We didn't move immediately. I used the silence to adjust the collar of my dress, ensuring the Walther remained perfectly concealed. The bruise on my neck felt cold beneath the fabric, a secret I carried just for him.
"You look stunning, B. That color suits you," he said, reaching out to open my door, his hand lingering for a moment on my shoulder—a final, proprietary touch before the performance began.
As I stepped onto the gravel drive, a figure emerged from the side garden…a woman in a wide-brimmed straw hat and gardening gloves, wiping her hands on a worn apron. This was Eleanor, Jackson's mother. She wasn't a society wife. She was an earth creature, radiating a serene, grounded energy that felt genuinely unsettling in my world.
"Jackson, you're late!" she called out, her voice warm, but with a sharp edge of maternal expectation that made Jackson flinch.
Before she reached us, a second figure joined her. This was Lyle. He was the perfect, golden counterpoint to Jackson…handsome, impeccably dressed in a linen shirt, and carrying a bottle of expensive champagne. He smiled…an open, easy expression that lacked any of Jackson's beautiful complexity.
"Jay, you survived the traffic," Lyle joked, immediately taking up the role of the favored son. He didn't wait, he stepped right past Jackson and focused entirely on me.
"You must be Belinda," Lyle said, holding out his hand. His touch was firm, professional, and entirely devoid of the subtle darkness I was used to. "It's a pleasure. Mom has been talking about you for weeks. I think you're the only person who can make her forget about Jackson's abysmal career choices."
I shook his hand, my eyes locked with his. He was genuinely kind, completely unburdened. And I realized with a flash of insight…Jackson didn't bring me here to meet his parents, he brought me here to meet Lyle, the living embodiment of the path he refused to take.
Eleanor reached us then, ignoring the introductions to deliver a quick, hard hug to Jackson. "Happy birthday to your father," she scolded gently. "You know how he gets about the first glass of sherry."
Then she turned to me. Her gaze was intense, analytical, but not hostile. She saw the dress, the composure, and likely, the steel beneath. She looked directly at me, and I felt a brief flicker of genuine anxiety.
"Belinda," Eleanor said, taking both my hands, her gardening gloves leaving a faint scent of loam and damp earth. "We are so delighted to finally meet the person who managed to scare the reckless out of this boy. He hasn't stopped talking about you, and for once, he sounds entirely honest."
Jackson, standing beside me, cleared his throat. "Mom, we need to bring the gifts in."
"Nonsense," she waved him off. "Lyle, take her bag inside. Belinda, come with me. You can tell me which varieties of heirloom roses Jackson has accidentally killed this year. And then you can tell me about that stunning pin you're wearing."
I felt Jackson stiffen beside me, but I didn't break eye contact with his mother. The pin was an old, diamond clasp—a harmless piece of jewelry I'd deliberately chosen. Yet, I knew that in this domestic battleground, every detail was a potential weapon.
"I'd be happy to, Eleanor," I said smoothly, letting go of her hands. I knew she wasn't asking about the pin…she was asking about the price of my admission.
I shot a quick, silent glance at Jackson. His eyes were wide, a silent plea for discretion. He was watching the scenario play out, thrilled and terrified that I was walking straight into the heart of his stability.
I looped my arm through Eleanor's, leaving Jackson and Lyle to trail behind with the luggage. The Audition had begun, and I was stepping into my role as the devoted, slightly dangerous girlfriend.
Eleanor led me through a sun-drenched hallway, past shelves crowded with framed family photos—Lyle's easy smile everywhere, Jackson's intense gaze often reserved and distant. Then I saw his baby pictures…his smile has always been beautiful. He rarely shows it but when he does…my heart melts.
The whole house felt like a carefully curated photograph.
"He's in the sunroom, Belinda. Reading his history text, no doubt," Eleanor murmured, her voice laced with affection and a touch of exasperation. "Just smile and nod when he talks about General Patton. It's his favorite subject."
I followed her into a large, airy room overlooking the garden. And there he was.
General Hill.
He wasn't an old man…he was a monument. He sat ramrod straight in a leather chair, dressed in crisp slacks, a dark sweater vest, and an air of absolute, military authority that dwarfed the delicate porcelain teacups on the side table. He was reading, not history, but a dense, leather-bound volume that looked like war journals.
Eleanor cleared her throat softly. "Dear, look who's arrived. Jackson brought his girlfriend, Belinda."
The General lowered the book, placed a finger carefully into the page to mark his spot, and looked up.
His eyes…a startling shade of blue, sharp and cold…met mine.
A physical jolt, sudden and electric, hit me in the center of my chest. My breath seized in my throat.
He wasn't just familiar. He was a phantom from a memory I had expertly walled off. The lines around his eyes, the precise set of his jaw, the heavy, almost reptilian stillness of his gaze…it triggered a sudden, dizzying sense of displacement.
I know him.
The thought was a silent, frantic alarm bell. This wasn't a professional connection…this was something darker, something buried deep in the toxic soil of my past. Was he a business partner of my father's I'd met years ago? A board member? No. It was deeper than that. The recognition was visceral, tied to a flash of cold, sterile architecture and the metallic scent of old money and newer violence.
But the memory was a locked box. No matter how hard I pushed, the lock refused to click open.
I forced the moment of panic down, swallowing the rising tide of suspicion. I couldn't afford a lapse here. Jackson was watching me, his senses tuned to any frequency change. I mentally slammed the door on the memory. Analyze later. Act now.
I extended my hand, my smile flawless, my voice betraying none of the internal chaos.
"General Hill," I said, my tone respectful but confident. "It's a pleasure. Jackson has told me so much about your insistence on discipline."
He took my hand. His grip was surprisingly powerful, dry and warm. He held it for a beat too long, and his sharp blue eyes did a slow, meticulous survey of my face—lingering for a fraction of a second on the exact spot of the bruise I had so carefully concealed.
"Belinda," he said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that confirmed his authority. "You have a very commanding handshake. Most young women don't know how to do that."
"I learned it from my father," I replied instantly, letting the name hang between us like a challenge.
He simply nodded, his expression unreadable. "A necessary lesson, given the world you are expected to inhabit."
He released my hand. The moment of unnerving connection was over. I had pushed the uncomfortable familiarity aside, choosing performance over panic. He was now just Jackson's father—the man I needed to neutralize with charm.
"Please," he gestured to a seat across from him. "Tell me what you think of my son's latest venture. I find it difficult to keep up with his appetite for risk."
I settled into the chair, crossing my legs, the cold steel of the Walther a familiar counterpoint to the quiet tension. I was ready to talk about Jackson's "appetite for risk," knowing full well the greatest risk he'd taken was bringing me here after pissing me off and lying to me.