Elise's POV
Elise lay on her side, her back to the door, eyes squeezed shut and heart drumming so hard she feared Carter would hear it and it would give her away.
The sheets were cool against her skin, but her body was still heated from the art room, from Alexander's voice, his touch, his tongue,his heat. She could feel the ghost of his hands on her thighs, the feel of his breath on her neck. It had been too much, and yet not enough.
Downstairs, a door creaked open. Her breath hitched. Then—
Alexander's voice, smooth and deep, drifted up through the vent. Calm. Casual. Conversing.
Buying time.
"…Didn't expect you to come back by the hour." he said.
Carter's voice followed, muffled but unmistakably his. "Meeting ended early. Samuel Greene talks more than he delivers. He suggested that we go out for drinks.*
A pause. Then laughter—Alexander's.
They talked for a while. Pointless things. Traffic. Stock values. Old friends. Elise stayed frozen in bed, every second passing was like a ticking bond.
He was protecting her. Covering for her.
Her heart leapt at this.
By the time Carter's footsteps sounded as he walked into the room, she was perfectly still, facing away from him, lips parted in fake sleep.
He didn't speak. Didn't touch her.
Just slipped in beside her, the mattress dipping slightly, and turned to the other side.
Normally, that would have cut deep.
Normally, she would have curled in on herself, wondering what she'd done wrong. But tonight, Elise didn't feel hurt.
She felt nothing but lust still seeping in her bones—and the weight of a man's voice in her head.
"When I take you—and I will—I want you to beg for it."
It was hard for her to fall asleep after that. She spent the night restless and needed as her head flooded with images she was scared to talk about.
****
The Next Morning….
She woke to sunlight filtering into the room, casting it in its golden glow. Her limbs felt light, her skin felt alive. Her lips curved into a smile before she realized it.
Elise smiled.
She hadn't done that in a long time—certainly not in her husband's house. But something had shifted. She felt it. An invisible thread pulled tight between her and danger. Between her and Alexander.
She took her time showering, letting the hot water wash away any trace of guilt. She wrapped herself in a soft cotton towel and brushed her hair until it was knot free, slipping into a delicate off-white dress that fluttered against her skin as she moved.
Downstairs, the house was quiet, the scent of coffee already in the air. The sun lit the kitchen in a way that made everything feel less like a mansion and more like a dream.
And there he was.
Alexander stood by the counter, mug in hand, dark shirt rolled up at the sleeves, collar open to reveal the strong lines of his throat.
He looked up. Their eyes met.
And he smiled.
"Morning," he said, voice deep and laced with something unspoken.
"Morning." She smiled back softly.
She walked over to the fridge, pulling out a few ingredients. "What would you like for breakfast?"
He blinked.
Actually blinked—like she'd just spoken in a foreign language. "You're… cooking for me?"
She laughed softly. "Yes. Is that so strange?"
"It's been a while," he said, his tone almost sad. "Too long since anyone has."
Something in that made her chest tighten. "Well, you'll have to get used to it," she murmured. "What do you want?"
He named something simple—eggs, toast, coffee.
"I'll help," he added, coming up beside her.
The air shifted.
They moved around the kitchen in a rhythm that felt rehearsed and domestic. Hands brushing as they reached for the same bowl. Laughter bubbling when she spilled a little flour on his shirt and tried to wipe it off—only to smear it worse.
"Van Gogh ever paint something like this?" she teased, tilting her head.
"Not unless he had a kitchen muse," Alexander said, eyes on her mouth.
She swallowed. "Or Michelangelo?"
"He sculpted gods. Not breakfast," he said, inching closer, brushing past her to reach the salt—deliberately too close. Her breath hitched as his chest grazed her back. "Though I imagine even David would fall to his knees for the view I've got right now."
She choked on a laugh. "You're terrible."
"Tell me to stop," he murmured.
She didn't.
They didn't kiss.
Again. Much to her disappointment.
But his hand lingered on the small of her back longer than necessary.
By the time they plated the food and brought it to the dining room, the atmosphere was practically filled with electricity.
Carter appeared moments later, hair tousled, shirt rumpled. "Smells good," he muttered, sitting down.
Alexander took the head of the table, normal for the head of the household. Elise moved to his right. Carter sat across from her, his eyes flickering between them.
Something in them knew.
Alexander's hand found her thigh beneath the table.
Her fork froze mid-air.
He squeezed.
She nearly dropped the damn thing.
"Samuel Greene wants to renegotiate the overseas contract," Carter said, cutting into his toast. "Apparently he's having second thoughts."
"He always was spineless," Alexander replied, his tone clipped.
Carter gave a humorless laugh. "Kind of like the men you used to play chess with."
Elise stiffened.
But Alexander didn't miss a beat. "Better spineless than mindless. You should ask yourself who gave him the deal to begin with."
Touché.
She felt Carter's eyes on her. She didn't flinch.
She let him look.
She let him wonder. Let him piece together what he thought he saw.
Because she saw him, too. That night. Kissing Isabella like it meant nothing.
Alexander's hand moved again.
Upward.
A teasing stroke near the hem of her dress. Her breath hitched. Her knife clinked against the plate.
"You okay?" Carter asked, brows raised.
"Fine," she said, voice an octave too high.
Alexander chuckled quietly, lifting his coffee. "Must be the spice."
When breakfast ended, Alexander's phone buzzed.
He answered it, listened, then ended the call. "Nathan Williams just flew in from Spain. Invited us to dinner tonight. Apparently, he brought back a rare bottle of Tempranillo he insists I taste."
"Nathan Williams?" Carter asked. "That's a name I haven't heard in a while."
"You're coming," Alexander said smoothly. "He asked for the whole family."
Carter hesitated, then glanced between Elise and his father.
"Mind if I bring someone?"
Alexander's brow lifted. "Who?"
"Izzy—Isabella," Carter said, acting very casual.
Elise's blood ran cold.
The air in the room became tense.
Alexander's smile didn't reach his eyes. It was dangerous. "Of course. The more the merrier."
But Elise didn't smile.
If that's how he wants to play then she would play harder.