gray eyes calm and untroubled. “Let her hold the clipboard.”
The car stopped. The chauffeur—a man built like a brick wall with an earpiece tucked into his collar—hurriedly opened Maya’s door.
May you like
As Maya stepped out onto the gravel, taking Mason’s offered arm, she felt the heavy, suffocating weight of her family’s collective gaze lock onto them from thirty yards away.
Game on.
