**CHAPTER 7** **ARCHER** “Is it done?” My father’s voice cuts through the tension in the spacious boardroom, his gaze locked onto me from the far end of the long, polished table. “What do you think?” I shoot back, a flash of indignation igniting within me. How could he even entertain the idea that I would step into this room without having secured the deal first? He raised me to carry weight, to walk in with purpose, always ready to impress—or at the very least, not to disappoint. “Good,” he replies, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. The remnants of his meeting with the developers from the West Coast hang in the air; they were supposed to include me, but Winnie had put a wrench in that agenda. “Is there anything I should know about the deal? Can I trust it’s solid?” “It’s solid.” The confidence in my voice doesn’t falter. “We got more than we initially asked for. Spencer was desperate and agreed to all my terms.” His nod of approval feels like a victory, a small acknowledgment of the years I’ve spent fighting for my place at the table. “Did you reach out to all the publications?” I hesitate momentarily. His curiosity is unusual. “I did. On my way here. They’re fully briefed about the wedding. I’ve arranged interviews and exclusives to ensure they keep quiet until we’re ready to make the announcement.” “The announcement needs to happen soon. What are your thoughts on timing?” “There’s a gala this weekend. Perfect press coverage, a worthy cause, and a crowd that can shape the narrative. It’s the ideal setting to unveil Winnie and me to the world. We’ll be doing an interview with Ruby Robinson on Thursday, and she’s eager for our love story. It’ll run on Sunday.” “Good job, son.” My father’s praise fills me with warmth. At thirty-five, that approval still holds a power over me that I’d never admit. The burdens of living up to his expectations weigh heavily; it’s not enough to be raised to inherit Moore Hotels; I need to earn his trust, his belief that I am worthy of taking the helm. “I think we need to deal with this Blake kid personally,” I suggest, pulling out a chair and settling in. I haven’t met the pitiful man blackmailing Winnie, but I yearn for a confrontation. Just a moment with him to ensure he understands the futility of crossing paths with someone like me when it comes to someone like Winnie. “Why?” My father’s voice sharpens, eyes narrowing as he regards me closely. The silver strands in his hair catch the light, a testament to his relentless fight against the passage of time. Age has begun to hinder him, the relentless travel and work taking their toll. I mull over my response, the memory of Winnie’s fear and hurt churning darkly in my chest. I need to confront Blake, not for the business but for her—she deserves that much from me. My jaw tightens as I wrestle with the honesty of my thoughts. If I explain why I care, I’ll have to confront the truth myself, and I’m not ready for that. I’ve never cared about winning over anyone’s trust, never felt the need to. But her words struck deep, the ache of her doubts reverberating through me, and I find I despise the man who sowed those seeds of uncertainty. My father interrupts my spiraling thoughts sharply, “Archer, snap out of it.” Before I can find the words, he continues. “Why should I even care about talking to this kid? He has nothing on us. He wouldn’t dare release that video without some form of payment, and he knows no one will take him seriously.” A frown creeps across my face, the very thought of Blake possessing that video makes my blood boil. “I don’t like loose ends.” He studies me, and I meet his scrutinizing glare with resolve. Whatever revelation he seeks through his analysis, he won’t find it here. “Just keep it discreet,” he finally relents. It’s how our family has always triumphed. We bend the rules, manipulate the system, and bend it to our will. And what I want is to make sure Blake will never dare approach Winnie again. He needs to pay for his audacity. With a nod, I rise and stride towards the door. “Always do,” I call over my shoulder, stepping into the corridor that buzzes with the energy of Manhattan’s heartbeat. I have a plan to execute, and a man to bring down. The moment I exit, my assistant, Luther, rushes toward me, phone in hand, eyes alight with expectation. He’s been by my side for eight years, ever since my previous assistant chose family over the grind of corporate life. Finding someone to match my pace was nearly impossible, but Luther had blown through the interview like a storm. “Archer!” His fingers fly across the screen, ready for my command. “What’s next?” “I need you to gather everything on a Blake Billings for me. He used to work for Bishop Hotels. I want every detail—where he lives, employment history, family background—the works. Get it to my desk before I leave tonight.” “On it,” Luther nods, fingers tapping rapidly. One of his best traits is his knack for action without a flood of questions. As we approach my office, I can see the chaos that awaits me—a mountain of paperwork that feels utterly overwhelming at times. But Luther’s organization eases the burden slightly; he knows precisely how I like things sorted. “Anything else?” he inquires as I take a seat at my desk. “There’s one more thing,” I say, sinking back into my chair. “What is it, Mr. Moore?” “I need you to call St. Michael’s Church and arrange a wedding for tomorrow afternoon.” He looks at me, bewildered. “And who should I inform is getting married? Shall we send a gift?” “No gift. The wedding’s for me.” A strangled sound escapes from Luther’s throat as his eyes widen in disbelief. “Excuse me?” “Tomorrow, I’m marrying Winifred Bishop. I want it done at St. Michael’s, and it should look spectacular. Spare no expense.” Stunned silence hangs between us like heavy fog as he processes my ultimatum. His mind races, thoughts working through the unexpected turn of events. “Should I invite anyone?” he finally asks, grasping for clarity. “It’ll be intimate. No extra invitations,” I instruct, watching as he exhales slowly, still trying to regain his composure. “Back in twenty?” he proposes, his voice recovering its steadiness. “I’m going to need to make a delivery for you.” “Not yet. I need to draft the letter first.” Luther’s surprise shines through, his usual professionalism shattered for a moment. “You’re having me deliver a letter?” “Just a heads up, Luther—first time for everything. Back in twenty.” “Oh, and one last thing,” I add. “Yes?” “Call every bridal store in Manhattan. Set up an open account. My future wife needs access to her dress.” “Understood.” He nods, the familiarity of my demands finally settling back into his routine. The shock still lingers in his eyes as he absorbs my sudden commitment to life’s most profound partnership. “Luther?” I stretch his name out, my finger drumming low against the smooth surface of my desk. “Yes?” “That’ll be all.” He hurries out, leaving me alone with my thoughts, the weight of the impending letter pressing heavily on my mind. It feels surreal, almost thrilling, as I prepare to pen a note to the woman I intend to marry.