Chapter Text
Kate was wearing her power suit. Her lucky suit. The one she bought with her first big law firm bonus. Icy blue, slightly oversized blazer, cigarette-style trousers. She had paired it with four-inch beige, patent leather heels, a leather handbag, and delicate, gold jewelry. Her curls had been ironed out of existence, replaced by a bouncy blowout that—when paired with the outfit and Kate’s notable height—made heads turn as she walked from her Uber to the entrance of the sleek, all-glass building in Canary Wharf.
It was a fascinating experience, being a woman in the world of law and finance. Even more so when you were tall, Indian, and by most accounts, beautiful. Men didn’t know quite what to make of you. They couldn’t exactly overlook you. Not literally—on account of your height. And not figuratively—because even the most misogynistic of the lot usually wanted to see you naked. But they also didn’t exactly respect you. Because you were a woman. Because you intimidated them. Because you didn’t look anything like their mothers or sisters or girlfriends.
During her first few years as an attorney, Kate Sharma had struggled with this paradox. She had tried on a few different versions of herself, trying to determine which one would fit better in this strange world. In her first year as an associate, she had dressed in mostly muted colors, worn only flats, kept her hair in a bun or otherwise tucked away—like she could literally blend into the beige walls of her law firm’s conference rooms. It only took her a few months to realize what a pointless exercise that was—that how no matter how she dressed, she would always stand out.
But still, it took Kate several years to go from that nervous, meek girl to the woman confidently clicking and clacking her way through the lobby of that office building. A woman who truly embraced her femininity, her appearance, her stature—and who regularly used it to distract men and women alike before she reminded them that the way she looked was the least interesting thing about her. That her mind was as impressive as her glowing skin and her big brown eyes.
Kate felt good, walking into her interview. She felt great, even, as she stepped into the lift that would take her to the offices of Wisteria Ventures, the legal name of the Bridgerton family office. She was qualified for this role—over-qualified, really. She had spent the last seven years training at one of London’s most elite law firms, rising to the top of her associate class and developing a reputation for being a shrewd-yet-practical attorney. She was accustomed to advising high-net worth individuals—she knew how to manage them, how to cater to their idiosyncrasies while subtly telling them what to do. And on top of that, she had a connection to the Bridgertons. One of the partners at her firm—and one of Kate’s mentors and advocates—was old family friends with Violet Bridgerton, the matriarch of this powerful clan.
When Agatha Danbury had first told Kate about the opportunity to be General Counsel for the family office of one of England’s wealthiest, most prodigious families, she had been sure to preface it with, “to be clear, we don’t want to lose you, Kate. You are one of our best associates. But this is a fantastic opportunity for your career. I spoke with Violet and they are looking for someone exactly like you. They want someone sharp, confident, opinionated. Someone who is not afraid to speak up, who will hold her own against the strong personalities in their family and keep them out of hot water. And the firm will always welcome you back, with open arms, should you change your mind—or if the role isn’t what you expect. No questions asked. You have my word.”
Kate had spent half a day thinking about it before realizing she had nothing to lose and putting herself up for the job.
And now here she was, feeling confident and capable and yes, fuck it, hot—ready to impress this infamous, aristocratic family who was known for being as beautiful as they were wealthy, and who were, according to Agatha, “extremely enthusiastic about her CV.”
When the lift doors opened to the 38th floor, a receptionist was waiting on the other side. She gave Kate a warm smile and introduced herself before ushering her towards one of several glass-enclosed conference rooms overlooking the reception area.
Once inside, Claire asked Kate if she would like still or sparkling water and then informed her that her panel of interviewers would be in shortly. She had barely handed Kate her small bottle of Perrier before three people approached the door. Two Kate recognized straight away, from her extensive interview prep: Oliver Cline, Chief Financial Officer and Daphne Bridgerton, Chief Marketing Officer. The third took a moment longer to place, not because she didn’t recognize him, but because he was not who she was expecting. The invite for the interview had told her to expect to meet with Oliver, Daphne and Anthony Bridgerton, Wisteria’s Chief Executive Officer. But the man approaching was not Anthony—although he certainly strongly resembled him.
A moment later, Benedict Bridgerton, Wisteria’s Chief People Officer, introduced himself.
