Chapter 63: Counting On It

NORA’S POV

The interior of the car smelled like polish and cold air. As the tinted windows rolled up, the noisy campus evening faded away.

Knox was sitting next to me in the back seat, his broad frame taking up most of the space. He wore a tailored black suit with an unbuttoned white shirt inside, no tie, and his tousled dark hair was perfectly styled.

He looked lethally handsome, and entirely out of place for a college athlete heading to a quiet dinner.

I looked down at the navy dress Priya had made me wear. It fit perfectly, and the neckline sat neatly against my collarbones.

Knox’s dark eyes swept over me in the dim interior lighting, his gaze lingering on my face for a long, silent beat.

"You look..." he started, his raspy voice dropping into a low rumble before he caught himself. He cleared his throat, leaning back against the leather headrest. "Priya did a good job."

"So you think Priya gets all the credit?" I asked, raising an eyebrow with a subtle tilt of my head. "As if I didn’t put any effort into looking this good for you and your father?"

A slow, familiar smirk tugged at the corner of Knox’s lips, his dark eyes glinting in the dim light. "You always look good, Bennett. Priya just gave you the armour."

"It’s definitely armour, Sheridan," I murmured, adjusting the strap of my clutch bag on my lap. "Remember the deal. I’m going as myself, and I’m not keeping quiet for your father or Harold Orwell."

"I’m counting on it, Bookworm."

He leaned closer as the SUV glided down the highway, his broad shoulder brushing against mine as he gave me the breakdown of who was waiting for us inside.

"My father reserved the private glass suite on the top floor of the Grand Harbor Club. Harold Orwell is sitting on his left. Vanessa is sitting next to Harold. The rest of the table is filled with Briar’s top corporate donors and real estate trustees."

"So your father thinks he’s staging a trophy family reunion," I noted.

"He thinks he summoned his obedient son to fall in line, take Vanessa’s hand, and smile for the board," Knox said with a dark glint flashing in his eyes. "He has no idea what he’s about to walk into."

—

The Grand Harbor Club stood by the water, looking like a rich and powerful fortress.

Valets in white jackets opened the SUV doors as we pulled up beneath the grand portico. Massive marble pillars lined the entrance, and the faint sound of a live classical piano ensemble drifted through the heated glass foyer.

Knox stepped out first, offering his broad hand to help me down onto the polished stone pavement.

As soon as my heels touched the ground, Knox slid his hand firmly around mine, lacing his fingers through mine with a steady, possessive grip that left zero room for hesitation.

We walked through the grand lobby, past crystal chandeliers and high-society patrons in tuxedos and silk gowns.

Knox didn’t hurry. He walked with the effortless, arrogant grace of a guy who owned every room he stepped into, carrying himself like a captain leading his team onto the ice.

We reached the top floor. The double mahogany doors of the private glass suite were standing slightly open.

Knox didn’t knock. He pushed the heavy doors open, leading me straight into the room.

The private dining room was elegant. A long wooden table sat in the center, set with fine china and silver. FLoor-to-ceiling windows offered a clear view of the harbor outside.

The low hum of polite conversation died instantly and eight pairs of eyes turned toward the entrance.

Garrison Sheridan was sitting at the head of the long table, wearing a tailored charcoal suit, a glass of expensive scotch in his hand. Harold Orwell sat on his left, his balding head gleaming under the chandelier light.

And sitting next to Harold was Vanessa Orwell.

She was dressed in a backless emerald designer gown, her blonde hair styled into soft, expensive waves, her diamond earrings sparkling under the lights. She had been leaning forward, her champagne glass suspended in mid-air as if expecting Knox to walk in alone and take the empty chair beside her.

Garrison’s face turned to ice, and his grip tightened on his scotch glass. Harold Orwell blinked in utter shock, his fork hovering above his plate.

Vanessa’s sweet, expectant expression shattered instantly, replaced by a flash of raw, white-hot fury as her eyes locked onto my hand laced tightly with Knox’s.

Knox didn’t say a word to excuse our entrance.

He walked straight up to the head table, pulled out the high-backed velvet chair directly across from Harold and Vanessa, and guided me into it like a queen.

Only after I was comfortably seated did Knox take the chair beside me, resting his forearm on the table with total composure.

"Good evening, Dad," Knox said in a low voice, breaking the suffocating silence of the room. "Sorry we’re late. Traffic on the bridge."

Garrison set his glass down on the wood with a hard, deliberate thud.

"Knox," Garrison called in a flat, emotionless tone. "You were instructed to come alone."

"I was instructed to attend," Knox countered calmly, looking his father straight in the eye. "And I don’t go anywhere without my girlfriend."

A quiet gasp rippled through two of the corporate trustees sitting at the middle of the table.

