The corner of her mouth twitched. Her posture changed as she shifted in her seat, subtly, legs still crossed. The tips of her ears turned pink, and if I were a man with a death wish, I would have checked to see if her nipples were hard.
But even my depravity had limits.
And I knew—I fucking knew—that now she’d be thinking about it all night. Wondering what nine meant, where my head had gone, what I had planned for her. That curiosity would eat at her until she got her hands on me.
I winked at her and turned back to the rest of the table.
Game on.
We were saved from an awkward follow-up conversation when our dinner plates were swept away by the household staff, dessert replacing it. A rich red velvet cake and thick buttercream frosting, topped with silence thick enough to cut with a steak knife.
I should’ve known it wouldn’t last.
Augustin set his spoon down with surgical precision and cleared his throat.
“So.” A very dangerous beginning. Not promising for us. “When two people marry,” he continued carefully, “especially at your… level of public prominence,” his gaze flicked to me, “it is customary to have certain legal protections. I assume the two of you discussed a prenuptial agreement?”
Finally, Auri seemed to lose some of her confidence. She swallowed, and her shoulders tightened—almost imperceptibly.
She’d been right. This was the inevitable grenade.
I didn’t have a chance to speak because Auri inhaled sharply through her nose, her eyes sharpening. I bit back a smile, because I knew what this was. It was a warning sign of a Dubois about to start a war, when the match was lit.
“Papa,” she said, voice deceptively polite, “do you ask Étienne and Emilie about their contractual agreements? Or is it only me?”
Étienne blinked. Emilie popped a bite of cake in her mouth and whispered, “Oh, merde.”
Augustin bristled. “This is not a question of favoritism?—”
“It never is,” Auri snapped, sweetness nowhere to be found.
“It is a question of protecting generational wealth, both yours and ours.”
Under the table, Auri’s hand clenched mine so hard I almost winced.
I brushed my thumb across the back of her knuckles, silently telling her,You’re not fighting this alone.
“It’s alright, mo chridhe. Let me.” I turned to her father. “There is no prenup.”
Both of her parents gasped.
Étienne muttered “Christ,” under his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“And that,” I continued evenly, “was our decision. Carefully made. Discussedbeforewe got married. Not impulsively.”
Auri squeezed my hand so tightly my bones clicked.
“You expect us to accept that?” her mother asked breathlessly.
“No,” I said, leaning forward. “I expect you to trust that your daughter is intelligent enough to know exactly what she wants. And that I’m not here to take anything from her. We made a plan that protects both of us. Not one that assumes one of us needs protection from the other.”
The silence wasn’t anger now—it was recalculation.
“I didn’t work as hard as I have to not share my wealth with my loved ones,” I admitted. “It had to go both ways.”
Auri interjected, turning her left arm face up, revealing the delicate butterfly tattoo on the inside of her arm, tucked close to her heart.
Her miscarriage mark. Our mark.