As Benedict gave her a firm hand shake and a disarming smile, he said, “My apologies, Miss Sharma, for the last minute change-up. My brother Anthony is tied up at the moment, so I am stepping in for him.”
Kate tried to take the change in stride, giving Benedict a warm smile back as she continued shaking hands with Oliver and Daphne. She had read a bit about the second oldest of the fabled eight Bridgerton children—enough to not feel completely disoriented by the switch.
“No apologies necessary, Mr. Bridgerton. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
The trio sat down across the conference table from Kate—their relaxed demeanors putting her at ease. Daphne, in particular—who in a matter of seconds complimented Kate’s suit, told her how impressed she was by her CV, and asked if she wanted something to drink other than water—made Kate slightly less nervous about the next forty-five minutes.
By the time the actual interview began a few minutes later, Kate felt like the best version of herself. Relaxed, articulate, self-assured. The panel’s interview style was casual and to-the-point, asking Kate to walk through her transactional law experience, what deals she had worked on, what companies she had represented, how she viewed the nature of the relationship between an attorney and client. Did she consider herself a hands-on leader, or more of a delegator? How did she assess risk-taking in the context of a commercial transaction? When was the last time a deal she worked on had a real fire drill, and how did she handle it?
Kate answered all of the questions easily, and met their lighthearted banter with her own, earning herself a couple laughs in the process. It was one of those days when her words were flowing—coming out in the exact order she wanted, helping her toe the perfect line between confident and cocky.
By twenty minutes into the forty-five minute meeting, Kate was certain she was nailing the interview. She would hire herself, if she could.
And then the conference room door swung open again.
Kate, who was facing the door, had been so caught up in answering Oliver’s last question that she didn’t notice Anthony Bridgerton approaching. And since he didn’t knock, the first time she became aware of his presence was when he stepped into the room. Or more accurately, sauntered into the room.
Her first thought was that he was taller—and perhaps more handsome—than he appeared in photographs. Her second was that he was the sort of person that sucked all the energy out of a room the moment he stepped into it. It wasn’t just that Anthony Bridgerton had gravitas. It was that he seemed to posses the ability to rearrange the molecules in a space just by occupying it.
Kate immediately stood and began to walk towards Anthony as he approached. His eyes seemed to track her movements and after a moment, he stopped and waited for her to close the remaining distance between them.
As soon as Kate was standing before him, and without moving his gaze off her face, Anthony dropped the piece of paper in his hand onto the frosted glass tabletop. Her CV—annotated with extensive handwritten notes. His penmanship was sloppy, she couldn’t help but notice.
“Kate Sharma,” she said, jutting her hand out to shake his. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bridgerton.”
Anthony didn’t respond as their hands connected. His grip was firm, his palm cold. His dark, expressionless brown eyes moved slowly across her face—like he was cataloguing her features for a police sketch artist. He was clean-shaven, his hair styled with the perfect amount of pomade—such that you knew it was there but couldn’t actually see it—and he was wearing an impeccably-tailored navy blue suit with a crisp white shirt beneath it.
Despite his lack of a tie and his open collar, Kate was under no illusion that Anthony Bridgerton was casual or approachable. It looked like he ate glass for breakfast. His jaw clenched as he gave her another thorough once-over, and it took every ounce of self-confidence Kate possessed to keep from shrinking back.
Before Anthony said a single word, Daphne cleared her throat and interjected. “Anthony, Miss Sharma works with Agatha—she is one of Cromwell & Cowell’s most well-respected associates. I’m sure you’ve seen the email from Agatha, singing her praises.”
Anthony nodded curtly as he finally pulled his hand back from hers—just a beat or two later than Kate expected—immediately flexing it, like her hand had been clammy or unpleasant to the touch.
“I did indeed. Please, Ms. Sharma, have a seat. Do not let me interrupt the flow of the interview. Seeing as how I am late, I will just sit off to the side and observe,” Anthony said as he took a seat at the head of the long conference table, with the panel of interviewers at the center of the table to his right and Kate across from them, to his left.
As everyone took their seats again, Kate wondered if she was imagining the slight discomfort in the glances exchanged between Oliver, Daphne and Benedict. Suddenly, the nature of the interview felt noticeably less relaxed. Outwardly, Kate simply nodded and walked back to her chair.