Vanessa let out a quiet scoff, setting her champagne glass down hard enough to splash the liquid over the stem. She adjusted her diamond bracelet, her eyes narrowing into sharp slits as she looked across the table at me and spoke with a condescending sweet voice.

"I didn’t realize the Grand Harbor Club relaxed its dress code for work-study diner help."

The room went dead silent again. A couple of the older real estate donors exchanged uncomfortable glances, waiting to see if I would blush, shrink back, or look down at my plate.

I didn’t flinch.

I unfolded my linen napkin, placing it neatly over my lap. I looked straight across the table into Vanessa’s glare, allowing a calm, polite smile to touch my lips.

"The dress code is fine, Vanessa; though I can see why someone who relies on her father’s donor status might struggle to understand the difference between academic employment and simple entitlement."

Harold Orwell choked slightly on his water.

One of the senior Briar trustees at the end of the table cleared his throat, trying to hide a genuine smirk behind his hand.

Vanessa’s cheeks flushed bright red. "Excuse me?"

"You’re excused," I replied calmly, taking a small sip of my iced water. "And if we’re discussing Briar’s real estate development proposal for the new athletic annex, which I noticed on Mr. Orwell’s briefing folder, the tax exemption clause under Section Four is miscalculated by two percent based on current municipal guidelines."

Harold Orwell froze, his eyes widening as he quickly looked down at the paper folder in front of his plate. He flipped the page, scanned the numbers, and let out a stunned grunt.

"She’s... she’s right," Harold muttered, glancing at Garrison in utter disbelief. "The municipal tax credit was misapplied."

Knox leaned back in his velvet chair with a smirk spreading across his face. He rested his hand on the back of my chair, his fingers lightly touching my shoulder for everyone at the table to see.

"Nora isn’t just my tutor, Harold," Knox said in a calm voice. "She’s the reason I’m pulling a B in macroeconomics, and she’s the only one sitting next to me tonight."

Garrison’s jaw tightened, a muscle pulsing near his ear. He glared at me from across the table, his eyes filled with cold, dangerous rage.

The waiters began serving the first course, setting bowls of cream of mushroom soup and artisan bread before the guests. The conversation at the table resumed in hushed, nervous tones, the corporate trustees suddenly looking at me with a newfound sense of respect.

Vanessa sat rigidly across from me, her knuckles white as she gripped her silver spoon, her eyes burning with pure hatred.

Ten minutes into the meal, Vanessa reached across the wooden table for the crystal water carafe.

She didn’t fumble. She didn’t trip.

With a deliberate flick of her wrist, Vanessa tilted the heavy glass carafe, sending a full glass of dark red cabernet wine splashing straight across the front of my navy dress.

The cold, wet liquid soaked instantly through the fabric of my bodice.

A collective gasp echoed around the head table.

"Oh, my goodness!" Vanessa cried out in a loud, dramatic voice, dripping with fake horror as she pulled her hands back. "Nora, sweetie! I am so, so clumsy! I am so sorry!"

Knox slammed his hand on the table, starting to rise from his chair with a dark growl. "Vanessa, what the fuck..."

"It’s fine, Knox," I said quickly, holding up a hand to stop him before he could start a physical brawl in front of the board.

I looked down at the dark wine stain ruining Priya’s navy dress, then looked up into Vanessa’s smug, triumphant eyes.

"Please, come to the ladies’ lounge with me right now," Vanessa insisted, standing up from her chair with a sweet, dramatic smile. "Let me help you dab that out before the fabric sets."

"That won’t be necessary..." Knox began.

"It’s fine, Sheridan," I repeated, meeting his dark, furious gaze with a calm, unbothered nod. "I’ll be right back."

I stood up from the table, smoothing down my coat over the wet stain, and followed Vanessa out of the private glass suite.

—

We walked down the long, carpeted corridor in complete silence.

The sound of classical piano music faded as we turned the corner toward the private executive restrooms at the end of the hall.

Vanessa pushed open the heavy mahogany door of the ladies’ lounge, stepping inside first. I followed her into the luxurious space.

The lounge was breathtaking... floored in white Italian marble, lit by vanity mirrors and crystal wall sconces, with plush velvet armchairs resting near a gold-framed vanity mirror.

As soon as both of my heels cleared the threshold, Vanessa reached back with one hand.

CLICK.

She turned the heavy brass lock on the door shut.

The deadbolt clicked into place with a sharp metallic sound that echoed off the white marble walls.

Vanessa turned around slowly, resting her back against the locked door.

The fake, sweet smile she had worn at the dinner table vanished completely, replaced by a cold, venomous sneer that made the temperature in the room plunge to absolute zero.

She crossed her arms over her backless emerald dress, her eyes narrowing as she looked me up and down.

"Now," she murmured, her voice dropping into a low, lethal purr. "Where were we?"