The glass snaps in her hand. Crystal stem cracked in two. The server rushes over, fussing, but she waves him off with a sharp, “I’m fine.”
He replaces the glass. We’re alone again.
“The Murphy name keeps her safe,” Declan continues. “Until I find out who’s behind it all, she stays with me. My wife to the world.”
His lips slowly curl into a knowing smile. “Do you know a Milo?”
“No.”
Her answer is too fast. Too crisp. My stomach tightens.
Milo. Mario. Names blurring in my head. I cut a sidelong glance at him. Does he think we’re both playing games?
“Just asking.” He slides my untouched salad plate away and replaces it with the chicken and mashed potatoes. “Eat.”
“She needs to watch her weight, especially now,” my mother snaps. “With an injury?—”
“Marlowe can eat what she wants,” he says. “And she needs protein. She likes this dish. We’ve had it before. That’s why I ordered it. Plain salad isn’t a meal, it’s a punishment. Especially without dressing.”
Mom’s eyes narrow. “You’re not actually her husband, you know. You’re just her bodyguard. Maybe sheshouldbe home.”
“Let me make this very clear.” Declan leans forward, tone dropping. “You hired me to keep her safe. I’m doing that. My way. She stays with the Murphys until every threat is neutralized.”
“You’re right.” Mom closes her eyes briefly. “I want her safe. My daughter comes first.”
“Then we keep going.” He glances at me, then back at her. “If her injury ends her career, I think she’s okay with that. Aren’t you, Marlowe?”
I stare at the mashed potatoes. Why can’t I just say it? Say I don’t want what she wants for me?
I drag in a breath and meet her copper-colored eyes, so much like mine and yet so cold. “I’m okay with that.”
Her mouth tightens. “We’ll talk later, Marlowe.”
“Ballet is not important right now,” Declan says. “Her safety is. Clearing her name is. You have to trust me.”
“In protecting her,” Mom says, “I will.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep your tiny dancer safe and sound and protected.”
He stands and hails over a passing waiter. “We’ll take her meal to go.”
Declan leans against the wall outside the director’s office when I come out of my “not quitting” meeting. It’s a hiatus. A pause. A polite way of sayingwe’ll see.
He stares at his phone, thumbs moving, voice low and relaxed as he talks, like he is actually focused on the person on the other end.
The second I step out, his fingers slow and he pops the AirPod out of his ear. His gaze lifts to me and a delicious chill shimmies down my spine as his aqua eyes lap me up like a dog at a water bowl on a hot day.
There’s so much I want to say.
About the way he handled Mom.
About the way he slid the real food in front of me like it was non-negotiable.
He might not like me the way I like him, but he definitely likes Mom way less, and I…don’t know what to do with that.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says, pushing off the wall.
He looks past my shoulder and his whole body goes subtly tense.
