Mirabelle was holding up the hem of her nightgown with two fingers, her steps careful and silent.
No shoes.
Just bare feet on cold black stone, each step like a spotlight in the dark.
Her skin looked warm against all that sleek obsidian.
Pale. Almost glowing.
Ashton’s gaze tracked up the curve of her calves to the back of her thighs, then higher, past the sway of fabric.
The dress clung to her hips and draped off her waist like it had been cut for temptation.
Through the thin material, he caught the outline of her spine, the dip where her back t her hips, the faintest tease of her—
Ashton swallowed hard.
Then shut the door.
Fast. Quiet.
Teeth clenched, jaw locked, forehead against the wood.
‘Fucking pervert,’ he muttered under his breath.
He was supposed to be a grown man, not so hormonal teen hiding behind doors to stare at a woman’s arse.
He didn’t move.
Just stood there, breathing like he’d run a mile, while she padded around downstairs.
Eventually, he heard her coming back up, just as sneakily as before.
Once the footsteps passed his room, he peeled away from the door, grabbed a towel, and marched straight into the en suite.
He needed a cold shower.
A long one.
***
Mirabelle was already there when Ashton ca into the dining room the next morning.
She’d changed—yellow jumper, jeans, fluffy socks.
Cosy. Casual.
Warm in a way that made his throat feel tight again, and not because of lust this ti.
She looked... comfortable. Like she’s finally settled into this place.
She yawned when she thought he wasn’t looking.
‘You don’t need to get up this early,’ he said, heading to the coffee machine. ‘Got sowhere to be?’
She shrugged. ‘Nah. I’m on leave.’
He’s heard all about it from Cassian—the new project, the competition, the collegial rivalry.
He even knew her boss, Savannah sothing, had called her repeatedly in the past couple of days, trying to get her to co back to Nyx.
Mirabelle had said no.
What was her plan? To find another studio? Start her own? Take a sabbatical?
More to the point, when did she plan on telling him?
After the fact? Over dinner?
Or maybe never?
Ashton pulled out a chair and sat across from her. ‘Sothing happen at work?’
She stirred her coffee. ‘Nothing huge. Just needed a break.’
That was a lie, obviously, but he didn’t push.
Not yet.
They ate in silence for a few minutes.
He glanced at her over his toast. ‘Got any plans today?’
‘Yeah. Gonna swing by the law firm again.’ She gave him a quick smile. ‘Your legal team’s scary efficient. They emailed last night.’
‘Good.’ He nearly told her to have the eting at the LGH building instead—preferably in his office—but bit it back.
‘Then I’ll catch up with Yvaine over tea.’
‘Let Geoffrey drive you.’
Mirabelle glanced at the housekeeper, who bead at her.
She forced a polite smile, then turned back to Ashton. ‘Public transport’s fine. I don’t wanna trouble anyone.’
‘You drive?’
She nodded. ‘Got my licence in college.’
‘Then take one of the cars.’
Her fork paused mid-air. ‘You an one of those rare, probably one-of-a-kind cars in your garage? If I so much as scratched the bumper, I’d have to sell a kidney just to cover the paint.’
He smiled, then frowned.
He liked that she was comfortable enough to joke with him now, but he didn’t like that she still saw the cars as his. Not hers.
Definitely not theirs.
‘Right. My mistake. Those have been sitting in the garage too long. Probably need a tune-up before they’re road-ready. What do you like driving? I’ll have one sent over.’
She dropped her fork like it’d just bitten her. ‘Um, no, thanks. Really. I barely drive. Like, ever. I’d rather walk.’
‘Can’t have people seeing you on the subway and thinking I’m so tight-fisted bastard,’ Ashton cut her off smoothly. ‘So either you drive yourself, or soone drives you.’
Mirabelle shifted in her seat, trying to squirm out of it. ‘Fine, I’ll drive myself... I’ve still got that card your assistant gave the other day. I’ll buy sothing. Speaking of that—’ she added, ‘I don’t rember us agreeing on a million-dollar monthly transfer. Can you take it back?’
‘No,’ he said flatly, his tone edged with irritation. ‘You’re my wife. There’s a certain image that needs maintaining. That ans having a driver. A card that skips queues. VIP access. The works. Non-negotiable.’
‘That wasn’t in the deal,’ she shot back.
‘Was it not?’ he murmured, hiding a smug smile behind his coffee mug. ‘Maybe check the contract. Section Five. Subclause twenty.’
‘What?’ she blinked, then muttered under her breath, ‘I don’t even rember where the hell I shoved that damn thing.’
He rembered, but he wasn’t about to tell her.
He turned to Geoffrey and said, ‘Take Mrs Laurent car shopping after breakfast.’
‘Nope,’ she jumped in fast. ‘Really. There’s no need. I don’t know a damn thing about cars anyway.’
Ashton didn’t miss a beat. ‘Then we’ll have one delivered.’
Which had been the plan from the start.
Mirabelle mumbled sothing to herself and gave in reluctantly.
After breakfast, she went upstairs to change.
Ashton said to Geoffrey, ‘Make sure she’s comfortable with whatever you get.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘And... get one that cos as a pair. The “his and hers” type. Have mine delivered to the garage.’
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