"Jessica?" His voice was controlled. Too controlled.
"She called this afternoon," Eleanor said, smooth as glass. "She and I have been working on the Harrington Park benefit together. I told her she should come—it seemed rude not to." She smiled at us—a smile that dared you to object. "You don't mind, do you? She assured me it would be fine."
"Of course," Callum said. "It's fine."
It was not fine. I could feel the shift in him—the way his spine straightened, his shoulders pulled back, his jaw set into a line I recognized from our earliest coffee shop encounters. Armor going on. Battle lines drawn. The man who'd kissed my shoulder ten minutes ago retreating behind the architect's facade.
I leaned close. "Who's Jessica?"
He looked at me. And I watched him calculate—how much to say, how fast, how to frame it so I wouldn't spiral.
"My ex-wife."
Two syllables that rearranged the room.
Elena's voice, clear as a bell in my memory:She'sgoing to find a way to meet you. That's just how she operates.
The doorbell rang.
Jessica Hayes was everything I'd feared and nothing I'd expected.
I'd built a version of her in my head over the past weeks—assembled from Callum's silences, Elena's warnings, and my own insecurities. The version in my head was cold. Intimidating. A polished weapon in heels.
The real Jessica was warm.
She walked in wearing a navy wrap dress that fit her as if it had been made for her body—which it probably had. She was beautiful in a way that felt effortless, a beauty that came from good genes and a skincare routine I couldn't afford and the confidence of a woman who'd spent four decades becoming exactly who she wanted to be. Dark hair, chin-length—Elena's haircut, I realized with a jolt. Or Elena had her mother's haircut. Either way, the resemblance was a sucker punch.
"Callum." She kissed his cheek with the casual grace of a woman who'd done it ten thousand times. "Congratulations on Riverside. You earned it."
"Thank you, Jessica."
Then she turned to me.
Her eyes were brown—not gray, not Callum's—and they swept over me with an assessment so quick and thorough that I felt as if I'd been X-rayed. She took in the dress, the hair, the age written in every unlined inch of my face, and she smiled.
A real smile. Warm and wide and generous.
"You must be Willow." She extended her hand. "I've heard wonderful things."
"From who?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"Elena." Her smile deepened. "She called me last week and talked about you for twenty minutes. That's a record—she usually caps emotional conversations at five."
I shook her hand. Her handshake was firm, her palm cool. She smelled expensive. She looked at me the way a person looked at a puzzle they were interested in solving.
"It's nice to meet you," I said.
"You too. I love your dress." She touched my arm—a gesture so natural and friendly that it would've been weird to flinch, so I didn't flinch, and I hated how much effort that required.
She's not going to be mean. She's going to be nice. Really nice.
Thanks, Elena. Spot on.
Dinner was exquisite and excruciating in equal measure.
Eleanor had arranged the seating with the calculated eye of a woman who knew exactly what she was building. Callum at one end of the table, Richard at the other. Me on Callum's left. Jessica directly across from me.
Eight people. White linen. Candlelight. And the ex-wife of the man I was sleeping with, sitting four feet away, eating salmon and being delightful.
