Chapter 6: In Which Dinners Are Polished, Conversations Are Prickly, and Motives Are Murky

Oliver arrived at precisely 6:58 p.m.—two minutes early, as expected.

The townhouse in Chelsea stood like a monument to inherited wealth: tall, quiet, and slightly smug. His aunt, Vivienne Hollingsworth, wouldn’t have had it any other way. Wealth, after all, was meant to be seen, admired, and wielded like tasteful perfume—never overpowering, but unmistakable.

The butler opened the door before he knocked. Naturally.

Inside, the scent of roasted duck and truffle oil greeted him like an overly familiar handshake. The dining room gleamed—silver candlesticks, linen napkins folded into architectural statements, and a centerpiece that looked like it had a florist on retainer.

“Darling boy,” Vivienne said, sweeping in with a kiss that missed his cheek by an inch. “You’re punctual. As always.”

“It’s a strength and a flaw,” Oliver replied, slipping out of his coat.

Vivienne smiled, her earrings catching the light like they had something to say. “I prefer consistency to warmth.”

He knew she meant it.

At the long, intimidating table were Chaz, lounging like he was already on his third glass of wine, and Claudia, perfectly poised and perfectly bored. And, of course, sitting beside Vivienne was her son—Oliver’s cousin, Julian.

Julian Hollingsworth had the bone structure of a villain and the charm of a politician. He and Oliver had never particularly liked each other, but they performed civility with the ease of men who knew what was expected at a certain tax bracket.

“Oliver,” Julian said smoothly. “Still brooding professionally?”

“And you’re still running your hedge fund with daddy’s money?”

“God, I missed this,” Chaz muttered, raising his glass.

Dinner began in proper Hollingsworth style: plated courses, half-listened conversation, and the quiet undercurrent of subtle power plays. Vivienne discussed auction bids and mutual acquaintances who were quietly disgraced. Claudia critiqued a gallery show none of them had seen. Julian bragged about a boat with a crew so discreet it bordered on invisible.

And then, inevitably, the topic turned.

“The bar the other night,” Claudia said, reaching for her wine. “That was a... scene.”

Chaz raised an eyebrow. “What about it?”

“That girl,” Claudia continued, lips pursed with faint disapproval. “The one you were talking to. What was her name again?”

“I didn’t get it.”

Vivienne arched an eyebrow. “That unlike you, Chaz.”

“She was interesting,” he said simply, like that settled it.

Julian leaned forward. “Interesting, how?”

Chaz shrugged, his tone easy. “Smart. Funny. Gorgeous, really. Kind of exotic-looking. Like she doesn’t belong in a crowd, in a good way.”

Oliver’s jaw tightened just slightly.

Claudia caught it. Of course she did. She lived to detect microexpressions.

“She had a friend too, right?” she asked, turning toward Julian with a slow smile. “The redhead? She was cute in a messy sort of way.”

“Lillian,” Chaz supplied. “Said she was an editor. Something about books.”

Julian turned toward Oliver. “Books? That your department, cousin?”

Oliver didn’t flinch. “We work together.”

Chaz’s brows shot up. “Really? That was her?”

Oliver nodded once, casually. “She’s fine. Simple.”

The word landed with a thud. Even to his own ears.

A beat passed.

Claudia tilted her head. “Simple? She didn’t seem simple. She seemed sharp. The kind of girl who’d stab you with a compliment.”

“She’s opinionated,” Oliver said, trying to sound clinical. “And loud.”

Chaz leaned back, swirling his wine. “You noticed a lot about her.”

“I work with her,” Oliver said flatly, but he could hear it now—the defensive edge in his voice.

Julian leaned in, all shark smile and smooth malice. “Sounds like someone’s not quite as indifferent as he’d like to be.”

Oliver didn’t reply. Just reached for his glass, letting the silence sharpen around him.

It was ridiculous, really. How a single word—simple—could echo with such weight.

He had chosen it with care, or at least he thought he had. Something unobtrusive. Dismissive, but polite. But now it scraped against his conscience like a file against bone.

The conversation moved on—Julian detailing his latest ski trip with a woman he “wasn’t technically dating,” Claudia nitpicking Chaz’s table manners—but Oliver wasn’t listening.

He was still thinking about Lillian. About the way she’d squared off with him in the break room. The way her mouth twisted when she was trying not to laugh. The way her eyes had flared—just for a second—when he’d said something he didn’t mean.

He should have said she was competent. Or quick. Or—God forbid—formidable. Because that’s what she was.

But instead, he’d picked a word that tried to flatten her. Make her easier to forget.

And now he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Worse, neither could Julian.

And that—that—was the part that irritated him most.

---

Later, long after the wine glasses had been cleared and Vivienne had retreated upstairs with a murmured “goodnight” that sounded more like “don’t embarrass the family,” Oliver sat alone in the study.

He preferred this room. It was the only space in the house that felt untouched—lined with old books and a window that looked out onto a garden no one bothered to tend anymore. It smelled faintly of old paper and forgotten time.

The quiet here wasn’t suffocating. It was neutral. Observing. The way a therapist might blink at you and wait for you to explain your trauma in bullet points.

He pulled out his phone. Opened the app.

FitzWill:

Ever feel like you’re trying to play it cool but every choice makes it worse?

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the send button.

He shouldn’t. It was foolish. Emotional. Too personal.

He tapped Send anyway.

Then… nothing.

No immediate reply from LizzyB. No clever comeback. No typed ellipses dancing in anticipation.

Just a notification ping.

He glanced down.

New Email — Avery Thorn: Private Reading Salon Invitation

Of course.

He opened it, already knowing it would be trouble.

Dear Mr. Hollingsworth and Ms. Stewart,

I’ve been informed you’ll be co-editing my manuscript, and I must say I’m delighted. In light of this collaboration, I’d love to invite you both to a small, private reading at my home next Saturday evening. Just a handful of publishing folk and literary types—a casual evening to discuss the book and meet face-to-face.

I hope you’ll both be able to attend. There will be wine. And likely gossip.

With admiration,

Avery Thorn

Oliver stared at the email for a long moment, unreadable.

Then he closed the app. Set his phone facedown on the side table.

Outside, the garden was dark and silent.

And inside, he waited.