Page 12

A few weeks had gone by since the issue with Connor, and so far, we hadn’t really talked about it. We hadn't talked much in general, considering how occupied with work I'd been recently.

It was one meeting after the other, and if it wasn't that, it was a project that needed my time and utmost attention. Perhaps this was a good thing because it gave us both some time to think things through.

I, for one, had a lot of reflecting to do, especially on how I’d handled the situation at the event. I got a little jealous, and I let it get the better of me.

Exceeding the speed limit was a dumb move, and although her arrogance had pushed me to do it, it wasn't the best reaction. The fear in her eyes and tone when the speedometer needle rose to three digits was something I wouldn't want to see again.

She’d been so terrified, and it was all because of me. My duty as her husband was to protect her, provide for her, and essentially keep her safe. Being the reason for her tears hurt me more than I cared to admit.

I hadn't apologized—well, not directly, anyway. Besides, I didn't know how. I wasn't cut out that way, and the concept itself was alien to me. I realized that despite how much I appreciated this little distance between us, I still missed our banter. I missed gazing at her face and playing intimate scenes in my head.

Work had taken my time, all day, every day, and whenever I returned home, she'd be fast asleep. The next morning, I'd be gone before she woke up, so in essence, I was almost never around.

This distance between us was a bittersweet experience. It kept me away from the constant tension that hovered around us each time we were together. At least that way, I was able to focus on work. But despite that, it also gnawed at me, reminding me of the beautiful woman I'd somewhat abandoned and how lonely she might be feeling.

Tonight was just like the other nights. I returned home a little after midnight and pulled up by the fountain. The moon was at its peak, casting its soft glow over the compound, and the stars twinkled in the night sky.

The car door gave a quiet click and opened, my foot resting on the pavement. I stepped out of the sleek black Porsche, shut the door behind me, and headed into the building.

With a briefcase in my hand, my shoes clicked on the polished marble floor as I made my way through the quiet foyer, its dim lights shrouding my form.

The guards were at their posts, and the rest of the staff had gone to bed. The place was silent, like a graveyard, as it always was at this time of night. The rhythmic sound of clicking shoes echoed off the high walls as I strode over to the living room.

The lights were out except for the moon's glow filtering through the windows, the curtains dancing in the cool night air. I lowered my head, my fingers rubbing my tired eyes.

I’d had a long day, and my entire body ached. It felt like I’d been run over by a fucking truck. But pain and I had come to a mutual understanding many years ago. All I needed was some rest—a couple of hours of sleep—and I'd be as good as new.

As I headed upstairs, barely on the second step, something strange caught my attention: an anomaly. The kitchen light was turned on, and I could hear the clinking of cutlery coming from inside.

A sweet aroma wafted through the air, teasing my senses. It was rich and savory with a hint of sweetness. I couldn't quite place it, but it was tantalizing. The scent felt comforting, like a warm hug on a chilly night.

Weird. No one usually was awake by this time, let alone in the kitchen, cooking.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I felt my stomach growl with anticipation as I wondered what was being cooked and, most importantly, who was doing the cooking.

I changed course and headed to the kitchen, my movement slow and deliberate, my footsteps making no sound.

There she was, standing by the counter, her back to me, completely absorbed in her task. Her fingers, a blur of motion, moved with quiet confidence as she worked.

Her dark hair was tied in a loose knot, and the soft, worn fabric of her pajamas draped over her curves, giving her an endearing, sleepy charm.

My lips curled into a smile as I leaned against the door frame, a hint of amusement flashing in my gaze. I watched her body move to the rhythm of the gentle hum of a tune that drifted from her lips.

This was a beautiful sight to behold, and I couldn't stop myself from smiling. I'd never seen her this blissful, so relaxed and carefree. She had no idea I was watching her, and I intended to keep it that way. I was loving the show, and she was crushing the moves.

Someone was in a good mood tonight—how lovely!

It was as if my wife had seamlessly slipped into this moment and made it her own. If I didn't know better, I'd think that she had no worries at all and there was nothing to bother her. She looked so at peace…so domestic.

