Author's Preface
[Irene]
The formal invitation from my uncle Arthur arrives on thick, cream cardstock.
It’s a calculated gesture from a man who hasn't spoken to me in weeks, meant to signal a sudden family unity now that Verin money is involved.
When the sleek black car pulls up to the gates of my childhood home, the sprawling estate looks as imposing as ever.
Inside, the atmosphere is heavy with awkward politeness and underlying tension.
Arthur has arranged this dinner to assess the man who now holds our family’s finances in his grip.
He has invited Jude and me under the guise of a quiet homecoming.
As we step into the grand foyer, Jude’s hand moves smoothly to the small of my back.
His touch is warm and steady, a gentle pressure that feels terrifyingly natural.
"Smile," Jude murmurs near my ear, his voice quiet, carrying an intimate warmth as Arthur steps forward to receive us.
"Uncle Arthur," I say, keeping my posture straight and my tone perfectly even as I lean into Jude’s side just enough to play my part.
Arthur’s greeting is stiff.
He offers Jude a formal handshake, his eyes scanning my husband with a sharp, cautious scrutiny.
They aren't close—far from it.
My family fears the Verin name, and Arthur treats Jude like an unpredictable business rival he’s forced to host.
"Mr. Verin," Arthur says, his voice clipped and polite as he leads us into the dining room. "Thank you for making the time."
"Call me Jude, Arthur," he replies, his tone easy and polite, completely unbothered by the cold reception.
[ *** ]
Dinner is an exercise in rigid formalities.
Sitting at the head of the long table, Arthur keeps the conversation strictly bound to corporate politics and neutral ground, clearing his throat before every question.
Across the table sits my cousin Mona.
She wears an outrageously lavish, low-cut silk dress—an outfit far too glamorous for a tense family dinner.
She doesn't say anything outright, but her actions speak volumes.
Every few minutes, she shifts in her chair, letting the silk slide slightly off her shoulder.
She sips her wine slowly, her eyes tracking Jude’s hands every time he cuts his food or reaches for his glass.
When Jude speaks, Mona leans forward, resting her chin in her hands and laughing softly at his brief, dry remarks, her gaze lingering on his lips a second too long.
Jude plays his part with terrifying precision.
He doesn't seem to encourage Mona, but he doesn't brush her off either, giving her just enough polite eye contact to keep her preening.
All the while, his left hand rests casually on the back of my chair.
Throughout the meal, he leans down to whisper minor observations into my ear, brushing his thumb lightly against my collarbone as if we share a dozen private jokes.
To my family, he looks like a man utterly captivated by his new wife.
Leo sits farther down the table.
He stays mostly silent, his fork picking at his plate as his eyes track every move Jude makes.
Whenever Jude touches my shoulder or leans in close, I catch Leo’s gaze across the table—a silent, tense exchange of questions.
[ *** ]
When the main course is over, I excuse myself and step through the glass doors onto the cool, dark lawn, escaping the tension inside.
A minute later, the soft crunch of gravel signals Leo’s approach.
He stops beside the manicured hedges, hidden from the house.
"He’s playing a deep game, Irene," Leo whispers, his eyes scanning the dark garden.
"The way he’s acting in there... it’s clean. Too clean."
"It’s for Arthur," I say softly, keeping my eyes on the distant gates.
"Maybe he wants them to think I'm completely settled so they don't question the ledger transfers."
"Just watch yourself," Leo mutters, stepping an inch closer.
" Mona is practically falling head over heels , and he’s using it to keep everyone distracted."
"I know," I say. "Keep your distance tonight."
Neither of us notices the figure standing quietly on the dark second-floor balcony above.
High in the shadows, Jude stands motionless against the stone railing, watching the two of us talk in the garden below.
[ *** ]
When we head back inside, the evening is wrapping up.
I turn to Arthur, keeping my voice mild.
"Uncle Arthur, I’d like to stay the night here. It’s been a while, and there are a few family documents I want to look through in the morning."
I brace myself for Jude to shut it down.
I expect a smooth excuse about our schedule or a firm insistence that we return to his estate.
Instead, Jude steps up beside me, his fingers slipping comfortably between mine.
"That sounds like a wonderful idea," he says, gazing down at me with easy affection.
"You’ve been working so hard lately, Irene. A night in your old room will do you good. I'll stay with you."
Arthur looks surprised, nodding stiffly in agreement.
My mind spins.
Why agree? Why leave his secure house?
Jude doesn't do favors.
Every move he makes is calculated, and I can't read the board this time.
[ *** ]
By midnight, the house is dead quiet.
Arthur’s staff has prepared the primary guest suite in the west wing.
It’s a large, old-fashioned room that smells of old wood, dominated by a massive king-sized bed.
Without a word, we settle on opposite sides of the bed.
Jude lies on the left, and I take the right.
We lie in absolute silence, two shadows separated by a wide stretch of mattress.
Hours pass.
Sometime around three in the morning, the summer heat wakes me.
The old house seems to hold every degree of it, leaving the room stifling beneath the covers.
I shift, trying to find a cooler spot, and feel something warm pressed against my back.
My eyes open, and I realize Jude is no longer on his side of the bed.
He has moved close enough that his bare chest rests against me, one arm wrapped around my waist, his hand spread over my stomach.
His shirt lies somewhere behind him, abandoned in the heat.
His face is near the crook of my neck, his breathing slow and even against my skin.
We are pressed together in the dark, his arm holding me so firmly that, for a second, I can barely breathe.
For a moment, I lie still, trying to make sense of how we ended up like this.
Then irritation cuts through my sleepiness.
"Jude," I mutter under my breath.
He doesn't respond.
His arm remains around my waist, his grip firm even in sleep.
I turn my head slightly.
His face is relaxed against the pillow, his eyes still closed.
Whether he's genuinely asleep or simply better at pretending than I give him credit for, I can't tell.
Annoyed, I plant my hand flat against his bare shoulder and push him away.
He lets out a low, rough murmur as his arm slides away.
Still asleep, he rolls back toward his side of the bed.
I sit up instantly, pulling the heavy blanket off my legs.
I march over to the armchair by the window, grab two thick decorative pillows, and bring them back to the mattress.
I slam the pillows down directly along the center of the bed, building a firm wall right between us.
I lie back down on the very edge of my side, pulling a thin sheet over my shoulders and staring up at the dark ceiling.
Across the barrier of pillows, Jude breathes evenly in the dark.
He’s letting me stay here.
He’s playing the devoted husband.
He’s letting Mona preen while he works his subtle leverage on everyone.
I pull the sheet tight, my jaw set.
Whatever game he’s playing, I’m going to figure it out.
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