Despite Anthony’s request, his presence in the room did disrupt the flow of the interview, as Benedict attempted to bring him up to speed on Kate’s background. About ten seconds into his brother’s summary, Anthony waved him off. “Yes, Benedict, I have reviewed her CV. I am familiar with her experience. Please do carry on with your questions. Just pretend I’m not here.”
Kate shifted in her seat and tried to keep the smile on her face. When nobody spoke for another few seconds, she felt it was her duty to get things back on track, lest the whole interview go sideways. “I believe I was in the midst of walking you all through the antitrust approval process on the last cross-border merger I worked on.”
“Ah, yes,” Daphne said immediately, flashing Kate a high-wattage smile. “It sounded like it got quite hairy there in the end, with the German regulators.”
“Yes, you know how it can be when you are managing multi-jurisdictional issues. But we worked through it and got the approvals we needed in time for closing.”
“We?” Anthony asked from the end of the table.
Kate turned to look at him, crossing her legs in the process. His eyes felt like they were piercing into her skull, so intently was he looking at her. There was no warmth in his face—not even the barest attempts at cordiality—and his permanent scowl had etched two deep lines between his brows. Anthony was either deeply irritated by Kate’s mere existence or he needed to be tested for corrective lenses.
Still, Kate refused to let Anthony see that he was beginning to rattle her. You do not need this job, Kate, she reminded herself. You do not need this job and you do not need validation from this grumpy white man.
“Yes, we. Me and my colleagues, of course.”
“Right. And how many attorneys from your firm worked on this deal?”
“On the corporate side? There were four of us. Along with colleagues in other departments.”
He nodded. “So you were not the most senior deal lawyer on the transaction? You were reporting into a partner, I presume?”
Kate gave him a tight smile. “Yes, I was. Agatha Danbury, as a matter of fact. But I can assure you that her involvement was minimal. I lead my own deals, Mr. Bridgerton. I have for a couple years now—and only bring the partners in when absolutely necessary.”
“Mmm,” Anthony said, his eyes briefly darting down to Kate’s CV before they returned to her face, as cold and sullen as before. “Do you have any experience managing a team? This role is really intended for a more senior attorney.”
And so it went. Kate defended her managerial skills, explaining she had somewhere between two to four junior associates working for her on each deal. Then Benedict chimed in, throwing her an easy, low stakes question. Kate had barely answered it when Anthony asked her how much experience she had with tax law, and whether she understood that analyzing international tax implications would be paramount in structuring Wisteria Ventures’ investments. To which Kate replied that of course she understood that, before going into detail on how she approached tax matters on her deals, getting accountants and consultants involved early and often.
The next twenty-five minutes proceeded in much the same fashion. One straightforward question from the panel, one aggressive, almost combative question from Anthony, the latter of which all seemed to circle around the same basic theme—that Kate was unqualified for the role for which she had been invited—no, encouraged—to interview.
By the end of the forty-five minute meeting, Kate was struggling to remain civil—with Anthony, certainly, but even with the rest of the panel—furious that they had wasted her time. Why bring her in for an interview if their CEO was so clearly opposed to her candidacy? Never mind that it was uncomfortable, and infuriating, being on the receiving end of this miserable man’s ire.
With every passing moment of his steadfast, searing gaze, Kate’s hackles rose just a bit further. She did her best to avoid looking at him—focusing her eyes and responses on the three friendly faces in the room—but there could have been an entire football pitch between them and Kate would still have felt the heat of Anthony Bridgerton’s glare.
It had been a long time since someone had attempted to make Kate feel so small, so insignificant. She found herself grateful that she had not crossed paths with this man any earlier in her career, because with a few years less experience—with just a little less confidence in her own abilities—meeting a man like Anthony might very well have irreparably damaged her self-image.
As it was, Kate just thought him vile. Obnoxious. Ugly.
When the interview was finally over, she practically jumped out of her seat. Kate breezed over to Anthony, holding her hand out for another shake. And this time, she held his gaze—the one that had not moved off her face for nearly fifteen minutes—because fuck him. Fuck him for thinking she would cower in his presence. He was not the first arrogant, entitled man Kate had been forced to contend with in her life, nor would he be the last.
