I rest my elbows on the desk, folding my hands. “Is there? Must’ve missed it. I’ve been a little busy locking down my case.”
A smile twitches at his mouth, polished and rehearsed. He means to imply that he’s already ahead of me.
“You were with someone at the gala.”
I meet his gaze without flinching. “Was I?”
Jon David leans back in the chair across from me—casual posture, legs relaxed, hands folded in his lap. But his eyes betray him. There’s calculation there.
His fingers tap in a rhythm too precise to be aimless. He’s waiting, giving me space to speak.
Silence isn’t passive. It’s pressure. Most people can’t tolerate it. A pause stretches too long and the brain starts scrambling to repair it, to smooth the discomfort. We fill it with confessions, clarifications, half-truths we never meant to offer. We talk just to make it stop. It’s a well-documented tactic—say less, wait longer, let the other person unravel themselves trying to close the gap.
He knows that.
He’s counting on the itch under my skin, the instinct to explain, to justify, to volunteer more than I should.
But I don’t rush to fill it.
I let the silence sit between us, heavy and intact.
“Who is he, Laurette?”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
Jon David, the man who has built his identity around knowing everything, wouldn’t be able to process how I’m fucking someone I didn’t bother to identify. He’d short-circuit if I told him the truth.
The power of that—the chaos of it—inflates a little in my chest.
My amusement sharpens into something colder. “Who he is doesn’t concern you.”
He frowns, only a little, but I catch it. He hates being shut out, especially by me, which is why I don’t give him a single inch.
Jon David smiles again, but it’s hollow. All veneer.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingertips steepled. “You danced with him.”
I arch a brow and remainsilent.
“Then the two of you disappeared for quite a while.”
It was a while. Because when My Wolf fucks me, he does it thoroughly.
“And when you came back, you entered the room as strangers, as if you’d never even been together. Separate entrances. No glances. Not a single touch.”
He watches me closely, but I give him nothing.
He leans in a fraction. “What are you hiding, Laurette?”
There it is. The real question.
“Wait—is he married? Is that why you disappeared together?”
That makes me laugh. “If you think I’d let a married man touch me, you’re more delusional than I gave you credit for.”
He smiles. “I’m just saying it’s odd. All that heat on the dance floor, and then nothing. You didn’t want anyone to see you together.”
“Who I’m with and what I do isn’t yours to question anymore. We’re not together. My life isn’t yours to judge.”
