By Seven-thirty, Ashley had learned three things about the Blackwood residence. Rugs thick enough to sweep in problems, art that could pay a payroll, and a silence so curated it made her want to cough just to prove she still existed.
"This is temporary," she'd told her reflection while she pinned on an earring in their bedroom, in preparation. "Yoked together for just a year." She smiled to herself.
She told herself she could do this and tolerate the family dinner. Brooke had encouraged her as well.
She'd caught him as he studied her a beat too long, as they approached the door. It was his thing anyways, she didn't care, she told herself.
"You look like you don't need anyone's approval." He said commenting on her looks again.
The dining room looked like a magazine had tried to seduce a museum. Candles in tall crystal throats, flowers arranged within an inch of their lives, china that had opinions about lineage and pedigree.
The staff moved in silent choreography. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock took itself very seriously.
They were already seated when the two of them joined them at the table.
Camilla Blackwood at the head, elegant, immaculate, a face the camera loved and trusted. Aunt Portia, diamonds like accusations. Cousin Ava , Ashley recognized the press badge from the boardroom earlier, with a smile shiny enough to sell a scandal. One Director, who'd married into the bloodline.
A grandfather portrait overhead, doing quality control from the great beyond. Their father was obviously holed up in his room most of the time, since after the incident.
Two bright exceptions cut through all that polish. Thea, as she was fondly called, Julian's younger sister. She popped up like champagne, dark hair in a glossy knot, warmth you couldn't fake. And at the far end, Margaret Blackwood, the grandmother. Her eyes were like old cut glass and a mouth that rarely softened but never lied and Mary, his elder sister and her husband, Felix.
"Family," Camilla began, rising with the kind of grace that implied rehearsal, "Meet Ashley. My Son's wife."
My son's wife. Not Julian's. Possession prettied up as manners.
Ashley smiled, the type she wore to interviews where people asked how it felt to inherit a company you hadn't been permitted to run.
"Thank you for having me."
Aunt Portia's gaze slid over her dress, the hair, the ring. "A whirlwind," she said. "So…romantic."
Ava's phone laid facedown on the linen. "We loved the headline." She interjected.
Asides Ava and Camilla, no one else had attended the briefing on the marriage contract.
"Dinner," Camilla interjected, voice equal parts hostess and Matron. "Before we discuss…anything else."
They sat,warm soup arrived as if conjured. The room hummed the way power hums when it's comfortable watching you squirm.
"So," Portia said lightly, as if this were a charity gala and not a cross-examination, "what do your people do, Ashley?"
Ashley folded her napkin carefully. "My people ran Ashford & Co. Publishing…"How…enterprising," Portia said cutting her off, a bit rude. "And resilient."
The word carried a weight Ashley had carried for a year. She set it down and did not pick it up. "Thank you."
Thea leaned forward, conspiratorial. "I honestly just want to talk about your shoes. Those are a hate crime against me personally." Her grin was disarming. "I almost wore sneakers to annoy Mom."
Camilla's fork paused midair. "You did not wear sneakers."
"Almost, Mom," Thea sang, and whispered to Ashley, "Welcome."
Margaret took in that exchange with amusement. "Ashley," she said, voice low and textured, "did you ever imagine such a table?"
"As a child?" Ashley smiled. "I imagined tables with better pizza. This is a glamorous second place."
Julian's mouth tipped.
Salad gave way to fish. With it, small bites disguised as questions.
"Tell me," Ava said, tapping her napkin to her lips, "how did you two meet? Properly meet."
"Vegas," Ashley said. "A bar. Blackjack. Questionable tequila."
"Whirlwind," Portia repeated, like she couldn't help it. "So much can get…misunderstood in a whirlwind."
"We're quite good at clarity," Ashley said, keeping her tone even.
His elder sister, Marry whose husband was a Director, blinked. "You must feel…very fortunate." That was all she had to say.
"At the moment," Ashley said, "I feel hungry."
Thea laughed. Margaret's eyes warmed by a half degree.
Camilla folded her hands. "Julian," she said in that chime she used on the networks, "A word about the company situation. I assume we're maintaining appropriate boundaries."
Julian set down his wine. "Mom, this is not a shareholder meeting."
"Everything is a shareholder meeting," Camilla said. "When we choose to forget that, we pay for it with interest."