“Mr. Bridgerton,” Kate said clasping his hand and squeezing it as she gave him a firm shake. She almost took him by the shoulders and shook those too. “Best of luck finding someone more suitable to fill this role,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly as she gave him a smile as icy as her suit.
To his brother, sister and poor Oliver, Kate forced herself back to normal, giving them the most genuine smile she could muster and thanking them for their time. They all looked visibly embarrassed. Chief People Officer Benedict, in particular, looked so apologetic and horrified that Kate had to look away.
“Let me walk you down to the lobby, Miss Sharma,” Benedict said.
“Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton, but I have taken up enough of your afternoon. I can see myself out. Have a lovely rest of your day.”
And then, without so much as a backwards glance at any of them, Kate—with her red-soled shoes and woven Italian leather handbag—strut out of that room with her head held high.
The last thing Kate heard as she turned the corner back towards the lifts was a muffled, angry voice shouting, “So you plan to hire the first person you find, just to spite me?”
~ Six Weeks Earlier
Anthony was having one of those dreams that felt like a dream even while you were in the midst of it. He had been rushing to catch the tube but his legs felt like lead. The tube station didn’t look quite right—everything shaky and distorted. Nothing about the world he was in felt real, and everything he attempted to do was bogged down and impossible. Anthony had some variation of this dream—one where he felt ineffectual and harried—frequently, so when he was jostled awake and freed from it, it was a relief.
Even if that relief was fleeting.
When he opened his eyes, he realized he was in a strange bed, being touched by a strange woman. He was nude, extremely thirsty, and had a wicked headache. He turned to look at his bedmate, but it took several seconds for her face to come into focus. She was very blond. And pretty. And had dark rings of makeup smeared beneath her eyes.
She said something—Anthony saw her lips moving—but he didn’t hear a word.
“What?” He croaked.
“Your mobile. It’s been vibrating for ages,” she said.
Anthony rolled away from her to look in the direction she had vaguely pointed. There on the nightstand was his phone. He struggled to sit up. When he looked down at the screen, his stomach sank. There were five missed calls from Benedict. Three from Daphne. And there was a text—also from Benedict.
“CALL ME.”
Anthony’s mind immediately assumed the worst. With a family as large as his—but not quite large enough—he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Every time he got a phone call or a text, he half-expected it to be news of another tragedy. Eight calls from his siblings over the course of twenty minutes—something terrible had to have happened.
Swallowing down bile, Anthony got up from the bed and stumbled towards the door, still completely naked. When he found an en-suite around the corner, he locked himself into it, swallowed a palmful of water from the tap, and called his brother back.
Benedict picked up on the first ring. “Where the fuck have you been?”
Anthony lowered himself down onto the closed toilet. “What’s happened? Are the kids alright?”
“The kids are fine. Where have you been, Ant?” Ben repeated.
“Is it Mum?” Anthony asked, wondering if he was about to be informed that they were orphans.
“Mum is fine. Everyone is fine, Anthony. Are you?”
Anthony was shaking from relief when he answered. “Bloody hell, Ben. You scared me half to death. I’m fine.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m…in my flat,” he lied.
“No. I’m in your flat. And all I see here is a few empty bottles of beer and some powdery residue on the coffee table.”
Fuck. “That’s not…I had some mates over. What the hell are you doing at my flat at….” Anthony pulled the phone away from his ear to check the time. When he saw it was half past ten, he cursed again. “Shit,” he said into the speaker. “Shit. I overslept.”
“Yes, I know. It’s a weekday, Anthony. Since when do you go this hard on a Tuesday night?”
“Since when are you so self-righteous? So I’ll be a couple hours late to the office. Last I checked, I don’t work for you, Benedict.”
“Technically, you do. Technically, you work for all of us, and all of us work for you. And I came by your flat to check on you—to reassure you it would all be alright, that things like this happen—but apparently that was a bit premature. You don’t even know what you need to be upset about yet.”
Anthony’s stomach sank again. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Project Porto, Anthony. I’m talking about the emails that have been coming in all morning. I’m talking about them having filed for bankruptcy,” Benedict said.
“Wait, what?”
