Page 1 of Matrimonial Merger

PART I

THE TAKEOVER

PART I

THE TAKEOVER

1.KNACKERED

Daphne

“You look really tired,”my brother Davey said, concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay, Daph?”

“I’m good,” I promised, covering a yawn.

“Let me bring you home?—”

“No, I’m good. Are you okay with the presentation?”

“Got it,” Davey closed his laptop. “I am a big boy. The spring campaign will be a hit. Promise.”

I smiled, proud of myself. We had new brand partnerships rolling in. Licensing deals were my new favorite topic. And yet? I was having a hard time feeling joy today. I felt under the weather and exhausted. I should have been excited about announcing our new exclusive handbag deal. Instead, I wanted to crawl into bed and go to sleep.

My brother stopped by the door. “You sure you don’t want a ride?—”

“I’m going to Mum’s,” I said. “I need to pick up a dress and shoes from my closet there.”

“Fundraiser?” Davey said.

“The mayor’s fiancee needs to look beautiful.” I rolled my eyes. “So, here we go. Mum had the housekeeper steam a couple options.”

“Well, good luck, First Lady of Chicago,” Davey teased. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”

I gave him a playful salute and slipped my computer in my briefcase. Off I went to my family’s home on North Astor Street. Cal, my fiancé, and I moved in together months ago—seemingly piece-by-piece. Both busy beyond recognition, we struggled with a focus on moving everything at once. Thus, most of my evening gowns still resided in my childhood closet.

When I arrived back home, I tossed my bag and shoes aside.

“Who is it?” Mum called from the formal living room. It was our housekeeper’s day off.

I called out, “Daphne. I’m just here for a dress!”

My mother was busy with something else and thankfully just responded, “Ah, yes.”

It left me alone to go upstairs and sort through the options on my own. I’d amassed a collection of dresses fit for a queen in the fall, always on display as Cal’s girlfriend. But after our engagement was announced over Thanksgiving, my social calendar exploded more. This week, we had three Christmas parties to attend—thankfully only one was white-tie. In the new year, I was looking down the nose of multiple engagements a week of varying formality. Thankfully, when your family owned a high-end department store and you spent sixty hours a week there, you could grab whatever you wanted the minute it showed up. The personal stylists knew to call me when they got something good.

“It’s Christmas. Go with the red.”

I turned, seeing my mother in peripheral.

“I dunno. I thought black was fine.”

“Oh, no, darling! Impossible! It’s a party! What is it for?”

“This is for the Chicago Democrats,” I said.

“Black is in poor taste. The Lanvin is much better.”

“How did you?—”

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