Page 67 of Jude

He let out a rare chuckle, and it hit me that despite our ‘mistake’ last night, we were building a slow, undeniable rapport.

‘Babe, the mixing session is running over. Don’t wait up. Just make sure the front doors are locked and get some sleep.’

‘All good. See you soon,’ I told him.

The faint sound of heavy bass and the guys arguing over a track bled through the phone before he hung up.

I was relieved about the alone time.

I had delicious food, endless trash TV, and way more peace than I’d had in years; my version of bliss.

I also needed time to work through my feelings about Jude, and his absence, for a little while at least, gave me the space to do so.

A loud chime from the front doorbell jolted me from the television.

With a grimace, I paused the show.

Who was coming by Jude’s house at this hour?

It was way past the time for deliveries, and whoever it was had a code to get through the gate.

Worry lanced me as I set my bowl down, pulled my hair into a rough bun, and slipped my feet into slippers.

Heading to the entryway, I glanced at the security screen by the front door.

A woman whose features I couldn’t quite make out stood outside.

She was a stranger to me, but perhaps she was an acquaintance of Jude’s.

With some wariness, I pulled open the mahogany front door.

The tall, strikingly elegant blonde woman swiveled to face me.

Her made-up face was model-perfect, from her blue eyes to her pert raspberry lips.

She wore a fitted cream midi dress, her ivory designer trench coat tailored to her frame, screaming haute couture.

Her high leather tan heels seemed molded to her beautiful ankles.

She raked me from head to toe, and I sensed I hadn’t quite passed whatever test she put me to.

She then tried to peer around me, into the house.

‘Where’s Judah?’ she demanded, her cold voice dripping with entitlement as she attempted to brush past me into the foyer. ‘He hasn’t answered my messages. In fact, he’s ghosted me for a few weeks now!’

I planted my feet and held the door edge, blocking her path with a sudden surge of protective instinct.

‘He’s not here right now. Can I take a message?’

The woman stopped, her blue eyes narrowing on me with disdain as she cataloged my oversized tee and the slippers.

‘Who are you? The new cleaning service? The maid? You’re here late, and seem way too comfortable in his house. Does he know you’re here?’

Her tone and contempt told me she perceived me as beneath her, dirt under her designer heels.

I tilted my head, gave her a small smile, and lifted my left hand, letting the brilliant diamond wedding ring catch the light from the overhead chandelier.

‘He does. I’m Sofia. I’m Jude’s wife. Who are you?’