Project Porto was the latest real estate investment Anthony had spearheaded as Chief Executive Officer of Wisteria Ventures, the Bridgerton family office.
Their ‘family office’—which was really just corporate speak for the maze of legal entities through which his family managed their wealth—oversaw their real estate investments, clean energy investments, technology investments, dozens of living trusts, a non-profit, and other affiliated sister entities. Over the years—beginning during Anthony’s father’s tenure as CEO, continuing during the years their father’s best friend (and Anthony’s godfather) served as both CEO and CFO, and now during Anthony’s reign—Wisteria Ventures had expanded into a real company, with nearly forty employees. They had c-suite executives, accountants, investment analysts, administrative staff—half of whom Anthony had interviewed and hired himself. They were one of Britain’s largest family offices.
Thirty-three-year-old Anthony Bridgerton managed it all, and had since the year after he graduated from Oxford with a joint degree in law and business. This was no small feat, given that his first year at university had been interrupted by the tragic, untimely death of his father, the sudden and prolonged severe depression of his mother, and the many months it had taken to find some semblance of stability within the shattered family left behind. But somehow, Anthony and his family had come out on the other side—not unscathed, but still standing—with the battle scars to prove it.
Anthony was hovering over the sink, cupping more water directly from the tap into his mouth as he shook his head. “That’s impossible, Ben. We just invested ten million pounds into the development company last month—they haven’t even finished digging the foundation for the hotel. The pitch deck from Monday’s status meeting has all the details.”
Benedict sighed. “No, Ant. It doesn’t. Our buddies over in Portugal committed what can only be categorized as some light accounting fraud. Apparently, their financials were not as rosy as they presented them to be, and most of what we invested has already been used to pay off existing creditors we did not know existed. The rest was used for payroll and other carrying costs. They are already out of money. Their subs have stopped work—construction is halted.”
“That’s impossible,” Anthony repeated, less confidently this time. “We saw…financials. Extensive financials.”
“Not audited financials, we didn’t. There was no time, remember?”
“There…there has to be some kind of mistake. We did diligence, Ben.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you Anthony, but they’re broke. Listen, it’s not the end of the world—maybe the lawyers can find some kind of contractual loophole and try and get us back some of our money. But based on the fifty emails exchanged between the deal team this morning, it’s not looking promising.”
Anthony didn’t say anything. He just collapsed back on the closed toilet and dropped his head into his hand. “This makes no sense,” he muttered. “I’m sure there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.”
“Yeah, maybe. Just…get yourself into the office, Ant. We’ll sort it out. It’ll be alright.”
“Yeah, okay.
Anthony put his phone on the vanity, stood up, opened the lid to the toilet, and emptied the contents of his stomach.
~ Two Weeks Later
It was never a good sign when you were called into a meeting room to find a small group of people already assembled, clearly having just finished speaking about you. It’s an even worse sign when all of those people are your family—your mother, your brother and sister, your godfather—and they are either giving you nervous glances or avoiding eye contact altogether.
Anthony tried to remain impassive, his expression neutral as he shut the door and walked to the head of the conference table to sit down. He immediately leaned against the high-backed, ergonomic mesh chair—the ones they had spent a fortune outfitting the office with, at his instance.
“So, what’s this all about,” he asked, rubbing his chin. “Have we run out of Nespresso pods again?”
Oliver Cline, Wisteria’s CFO and Anthony’s godfather, forced a smile. Then he looked to Violet, who looked to Daphne, who looked to Ben. It was his little brother who finally spoke, breaking the visual ricochet.
“We think it’s time to hire a chief legal officer and general counsel, Anthony.”
It took Anthony a moment to process the suggestion—because it was hardly earth-shattering news, was it. Family office hires GC. Call the Times.
“Alright…” he said, slowly. “I have actually been thinking it’s about time we hired one as well. We’ll engage a search firm—draft a job spec, start interviewing people. We can get someone in by year-end—Q1 2025 at the latest.”
Six or seven months seemed like enough time to find an exceptional general counsel, Anthony thought. When this family exchanged another round of nervous glances, he knew there was a catch.
Oliver cleared his throat. “Actually, we were thinking we’d get someone in sooner. Much sooner. As soon as possible, actually.”