This wasn't something I saw every day, so I'd take my time to enjoy the soothing scene unfolding before me.

She turned around to grab a plate from the kitchen island, and that was when she saw me. Her spirit seemed to jump out of her body for a second. “Oh, my God!” She froze in her tracks, her eyes widening in shock at my sudden appearance.

I watched her hand fly to her chest as if to prevent her heart from bursting from her ribcage. Her lips pursed, and she held up a cautioning finger in the air, her head slightly tilting to the side. “Don't ever do that again,” she warned, teasing.

My grin broadened, and I strolled into the kitchen, swinging my briefcase to the countertop with a fluid motion. “Well, don't stop on my account,” I said softly, referring to her previous performance.

A brief scowl crossed her face as she said, her voice flat, “You’re lucky I didn't have a knife. Next time, announce yourself. I don't want to have to explain to the police why I killed you.”

My brows arched, and a chuckle escaped my lips. “How are you gonna do that when you're scared half to death?” I asked, my eyes never leaving hers.

She stared at me in silence, a suppressed smile twitching at the corner of her lips. With one hand on the counter and the other on her waist, she tilted her head to the side, a disbelieving look etched on her face.

I could sense the witty response lingering on the tip of her tongue, but after a moment of considering her retort, she just let out a sigh and switched the subject. “What’re you doing here anyway? Aren't you supposed to be asleep or something?” She returned to her cooking.

My eyes crinkled at the corners. I appreciated the irony of her question. “I could ask you the same thing,” I said, taking a seat on a chair at the kitchen island.

“I'm making something to eat,” she replied without turning to look at me, her fingers deftly moving here and there.

The more ingredients she added, the richer the aroma that made my mouth water.

“I didn't know you cooked,” I said, my voice laced with a hint of amusement, especially because her food smelled so good.

“You don't know many things about me,” she replied, her tone cool and casual. She kept her attention fixed on the meal.

“True,” I mumbled under my breath, reclining into the wooden chair. “So, what're you making?” I indulged her, enjoying the sight of her hands moving with expert precision.

She stole a glance in my direction. “ Tortilla de Patatas . It's basically a Spanish omelet.”

Right. I almost forgot that she was part Spanish from her mother's side.

Once she was done cooking, she turned to me, her eyes squinting ever so slightly like she was weighing her options. Perhaps she was a bit skeptical about her next words. There was a glint of reluctance in her voice when she asked, “Would you like some?”

I held her gaze, my signature smirk perched on my lips. “I would.”

She broke eye contact and slid a perfectly portioned slice of Spanish omelet onto a plate. The aroma of caramelized onions, potatoes, and eggs wafted up, invading my senses.

The golden brown edges of the slice glistened in the kitchen light as she added a sprinkle of chopped fresh parsley on top. A dollop of creamy aioli and a few slices of crusty bread accompanied the omelet, accentuating the pleasing sight.

She strolled over to me and served the dish, placing it on the countertop.

The rich and savory aroma with a hint of smokiness from the cooked potatoes made my stomach growl in anticipation.

I met her gaze for a fleeting moment, her eyes daring me to try the omelet. And I did; I lifted it to my lips, and the moment I took a bite, the flavors exploded on my tongue. The taste was rich and satisfying, with a subtle hint of sweetness from the caramelized onions.

As I chewed, all the flavors blended together, coating my tongue with a rich, savory goodness. “Not bad,” I commented, my voice calm and composed, contrasting with the intense rush of sweetness and satisfaction I experienced.

Her lips curved into a faint smile, her expression softening in a way I hadn't seen in a long time. This was the first decent conversation we'd had since we got married, and it felt really good— as good as the Tortilla de Patatas in my mouth.

For the next few seconds, it was silent between us, and mild tension hovered in the air. She held my gaze, a glimmer of passion sparkling in the depths of her dark eyes. She looked relaxed and maybe even…comfortable.

We weren't fighting or arguing about anything despite the heavy malice and anger we'd carried with us for weeks. In this moment, it was just the two of us; nothing else mattered, and no one else mattered. It was as though the world around us was melting away, and personally, all I saw was her.

