Then I push the door open and step into the lion’s den.
Chapter Nine
BLAKE
The study's heavy oak door stands between me and the rest of the house, a barrier I've come to rely on, its polished surface reflecting the late summer sunlight that slants through the tall sash windows behind my desk. Curiosity got the better of me earlier, and I've been watching her through the cameras all afternoon—discreet feeds tucked into the corners of the estate.
I wanted to see if she'd truly ruined herself with those procedures, carved her face into something unrecognizable, or inflated her breasts beyond repair. From the grainy footage, there seems to be no drastic horror show, but subtle changes—bigger boobs, a fuller face, a slight change to her walk. Details that stir something unwelcome in me, a flicker of heat I shove down. But it remains the need to see it in person, up close.
It's always annoying having her enter my space, the one corner of the estate that's mine alone, free from her manipulations and moods, but something I can’t put my finger on nags at me. It wasn’t watching her interaction with the gardener—him pulling her close, his mouth on her neck like he owned it. No, that left me cold and made me realize again that Ineed to take action to end our marriage. Of course, I knew she started that little fling out of spite about a year ago, right around the time she decided to completely turn our marriage to ice, her way of jabbing at me without saying a word.
And honestly, I didn't care then, don't now; let it continue if it keeps her occupied. Better the gardener fucking her in the house than her sneaking out to meet men, stirring up scandals that could splash across the society pages and drag the Bessant name through the mud. But seeing them together has put the last nail in the coffin of our marriage for me.
I know I’ve got to solve this problem soon, but not right now. I've got enough on my plate—one big deal brewing in Midtown, and another just outside my grasp that I should already have caught and closed.
I know she has entered, but I deliberately don't look up right away, keeping my eyes on the screen, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat. I gesture toward the stack of papers on the edge of the desk—financial allowances, checks to sign for her endless spending.
"Please sign those," I say curtly, my tone cold and clipped. "There should be enough there for you to spend for the rest of the quarter."
She heads over, and to my surprise, she's quiet—no snarky comeback, no huff about how insulting it is to be summoned like staff. She would have had some sort of snap back, usually a barb about my control over her independence, but today, nothing. It is so unusual, so strange that I raise my gaze, lifting my head slowly, curiosity pulling at me like a tide.
It isn't her—or wait, it is, but she is somehow… different. She quickly, nervously diverts her eyes, looking away like she's been caught, and all my alarms go off, a prickling at the base of my neck, instincts honed from boardrooms flaring. There'ssomething wrong, off-kilter, but I can't figure it out, can't pin it down.
I stare at her, and she looks even more beautiful to me than she ever has—her skin glowing in the warm light, that strawberry-blonde bob framing her face just so, eyes a touch brighter, bluer maybe. She's put on a little bit of weight, softer curves that make her dress hug her in ways that stir something primal, and those boobs are definitely much bigger. They strain the fabric of her dress invitingly. Her nose... looks more natural, less ski jump, but everything else is the same, so why does she feel so different? The air around her hums differently too, softer, less edged with that familiar venom.
She exhales, a small sigh—hesitant, almost vulnerable—and goes to sit down in front of my desk, perching on the edge of one of the chairs. Something she has never done before. Usually, she'd complain about being summoned, telling me she’s not my errand girl, her voice dripping with disdain, then she would stand stiffly and sign the papers. I watch her hands shake as she signs the documents, fingers trembling slightly on the pen, ink flowing unevenly across the page.
She's incredibly nervous, in a way that's unnatural for her, and I wonder if the surgery did something to her brain—scrambled her somehow, turned the sharp-tongued woman I married into this rather fetching, but hesitant creature.
I have to ask. I lean back in my chair. "Did all go well with your surgery? Any…er… complications?"
She smiles suddenly—soft, sweet, unexpected. It lights her face in a way that hits me low, stirring heat I haven't felt for her in years. Then, as if she remembers she's not supposed to smile like that at me, the smile dissipates suddenly. "No, everything went well.” There is an undercurrent I can't place in her voice. Something. Something is not the same.
"Anything else?" she asks pointedly.
I lock eyes with her. "Of course not."
As if I’ve dismissed her, she makes her escape quickly, rising with a grace that is unfamiliar to me. Her dress whispers against her legs.
As her hand curls over the door handle, I say, "Hang on."
She turns around slowly, and I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her breath catches, like her heart is in her throat.
"There is something different about you," I observe, not expecting her to tell me that there is something different. I just want to hear her voice again, to see if that slight shift in tone is real or my imagination. It's a crazy thought because why wouldn't it be her voice? But there's something different, and it's driving me crazy that I can't place it, can't name the itch under my skin.
"Yeah. New lipstick," she mumbles evasively, and flees, the door clicking shut behind her.
What a strange answer! Why would I notice lipstick when I've stopped noticing anything about her, when I’ve never cared to linger on any details? But today... today I can't stop thinking about the way her lips curved, the flush on her cheeks, the different scent lingering in the air underneath her perfume.
As if her skin is different!
Chapter Ten
JULIET
Dear God!
I'm shaking as I leave the study, my hand still tingling from the door handle, the brass cold and unyielding under my palm as if it knows I'm a fraud. I was sure I'd pass out, faint right there on his rug. My heart was hammering so hard it drowned out everything else.