“Alright….Is there a reason to rush, Oliver?” Anthony asked, understanding slowly dawning. “Has something…happened, necessitating the hasty hiring of such a key role?” He added. Because fuck them—Anthony was going to make them say it.
It was apparently Daphne’s turn to speak. Anthony wondered if they had assigned talking points beforehand. “We just think…you’ve been spread too thin, for too long, Ant. We’re too large of an organization to have you moonlighting as our lawyer on deals. It’s not fair to you.”
Anthony clenched his jaw. Their condescending tones alone were going to drive him mad. “Oh, is that what this is about, Daph? What is fair to me? How considerate of you lot.”
Nobody said anything.
“Fine. Fine. So we’ll start an expedited search. I’ll call my preferred headhunter—have my assistant run the process. Whomever we hire will be reporting into me, so it makes sense that I should run point. We can probably get someone in by end of summer. Early fall at the latest.”
It was his mother who delivered the final blow. Fitting, really. “Actually, Anthony, given all the people you presently manage, we thought maybe it would be best to have the GC report directly into Oliver. One less thing on your plate. You’ll interview the candidates, of course. We want your opinion on who we ultimately hire.”
Anthony actually laughed. A short, bitter chuckle that made his sister visibly cringe. “Oh, well that’s a bloody relief, seeing as how I’m the bloody CEO of the company,” he said. “So we’re not just hiring a GC. We’re hiring a little babysitter for me, is that it? Someone to keep an eye on me? Check my shoddy work?”
“Anthony, that’s not what thi—“
He held up his hand, cutting Benedict off. “You know what, this is complete bollocks—this isn’t a meeting, it’s a goddamn performance review. For the last bloody time, I’m not the only person responsible for Project Porto. It was a team effort. We all liked the deal. You all sit on the board, you all approved the investment, just as I did. We had accountants, outside counsel, a bloody consultant, look at the deal. No one realized they were reporting fake numbers. How is this falling on me and me alone?”
That was all technically true, but it didn’t really tell the whole story. Because while everybody had liked the deal, Porto had been Anthony’s brainchild, and it was clear his family blamed him for it being such an epic failure. Anthony had been the one who put it in front of the board. He had been the one who had agreed to the real estate developer’s expedited timeline, which had been the primary reason why so many red and yellow flags had been overlooked. And he had been the one to rush their outside counsel through the legal documentation, all-but guaranteeing the language wasn’t as tight and protective as it could have been. Near the end of the transaction, Anthony had been the one who minimized the role of their outside counsel, claiming they weren’t working fast enough—claiming he could review the documents himself.
Anthony had a habit of doing that—of masquerading as an attorney—when he really wasn’t one. Sure, he had a law degree, but he had never trained at a firm. He had gone straight from school to Wisteria Ventures, where it had been trial by fire. Everything he knew about managing his family’s business he had learned putting in seventy, eighty hour weeks for the last decade of his life.
And until recently, Anthony’s strategy had been highly effective. He had trained under Oliver for nearly five years before taking over as CEO, with Oliver’s full support and encouragement. And his mentor and godfather had stayed on board, happily returning to the CFO role he had occupied while Edmund Bridgerton was alive. Together, Anthony and Oliver had ushered Wisteria Ventures into an era of massive growth and unprecedented returns.
Anthony may have been young, but he was smart, he was great with numbers, and he had inherited his father’s business acumen. He was also a natural at schmoozing and negotiating, just as his father had been. Oliver, who was more bookish and unassuming, had seemed relieved to have someone more like Edmund to whom to hand the executive function.
If that was where the story had ended, Anthony would have felt fully justified in calling his family ungrateful traitors. But it wasn’t quite that simple. Because recently, he had been fledgling. Slipping—both personally and professionally. He and his very on-again, off-again girlfriend of almost two years—who was both an aspiring pop star with a large social media presence, and almost six years his junior—had had an ugly, public break up. Public not because it happened in public, but public because Taryn had blasted very private, and very embarrassing details of their relationship, their non-monogamous sex life, and their breakup, to TikTok—in a series of drunken posts she made after a show one night.
