Christina’s POV
When I got back from Finn’s office, Geoffrey greeted at the door with his usual impassive expression and dropped a quiet bombshell.
"Alpha Hudson will be dining at ho tonight."
Which ant he’d probably be sleeping here too.
Great.
Not that I was expected to perform wifely duties in bed—thank God—but my nerves still jangled at the thought.
Dinner was already being served when he walked in. Hudson looked impeccable as always, his tailored suit hugging his broad shoulders in ways that made Akira purr appreciatively inside my head.
We sat across from each other, all polished silverware and suffocating silence.
Hudson’s eyes kept flicking to my face, like he was waiting for to say sothing. I had absolutely no idea what he expected.
After the first course, he finally broke the silence. "I heard Niall’s been telling people you cheated on him."
I nodded, taking another bite of my salad.
"He’s talking bullshit," I said dismissively, reaching for my wine."My lawyer’s handling it."
Hudson dished risotto onto my plate with a serving spoon. The gesture was so natural, like he’d been serving dinner for years instead of for the first ti.
"I always knew Niall was unstable," he remarked, his voice low and dangerous.
"You’re probably right." I stabbed a piece of asparagus with unnecessary force. "Well, this ti, I’m not letting it slide. He wants to lie, he can do it under oath in front of a judge."
Hudson’s lips quirked upward. Barely. But I caught it.
"Let Laurent Global Holdings’ legal team handle it," he said. "They’ve got more experience with this kind of thing."
I stopped chewing and looked up slowly. "Isn’t that overkill?"
The LGH legal team handled rgers that shook stock markets. Using them to drag Niall’s sorry ass through court over a defamation case felt like hunting rabbits with missiles.
"Finn said the evidence is solid. He won’t guarantee a win, but there’s a good chance—"
Hudson cut off. "You’re Luna Christina now. My company’s legal team exists to protect our interests, which includes you. If Niall thinks he can drag your na through the mud, he’s picking a fight with . LGH gets involved whenever a Laurent’s involved. That’s protocol."
Akira preened at his protective tone. I ignored her.
"Fine. I’ll talk to Finn." I wasn’t sure if my lawyer would appreciate the extra muscle or resent the intrusion. "He’s already put a lot of work into the case. Can he still lead?"
"Sure."
And just like that, conversation died again.
The silence didn’t just settle; it took up residence between us, unpacked its bags, and made itself comfortable.
When I finished eating, I set my fork down and stared at my empty plate.
What now?
Was I supposed to wait like so Victorian housewife until my husband dismissed , or just stand up and leave like we were at a restaurant?
Geoffrey hovered nearby like a very polite ghost, another waiter flanking him. Not exactly people I could ask for post-dinner etiquette tips in whatever this relationship was.
I scrambled for sothing to say. Small talk was already exhausted—I’d burned through "how was your day" the mont Hudson sat down. Sothing told he wouldn’t be thrilled with a thirty-minute monologue on micro-pavé settings or the ethics of synthetic diamonds.
There was sothing I wanted to ask though.
Was he sleeping here tonight?
And if so—where?
When Carn and Geoffrey had staged a surprise boutique explosion in my room that morning, there were no n’s clothes in sight. But that didn’t an anything. Maybe Hudson had his own dressing room.
Or maybe he didn’t need sleep at all. Maybe he hung upside down in so hyperbaric chamber like an Armani-wrapped bat.
But if I asked about his sleeping arrangents... would it co off wrong?
It was his house, after all. He didn’t need my permission to stay.
If I sounded like I didn’t want him here, that might seem rude. On the other hand, if I sounded too curious, would it sound like an invitation?
Because honestly, "Are you sleeping here tonight?" is a question only a hotel manager can pull off without implications.
Or a mistress checking her sugar daddy’s schedule.
"It’s a yes or no question, dumbass," Akira hissed at ."Just ask it. You’re not twelve."
"It’s Hudson Laurent. You don’t casually ask him about his sleeping arrangents. If you had dinner with J.P. Morgan, you wouldn’t ask if his hotel had turndown service. You’d ask about interest rates."I replied her.
I risked a glance across the table.
He sat there like European nobility incarnate, sipping wine. His fingers, long and elegant, wrapped around the glass stem with effortless control.
When he swallowed, his Adam’s apple shifted slightly.
I had the strongest, dumbest urge to lean over and lick it.
Jesus.
"Look away, you thirsty gremlin," I scolded myself. "Stop leering like a perv."
No wonder people always say "movie, dinner, then sex." There’s a rhythm to it. A build-up.
Dinner after sex just felt... awkward. Like watching end credits first, then hitting play.
I’d done everything backwards, jumped Hudson’s bones before learning his full na, married him after, and now here we were, eating risotto in weighted silence like a couple on a first date who’d already seen each other naked.
I didn’t know what the hell the next move was supposed to be.
"You don’t have to wait for ," Hudson said without looking up. "You can go do your thing."
"Great," I replied, already halfway to the stairs.
Akira whined as we retreated. "Weak. We should stay with our mate."
I silently told her to shut up. Hudson wasn’t our mate. He was our convenient escape route.
No matter how good he looked drinking wine.
Reviews
All reviews (0)