Ava's phone lit under her palm. She did not look down. That was worse.
"We're fine," Ashley said, before anyone could declare her a conflict of interest. "Boundaries exist. I'm familiar."
Portia's smile sharpened. "Do you find it…challenging? Adjusting to our world? I'm told your origins are quite humble."
Heat crawled unexpectedly, manageable. Ashley felt the reflex to rise up and work out on the snobbish lots.
"Aunt Portia!," Julian said, the gentleness edged. "Restraint." Everyone knew Aunt Portia had no filter in her mouth.
Portia blinked, affronted into eloquence. "I'm just making conversation."
"You're making my wife uncomfortable," he said. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Power lives in tone.
"That's not how this works."
The room stilled. One staffer glanced up. Camilla's shoulders notched.
"Julian," she said warningly.
He turned to his mother with the same care he used in rooms where a billion blinked from a screen to a signature.
"If you want me at this table, you want her. Accord Ashley the same respect you give me. Nothing less."
Camilla's mouth thinned. Margaret set her fork down with ritual delicacy.
"The boy is correct," the grandmother said mildly.
"If the family cannot host properly, we can at least behave."
Thea lifted her glass. "To behaving." Portia sipped like she'd been forced to drink tap water. Ava finally checked her phone for three seconds too long.
The room reset around that sentence. The staff looked anywhere but their faces. Camilla held her son's gaze, then inclined her head a fraction grace or truce. "Of course."
After that, the conversation found safer ground. Thea told a disastrous ski story and one 6about their father confusing TikTok with stock tickers.
Margaret asked Ashley the first thing she'd ever fixed. "A toaster," Ashley said. "It wasn't the toaster's fault." The old woman laughed quietly, delighted.
Dinner became civil and polite, to an extent.
Every glance, every subtle movement carried unspoken tension. The brush of his sleeve when reaching for water, the faint scent of his cologne, the way his eyes flicked to her ever so slightly, it was torture. She felt every micro gesture, cataloging it, analyzing it, resisting it.
The dessert was tart and perfect and tasted weirdly like truce.
When coats were fetched and kisses administered with varying degrees of temperature, Camilla touched Ashley's arm. "You're very composed."
"It's been a long week," Ashley said.
"I meant it as a compliment," Camilla said. Then, quiet enough to count as mercy, "And a warning. Composure is an exhaustible resource."
"So is condescension," Ashley said, politely. "We can both pace ourselves."
Camilla's eyes, to her credit, sparked real amusement. "Oh," she said. "You're not boring. She bites…."
"This is all temporary," Ashley returned, "I'll be out of your lives before you know it."
The word 'temporary' had become a shield, she prayed she wouldn't stab herself with at last.
They left to the murmur of money and family pretending to be the same thing.
The car ride home wore silence like a mobile library. Occasionally disturbed by horns and the sound of other cars.
"Thank you," Ashley said, finally, into the dark.
"For what?" Julian's voice had gone lower, night-calm.
"For making me a person at that table and standing up for me."
He rested his head against the seat. "You did well for yourself, I'm glad you didn't let them bully you."
They almost laughed. The driver took a left. The gate recognized them and sighed open.
Ashley's phone buzzed once in her clutch. Then again. Then a third time like an alarm trying to be discreet. She checked the screen. Her pulse tripped. It was from Brooke, "Ash, do NOT go online."
Another from her Assistant, "We need to talk…crisis."
Gossipmint-exclusive: "Drunken Vegas Vows, quite literal, no pun intended."
The preview showed a photo of their chapel license and, below it, a blurred image of them looking drunk. Information very few people had access to.
Her mouth went dry. "Julian."
He looked over, and in the blue wash of the dash his face had the calm of a man reading bad news for the fiftieth time.
"What is it?"
She turned the phone to him. He took it, read, and didn't blink.
"How…" Her voice cracked and reset. "How do they have that?"
He was already calling someone, the kind of speed that suggested muscle memory. "Ava," he said when voicemail picked up. "Call me now."
He ended the call. The phone buzzed again, a message.
Unknown, " Cute clauses. Shame if the market saw them."
Ashley's hands went colder than the leather beneath them.
"Julian…look at this…"
He lifted his eyes to hers. For once, the control wasn't enough to cover what moved underneath.