There had been several posts, but the gist of all of them was that Anthony was a prick, who even after years of dating, refused to commit to her, refused to introduce her to his family, refused to love her. All of which was true, but had no business being monetized for clicks and clout.
Anthony’s personal attorney had threatened Taryn with a lawsuit and demanded she take the videos down, which she had, but it was too late. The internet was permanent, and while Anthony’s ex-girlfriend was hardly Taylor Swift, she did have a couple million followers across all of her social media platforms, so news had spread. And because Anthony and his very large, very wealthy family were well known by the British press—in the way all blue-blooded families were—Taryn’s videos had been tabloid fodder for weeks.
That had been a little over a year ago, and Anthony was just now recovering from the humiliation. The worst part had been having to tell Hyacinth and Gregory not to watch any of the clips, and not knowing if they had listened. But, as with all minor scandals, this one too had eventually faded into obscurity.
Anthony had just gotten his footing again when the next blow came. He came to learn that Daphne had been shagging his best mate of many years, Simon Bassett, for months. Simon and Anthony had been roommates at Eton, had spent an entire term hating one another before they finally beat the shite out of each other—Anthony taking it better than he gave—and then, as they sat there bloodied and bruised, started to realize they had more in common than either cared to admit. A reluctant friendship had been forged that day. Several years later, when Anthony’s father died in a car accident, Simon had been one of the few people Anthony felt he could confide in.
So to catch Daphne and Simon making out at a party they didn’t think he would attend—to learn that they had been carrying on behind his back for months—was even more humiliating than the mess with Taryn. And of course Anthony had reacted poorly, lecturing Daphne about Simon’s storied sexual history, the sea of models and socialites and married, older women he funneled in and out of his flat, the complete aversion he had to commitment or monogamy of any kind. And of course Daphne had told him to fuck right off, that the last thing she needed was relationship advice from him. And of course Simon had taken Daphne’s side.
Anthony hadn’t spoken to either of them for weeks after, his silence fueled by some toxic combination of hurt and anger.
That too had blown over, eventually. Simon had come over to Anthony’s flat and apologized for lying to him, letting him know, with tears in his eyes, that he loved Daphne—that she made him want to be a better man—that he was happier than he had ever been in his life. And that he hoped that Anthony of all people could understand why, after a lifetime spent alone, Simon couldn’t let Daphne go—not even if it meant hurting his best mate. Anthony had taken one look at his normally stoic friend and known he was telling the truth. And after that, there was really nothing left to fight over. Daphne, who had apparently just been loitering outside Anthony’s door, came in. More apologies and tears had been exchanged and everyone had done their best to move forward.
Nevertheless, these two incidents had served as a significant distraction to Anthony. They hadn’t taken up his time so much as they had diverted his attention, made him less focused, less sharp, at work. He had known it too—had known he wasn’t putting in the hours, wasn’t reading documents carefully enough, wasn’t asking the right questions.
But he thought he could get away with it for just a few months. And he almost had. When the Project Porto deal closed without a hitch, Anthony thought he had survived this exhausting chapter of his life without any permanent damage. He had even congratulated himself on being so good at compartmentalizing.
Only he hadn’t, apparently. Only Anthony had failed, and everybody he loved—everybody he had spent his entire adult life working to support and protect—knew it.
And his punishment?
This meeting. This little personal and professional ambush. His family and friends thinking he was too daft to realize when he was being sidelined and disrespected.
After everything Anthony had done for his family and their business, one mistake—one lapse in judgment—was apparently all it took for him to be treated as a pariah.
Anthony stood up and walked out of the room without another word.
Kate was clicking and clacking her way back through the lobby, contemplating where she should go to have the world’s largest glass of wine, when someone shouted her name from a distance.
She turned to find Daphne Bridgerton jogging towards her—no small feat since she too was in teetering heels. Several paces behind her was Benedict, walking briskly in the same direction.
When the two siblings were standing in front of Kate again, and before she could say a word, Daphne gave her a wide-eyed, hopeful look and said, “we’d like you to come back in tomorrow—to meet with our mother. It would be a formality, more of a rubber stamp, really. But she is still involved with the business, so she would like to meet the person we hire for the role.”
Kate blinked slowly. “I beg your pardon?”
“We are going to make you an offer. We love you—we think you’ll be perfect for this position.”