I watched her lips retain that charming smile, however faint. Her skin simmered under the kitchen’s warm light; her eyes shone brighter than I'd ever seen, revealing her soft and endearing side.

The woman looking at me across the counter was a stark contrast to the icy and resistant woman I'd married for an alliance.

Loose strands of her tied-up hair framed her face, highlighting her beauty. She was captivating, so hot and sexy that I felt myself drawn to her—literally.

Nevertheless, I quickly snapped out of my trance, keeping my usual composure. “Why?” I asked, shattering the silence that had endured for far too long.

Her eyes narrowed, brows furrowing slightly to mirror the puzzled look on her face.

My question was a little vague, so I elaborated on that without taking my eyes off her. “Why were you against this marriage?”

She blinked a few times like the question had caught her off guard—clearly, she hadn’t been expecting that. Her hesitation was palpable, but in the end, she indulged me. She rubbed her eyes and heaved a sigh. “I'm a human being, too, Erik,” she began, her tone soft, polite, and respectful. “I have dreams and aspirations.”

I saw a scoff escape her lips, accompanied by a smile that concealed the pain simmering beneath the surface.

“I had plans on how I wanted my life to turn out,” she continued, raising her head to meet my gaze, her shoulders shrugging. “I wanna own a business—a fashion one, to be precise—and I had it all mapped out. But can you guess what happened?” She paused, letting the words sink in for a minute.

Her question was rhetorical and laced with mild sarcasm, but I chose to answer anyway. “I came along.”

“Exactly,” she concurred. “You came along, and my family sold me off to a man I knew nothing about. But hey, that's just a small price to pay, am I right?” Again, she was sarcastic, her subtle smile unwavering. “Now, I'm stuck in this house, and I can't pursue my dreams because I'm married to you.”

I leaned forward, holding her gaze, my voice low and husky. “Okay, first, your family didn't sell you off. You're not some piece of property. And second, who says you can't chase your dreams because you're married to me?” I asked, my tone dripping with both curiosity and a hint of challenge.

Her brows arched in disbelief, and she reflexively leaned forward, her elbows on the countertop. “Wait, what're you saying?” she questioned, her chest heaving with anticipation, probably hoping that I wasn't just teasing her.

“I'm saying that you can be my wife and still be a business owner,” I said, my lips curling into a smile.

Her face lit up in a way I'd never seen before, and her eyes, crinkling at the corners, shone with mirth. She pulled her head back, squinting with a skeptical expression. “Are you messing with me right now? Is this some kind of joke, 'cause it's funny,” she blurted out, a faint frown flashing across her face.

“You really think so lowly of me, huh?” I said, amused by her perception of the kind of man I was.

Her smile broadened, and her eyes widened at the realization that this wasn't some elaborate joke. I was dead serious. Seeing that much joy overwhelming her melted my heart, and I couldn’t help but grin.

Tessa was different.

She wasn't like the average spoiled rich girl who spent Daddy's money on shopping and boat cruises. No, Tessa actually wanted to do something for herself—to own a business in her name. If that wasn't intriguing, I didn't know what was.

As she smiled at me, her expression softening by the second, I felt something unlock within me—a softness that made me wonder whether I was starting to develop a liking for her.

As she reclined in her chair, my eyes dropped to her chest, where the spaghetti strap of her pajama top seemed to defy gravity. One slipped off her shoulder, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage. The soft, creamy skin of her breasts swelled above the delicate lace trim, drawing my eyes like a magnet.

I felt a flutter in my chest, and a sexual flame within me ignited. She was turning me on, and the more I gazed at her cleavage, the harder my cock grew in my pants.

Tessa noticed the effect on me, and with a delicate move, she adjusted the loose strap, her cheeks flushing with mild embarrassment. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and her countenance grew colder.

At this point, I wasn't sure how long I'd keep resisting the urge to grab her, kiss her, and eventually make love to her.

I felt like I was losing my mind.

Fuck!