Page 47

My house is quiet when I step through the front door, the kind of quiet that feels lived-in rather than cold. That’s new.
I shrug off my jacket and toss it over the back of a chair, moving silently down the hallway. I’m not sure what I expect — maybe the usual stillness, the empty echo of a space that’s been mine and mine alone for years.
But then I hear it.
Music.
Soft, low, some jazzy instrumental thing playing through a speaker, the kind of background noise that turns a house into a home. I follow the sound toward the kitchen, steps instinctively silent, and the moment I reach the threshold, I freeze.
Mara is barefoot, her long hair cascading down her back in loose waves, wearing one of those soft t-shirts she prefers when she thinks she is alone.
She’s dancing — not for anyone, not for effect, just… dancing.
Her hips sway with the rhythm, one hand whisking something in a bowl while the other taps the counter to the beat. She spins on her toes, laughing softly to herself as she nearly slips but catches her balance.
She doesn’t see me yet. I should move, maybe announce myself, or say something. But I don’t. I stay rooted where I am, watching with unreadable eyes as the girl I married — the one I thought I’d coexist with — reveals a new piece of herself.
There’s something real and unguarded behind her elegance. And it gets under my skin. I lean slightly against the doorway, arms crossed, lips pressing into a firm line — but inside, my chest feels tight. Unsettled.
She’s not what I expected. Definitely not a huathy cartel princess. She’s light, funny, and even quirky. And when she thinks no one’s watching, she lets her real personality come out to play.
There’s flour dusting her cheek. A smudge of sauce on her wrist. Her laughter bubbles up again as she bumps her hip against a drawer she forgot to close.
I feel my mouth twitch, and before I realize it, I’m smiling. An actual, rare smile. And it hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. Because suddenly I’m wondering how the hell I’m supposed to survive another eleven months of this.
Of watching her move through my house like she belongs, like she’s meant to be here. Of her warmth, her mouth, her laugh. Her bare feet padding down my hall. How the fuck am I supposed to survive months of wanting her, and not touching her?
I scrub a hand across my jaw, forcing the smile off my face before she turns and sees it.
I step back into the hallway as quietly as I came, retreating before I do something stupid — like walk in and kiss her the way I’ve been dying to do.
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I find the dining room bathed in soft amber light, just the glow from the fixture above and a single flickering candle Mara must’ve lit while I was cleaning up.
The food is simple — grilled chicken, sautéed vegetables, something citrusy on the side that I can’t name but tastes like it took effort.
We eat quietly at first.
No clatter, no awkward small talk. Just the sound of cutlery against porcelain and the occasional tap of her foot against the leg of her chair.
She hums softly, not a tune I recognize, just under her breath — like it slips out without permission.
Her hair is still a little damp from her shower. She's tied it up in a messy bun, a few strands curling against her neck. She's wearing one of those light cashmere sweaters, soft enough to look like a cloud, and no makeup, just her.
I look at her for a long moment before I speak.
“You’re not what I expected.”
She looks up, brows lifting in mock surprise.
“Really?”
“Really.” I set my fork down. “I figured you’d be… colder. Harder. Entitled.”
Her lips twitch.
“Let me guess. A spoiled cartel princess with a diamond phone case and a bodyguard I scream at for bringing me the wrong kind of champagne?”
I grunt.