“ENOUGH!”
Mr. Ashworth was between us now, a hand on Alastair’s chest. His face was pale with rage. “This is a family home! Not a gutter!” He looked only at me. “We are a family. We have appearances to keep. We do not throw drinks or raise our hands in violence.”
Family.The word enraged me. It was a cage. It meant Alastair could humiliate me, but I couldn't retaliate. Blood would always be thicker than their gratitude toward me.
The fight drained out of me, replaced by a profound exhaustion. I didn’t care enough to even be disrespectful anymore.
“I’m going to get dressed,” I said, my voice dead.
Upstairs, I showered and dressed mechanically in a white skirt, a black polo, and a pair of black and white Jordans. I pulled my damp hair into a sleek ponytail. As I fastened my watch, my phone buzzed.
JULIAN:Running late, sweetheart? I booked the first tee time. Don’t keep me waiting.
Attached was a photo of the Ashworth estate, taken from a distance. He had someone watching. As I stared at the photo, reconsidering the pinky promise I’d made him.
Chapter 10
Elara
The country club air smelled of freshly cut grass, expensive sunscreen, and quiet desperation—mostly wafting off my own family. It made my nose itch. And if that wasn't enough, Julian was giving off a weird energy that let me know he was going to play games today.
We found him on the first tee, in a white polo and dark trousers, radiating predatory elegance. His eyes found mine the moment we approached, and the slow smile that spread across his face made my stomach clench.
“The Ashworths,” he said, his voice a warm, false charm. “And company. So glad you could make it.”
Alastair practically tripped over himself to shake Julian’s hand. “Wouldn’t miss it, Julian. A real honor,” he said, his face a mask of sycophantic glee. They needed the Esmé Group; fast-fashion titans were threatening to put the Ashworths out of business.
Julian’s gaze slid past him, landing on me. “Elara. You look...” He left it at that. That bastard.
“Right back at you,” I said, my tone flat. He just smiled wider.
Then his attention shifted to the mistress clinging to Alastair’s arm. Julian’s head tilted, like he was considering a lesser creature. “And you are?” he asked.
He knew exactly who she was. The question was a masterstroke of pettiness; it erased her.
Brielle’s smile faltered. “I’m… I’m Brielle,” she said, her voice too high. “Alastair’s—”
“Cousin,” Alastair cut in, too quickly. “Visiting.”
Julian’s eyebrows lifted just a fraction. He let the silence stretch, his eyes traveling from her face down to the prominent swell of her belly, and back up. “How… very Southern.”
I laughed behind my hand. Alastair’s father glared at the side of his son's head but said nothing. Alastair was the only person there who didn’t understand they were being mocked.
The first few holes were subtle torture. Julian pretended to be the gracious host, but his chosen pupil was me. “Your grip is all wrong, Elara,” he scoffed for the twentieth time.
Coming up behind me, his front pressed against my back, his hands closed over mine on the club. His breath was hot against my ear. “You’re holding on too tight. You have to learn to relax your grip… before you take your swing.”
His thumbs stroked the inside of my wrists. A full-body shiver caused me to exhale loudly. Alastair, lining up his own shot ten feet away, beamed. “Listen to him, honey! He’s a pro!”
He was so blindly focused on currying favor, he was missing Julian practically molesting me. I pulled away, my swing slicing the ball wildly into the rough. “Oops.”
Julian’s laugh was low and intimate. “We’ll work on it.”
Behind us, Brielle whispered to Alastair. I heard my name. “Ally… don’t you think he’s being a little… familiar with her? All that touching…”
Alastair patted her hand without looking at her. “Don’t be ridiculous, Brie. He’s just being helpful. He’s young, successful—he could have any woman he wants. Why would he want her?”
God, he was an idiot.
