Ashton watched Mirabelle flee the dining room without a backwards glance.
He set his wine glass down. ‘How’s she settling in?’
Geoffrey stepped forward. ‘Mrs Laurent mostly stayed in her room and worked on her sketches. She dropped by a law firm earlier today. Ca back right after.’
‘Stayed in? She didn’t go to the office?’
He rembered her telling him last week about so big campaign Nyx Collective was prepping.
A career-defining launch, apparently.
He pulled out his phone.
‘Find out what’s going on at Nyx,’ he said the second Cassian picked up. ‘Ask Yvaine Carlisle. Don’t make it obvious.’
Cassian groaned. ‘Mate, I’m your bloody best man, not your PA. Nor your wife’s. Why don’t you just ask Mirabelle yourself? Or are you two not on speaking terms?’
‘Do it.’ Ashton hung up.
He stared at the screen.
Then at his untouched plate.
The steak tasted like cardboard.
The wine like vinegar.
Cassian’s words pissed him off more than he cared to admit.
He’d married her.
She’d moved in.
That was already a win, considering how allergic she was to commitnt, post-Rhys.
But that was about it.
They lived in the sa damn house, ate at the sa table, and sohow she still looked at him like he was her boss during a performance review.
Earlier, at dinner, her smile had been a dead giveaway.
It was the sa kind custor service reps gave—polite, bland, entirely devoid of aning.
Still, he hadn’t missed the way her eyes kept darting over him when she thought he wasn’t looking.
Over his jaw, his hands, his throat.
She didn’t know what it did to him.
Maybe she didn’t realise her gaze had weight, like a touch he could feel without being touched, soft and slow and impossible to ignore, dragging heat across his skin wherever it landed.
So yeah. She was into his body.
At least there was that.
But it was a transient, superficial, Chippendales-level interest—she was all in for the show, front row, drooling over the abs and hip thrusts... but she’d never take the dancer ho.
Not when the lights ca up.
Not when real life started.
Ashton ran a hand through his hair, annoyed with himself, with his lack of progress.
He didn’t want to be her temporary obsession, so aesthetic she played with until the next whim took over.
He wanted in.
Into her thoughts, her trust, her fucking life.
She’d been accused of sothing serious, and her first instinct was to go it alone.
She didn’t ntion it to him.
The thought of asking for his help probably never even crossed her mind.
The tight, low-simring frustration had been riding his nerves all day, and by midnight, it hit boiling point.
Ashton’s bedroom was on the east side of the second floor, two doors down from hers.
As he stepped out to get water, his eyes flicked to the right.
Light spilt from under Mirabelle’s door.
She seed to be on the verge of stepping out.
But the second she heard his door click open, she froze.
Then—faster than a blink—she ducked back inside and killed the lights.
So. She’d wanted to co out too.
Probably for water.
Or a snack.
Or sothing less innocent, if he let himself hope.
But the second she clocked him, she bolted like the idea of being near him was worse than thirst.
Ashton let out a slow breath, ran a hand through his hair, and walked downstairs without a backwards glance.
He didn’t want to spook her more than she already was.
He filled a glass at the kitchen island, then wandered over to the living room and dropped onto the leather sofa, phone in hand.
From where he sat, he had a perfect view of her bedroom door upstairs.
A sliver of it eased open.
No lights inside, just blackness and a glint of curiosity.
She peeked out.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t even look directly at her.
The door snapped shut again.
His mouth twitched.
He sipped his water. Slowly.
Took him ten minutes to finish it.
Her door opened again.
A crack.
Then closed.
Again.
Closed.
He leaned his head back against the sofa and laughed under his breath, the sound bitter.
She’d rather get dehydrated than be stuck in the sa space with him for five damn seconds?
He clenched his phone in one hand and typed without looking.
[You’ve dated more girls than live in half the zip codes in Skyline. How the hell do you get them to fall for you?]
He sent it to Cassian.
Who took his sweet ti replying.
[Mate, it’s two in the fucking morning. You need ds. Or a new friend. Or a brain doc. Mirabelle’s already your wife. You’ve got her exactly where you wanted. What more do you want? Her heart? Soul? Here’s a link to Top 10 Ways to Be a Valentine Without Being a Psycho. You’re welco. Now piss off and let sleep.]
Ashton slamd the phone face down into the sofa cushion.
He should’ve known better than to ask relationship advice from a man who swapped girlfriends faster than most people changed razor blades.
Still, Cassian wasn’t wrong about one thing—he’d already got Mirabelle exactly where he wanted.
She was under his roof now.
There’d be plenty of chances for... further interaction.
He rinsed his glass in the kitchen sink, then made his way upstairs.
But instead of heading into his room, he stopped right behind the door and waited, a juvenile thing he’d never done before.
Didn’t take long.
Light footsteps.
Barely audible.
Soft, fast, like soone trying not to be heard.
She had to pass his room to get downstairs.
He eased the door open a crack.
There she was.
Mirabelle was in a white slip, tiptoeing across the marble like a thief.
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