Kate actually turned around to see if perhaps there was someone standing behind her—someone who had not just been disparaged by their CEO.
“Miss Bridgert—”
“Daphne, please.”
“Daphne, while I appreciate the opportunity to meet with your mother, I cannot accept it, nor would I ever accept an offer to work for you.”
“Why? Because of my brother?”
Kate was almost incredulous when she replied. Had they not all been in the same conference room just now? “Yes. Because of your brother. Because your brother is the CEO of this company, and short of smashing a pie in my face, he could not have made his disapproval of my candidacy more clear. I am a professional, Daphne, and a damn good attorney, and I like my current job too much to come work in a place where the leadership will be openly hostile and rude to me.”
Daphne elbowed Benedict, who until then had been silently listening to their exchange.
“Well,” he said with a nod. “I cannot say I blame you, Miss Sharma.”
“Bened—” Daphne started to say, but her brother gestured to allow him to continue.
“After how that interview went, I actually think you not wanting to work with us is a positive reflection of your character. I wouldn’t want to work for us either.”
Kate nodded slowly but didn’t speak. She suspected there was more coming. Either that or this was the worst sales pitch she had ever heard.
“But here’s why you should anyway,” Benedict continued. “Because despite his unacceptable behavior in that meeting, my brother is the best boss you will ever work for—sharp as a tack, hardworking almost to a fault, and incredibly protective and respectful of his employees. His behavior in that meeting was not reflective of his true character, and I assure you, the hostility you sensed had absolutely nothing to do with you. We are in the midst of a…leadership disagreement, which is made more complicated by the fact that we are a family.”
It felt like it had a little to do with me, Kate almost quipped. Instead, she took a deep breath while she considered the very generous characterization of Anthony that she had just heard—and the undeniable sincerity in Benedict’s voice as he said it.
“All the more reason for me to turn down this role, Mr. Bridgerton. I have no interest in stepping into the middle of what is evidently a messy, family conflict. I am not the right person for this job.”
“We think you are the perfect person for this job, Kate. We have spoken to Agatha about you. She says you are an exceptional attorney, not just on the technical front, but on the interpersonal front. You know how to lead a team, how to juggle multiple deals at once, how to get opposing counsel to trust you. That is what we need for this role. And as for the family conflict, it will be resolved by the time you start. You have my word. Benedict is right. What you saw was not…that is not Anthony. Not the real Anthony, anyway. You caught him at a tough time. It is not an excuse for his lack of professionalism, but I swear you to you, he will come around.”
Kate opened her mouth to again reiterate that she had no interest in putting herself in the middle of whatever familial discord had precipitated that interview, when Benedict launched into the compensation package they were planning to offer her. He led with a six-figure sign on bonus that would allow Kate to pay off the last bit of her stepmum’s mortgage and little sister’s student loans—buy herself that new Bottega she had been eying for months—all while putting a sizable chunk of cash into her savings account.
The rest of the compensation package was similarly eye-popping. Golden handcuffs in the truest sense of the word. Benedict also promised her work-life balance—far fewer hours than Kate was currently putting in at the office—an expense account, car service to and from work, a lunch per diem, the list went on and on, to the point where even Daphne began to look sheepish. Kate worried that if Benedict kept going, the offer would soon be too lucrative to walk away from.
“Benedict, this is a very…generous offer—one almost too good to refuse, which I suspect is the point—but unfortunately….”
They were talking over one another now.
“…and as for Anthony, his bark really is worse than his bite….”
“…I do not like being barked at any more than I like being bitten….”
Benedict laughed at that. He looked so much like this older brother that Kate had to remind herself they were different people.
Daphne waited until both Benedict and Kate had stopped speaking to say her piece. “Kate, I sympathize with your position, I really do. So how about this. Give us six months. Six months to prove that Wisteria Ventures is great place to work—one where your opinions and experience will not only be respected, but celebrated—and that we are a nice family who is just experiencing some…growing pains. Six months. If, after that, you still don’t want to be here, you can return to your firm—where we both know Agatha will be thrilled to welcome you back. And you get to keep your signing bonus.”
“Which we will double,” Benedict offered.
Ah fuck, Kate thought. Fuck fuck fuck.