The way he scrubs his hand over his jaw, I know I'm right, and whatever words he gives me will be a downplay for my sake. "It doesn't matter. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable. If this deal goes through, there will be visits. Dar and Rohan will come to Bardstown."
I pause, my fingers freezing on the strap of my other heel. I hadn't thought that part through, not fully. But I did weigh walking away.
After we left the study yesterday and retreated to our suite, we didn't leave. Not for dinner, not even after the sun went down and the house was quiet. Trigg worked on his laptop, jaw tight with concentration, while I sat curled in the chair by the window, watching him when I thought he wasn't looking. This morning, I finally turned my phone back on.
The voicemail box was full. Over a hundred missed texts. The work I'd started back home at Fairfield, organizing the evals and updating our records software, all of it on pause. After siftingthrough the chaos, one glaring truth remained: I don't want to go back to the way things were. Which means seeing this through. Seeingusthrough, whatever that means.
I drop his gaze and focus on strapping my other heel, hyperaware of him watching me. "I'm sure Rohan told Dar about the picture in the study. How I confirmed I'm the little girl standing next to her mother." My fingers fumble with the tiny buckle. "How Warrick Fairfield is my father."
With my shoe secured, I stand and walk to the full-length mirror, needing distance and the excuse to look anywhere but at him. "That might make all of this harder to pull off. I have no idea if Dar wants anything to do with me now that she knows I'm Warrick's daughter." I smooth my hands over the crimson fabric. "And even if that doesn't give her pause, I'm not sure she'll buy that all of this”—I gesture between us—"is truly one big coincidence."
"So, we're doing this?" His voice is closer now, and when I glance up, I catch his reflection. He pushes off the door frame, and his eyes drag over me achingly slow. What I see in his expression makes my pulse stutter because it looks a lot like pride and possessive satisfaction. When his eyes catch me watching, he bites his bottom lip, but not before I see the heat there.
I turn to face him. "Unless you're having second thoughts..."
"No." The word comes out clipped, almost harsh, and I watch his hands flex at his sides like he's restraining himself from reaching for me. Then his brows tug together, worry creasing his forehead. "But there's something I haven't been able to work out since last night, and I feel like I'm missing a puzzle piece that I need if this is the choicewe'remaking."
We.Like it wasn't going to happen if I'd said no. Like my answer actually mattered to him beyond the businessarrangement. The word snags my breath; it's warm and terrifying all at once.
"What piece?"
"If the land and the business dealings were your father's doing..." He takes a step closer, and I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. "What reason would he have to hurt your mother? What would he gain?"
The question hangs between us, heavy and unavoidable.
"The land belonged to my mother."
He frowns. "I don't understand. The lease agreement was between my grandfather and Astor Fairfield."
"Yes, Astor was my mother's father, my grandfather. My father took my mother's name when they married." I watch as understanding starts to dawn on his face. "He was adopted, had no deep connections to his last name, so he took hers. The Fairfields were known in the community; they already had a reputation. It made sense for him to take her name."
It made sense for him to become someone he wasn't.
I see the exact moment it clicks. The way Trigg's face changes. The last shred of innocence he might have reserved for my father dissolving like smoke. His jaw clenches, and something dark and protective flashes in his eyes.
"Asha—"
"Don't." I grab my clutch from the dresser, needing to move, to do something before I completely fall apart in front of him. I've already let him see too much. "We have a dinner to get to."
I brush past him toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back. "Try not to look like you've been sleeping on the couch. You're supposed to look thoroughly satisfied. We're newlyweds, remember?"
Then I'm out the door before he can respond, my heels clicking against the terracotta floor as I head toward whatever's waiting for us downstairs.
Behind me, I hear him follow, his low voice carrying down the hall. "Keep talking like that, and it won't be an act." Then, quiet enough that it sends a shiver down my spine: "You're playing a dangerous game, and we both know you're not ready for me to stop playing along."
His words burrow under my skin. Part of me wants to prove him wrong, to show him I can handle whatever game we're playing. But a bigger truth sits heavy on my chest: I'm not playing anymore. And neither is he. That's what scares me most.
Two hours into dinner, and the wine has done nothing to settle my nerves. This isn't like me. I was raised for this, trained to be poised under pressure, to smile through anything. My father made sure of that, but tonight, composure feels impossible.
Across the table, Dar laughs at something her husband says, her hand resting on his arm. She's effortlessly beautiful, warm brown skin, dark hair in an elegant twist, eyes that crinkle when she smiles. My aunt.
Santiago has been telling stories about his trip to Seville, where he'd taken two of their younger bulls to novilladas this morning, and my mind is everywhere but present.
"The smaller one, Valentín, he showed real promise," Rohan is saying, leaning forward in his enthusiasm. "Brave, noble. The young matador barely had to work for it."
Beside me, Trigg's hand finds my thigh under the table, a steady pressure that grounds me. He hasn't said much tonight, content to let me take the lead, but I can feel him watching me.
"More wine?" Rohan asks, already reaching for the bottle.
