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I open my mouth to tell him about my meeting with Marcus Webb and to ask him to be patient for a few more days. But the words die in my throat. All I can see is Melanie’s hand on his shoulder. Every breath I take is flooded with her musky perfume. My thoughts are overwhelmed with an irrational, humiliating jealousy that I have no right to claim.

“It’s nothing urgent.” The words spill over my lips. “We can talk about it at home.”

Vance studies me with his predatory eyes that miss nothing, and I wonder whether he can see the jealousy eating me alive or the insecurities I’ve spent years trying to hide beneath professional competence.

Is this what he wanted? To make me care, to make me feel something beyond hatred and lust.

“Fine,” he exhales, rising from his chair and straightening his jacket. “I’m going to be late. I have a meeting with my brothers tonight.”

“Oh.” The word comes out small and disappointed, and I hate myself for it.

“The driver will take you to Alinea,” he continues, moving to the window and staring out at the gray September sky. “My mother made reservations for the two of you since I’ll be occupied this evening.”

Fantastic.

“That sounds lovely,” I lie.

Vance turns, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. Almost. “Be kind to her, Sophia. She’s… adjusting to life without my father.”

“I’ll be the perfect daughter-in-law,” I promise, the sarcasm barely veiled.

He crosses the room, stopping in front of me. His hand lifts to my face, and his thumb traces my cheekbone with a gentleness that contradicts everything I know about him. “I know you will,” he whispers quietly before his lips curl into a devilish smirk. “Though part of me is hoping you slip up just enough to give me an excuse to correct you.”

Cora Ashford is dressed in a cream-colored Chanel suit, her hair swept into an elegant chignon, with diamonds sparkling at her throat. She looks immaculate and ageless, the kind of woman who has never known a hair out of place or a moment of uncertainty in her life.

With a pristine white tablecloth and flickering candle between us, this dinner feels strangely intimate.

“You’re not eating, dear,” Cora observes, her gaze sharp despite her pleasant tone.

I force myself to take a bite of the artfully arranged halibut on my plate. “It’s delicious. I’m just distracted.”

“By my son?”

The directness catches me off guard. “By a lot of things.” But, yes.

Cora sips her wine, studying me over the rim of her glass. “It’s not easy,” she says finally, “being a woman in the Ashford family.”

I wait for her to elaborate, but she simply cuts her fish with precise, economical movements. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, more intimate.

“Roman was… difficult. In the beginning. He believed strength meant cruelty, that love was a weakness to be exploited.” She sets down her silverware, her eyes distant with memory. “In the beginning of our marriage, I thought I had sold my soul to a man who would consume me whole.”

Relatable, Cora. Relatable.

I grip my wine glass tighter. “What changed?”

“I did,” Cora confesses, her gaze sharpening. “I changed. I realized that, beneath the armor, violence and ambition, Roman was just a boy who had never been shown tenderness. So I showed him. Not by being soft, because, fuck, he would have devoured tenderness. But by being strong in ways he didn’t understand. By being his equal in the boardroom and his refuge in the dark.”

She reaches across the table, her hand covering mine with surprising warmth. “Vance is a spitting image of his father. The same temper. The ruthlessness. And the same fear that vulnerability equals death. But he’s my son, too.” Her eyes soften for the first time since I’ve met her. “I see the way he looks at you, Sophia. Something about you, dear… it softens him, and I can see the bit of good I instilled in him.”

I pull my hand away. “We both know this isn’t a real marriage. It’s a business arrangement. A condition of his father’s will. I’m here because he blackmailed me, not because he cares.”

“It could be.” Cora’s smile is sad and knowing. “A real marriage. One that is long, fruitful, and filled with a type of adoration most will never know.

“I don’t think so.”

“I do. I was married to his father for forty-one years, dear. And for all of them, Roman looked at me the same way Vance does you.”

“Like I’m an inconvenience to be put in line?”