The attention started quietly.
It always did.
We attended a midday luncheon hosted by the foundation Alexander chaired, a small, tasteful affair with people who knew how to look interested without being intrusive. I chose a simple black dress, nothing dramatic, nothing that begged to be noticed.
It didn't matter.
The moment we walked in together, eyes followed.
I felt it first, that subtle shift in the room, the curiosity, the recalibration. People who had written me off as temporary were suddenly re-evaluating. Wives smiled a little too warmly. Men lingered a second longer than necessary.
Alexander noticed too.
I could tell by the way his hand settled at my back, firmer than before. Not possessive. Not yet. Just… present.
"You're popular today," he murmured as we paused to greet a board member.
"Am I?" I asked lightly.
"You've always been," he said. "People just forgot to look."
The comment surprised us both.
During lunch, I found myself seated beside a man I vaguely recognized, someone in finance, I thought. He was charming in an effortless way, asking about my interests, my work, my thoughts on the foundation's initiatives.
Alexander sat across from us.
I could feel his gaze even when I wasn't looking at him.
"That's an interesting perspective," the man said, smiling. "You have a sharp mind."
"Thank you," I replied. "I enjoy listening."
He laughed. "I doubt that's all you do."
Before I could respond, Alexander's voice cut in smoothly. "Seraphina has always had excellent judgment."
The emphasis on always was deliberate.
The man nodded politely, though something shifted in his expression. The conversation drifted elsewhere soon after.
As we stood to leave, Alexander's hand returned to my back, guiding me through the crowd with a decisiveness that felt new.
"Was that necessary?" I asked once we were in the car.
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
I raised an eyebrow. "You didn't like him."
"I didn't like the way he was looking at you."
The words hung between us, unguarded.
I studied his profile as he drove, noting the tension in his jaw. "I'm not your territory, Alexander."
His grip on the steering wheel tightened. "I know."
"Then don't act like it."
He exhaled slowly. "I'm trying not to."
That honesty caught me off guard.
Back at the house, I retreated to the sitting room with a book. I didn't expect Alexander to follow.
"You could have told me if you were uncomfortable," he said, standing near the doorway.
"I wasn't," I replied. "I enjoyed the conversation."
Something flickered in his eyes, something sharp and unexpected.
"You enjoyed his attention."
I closed the book and looked up at him. "Is that a question?"
He hesitated. "No."
I stood, setting the book aside. "Then why does it bother you?"
He took a step closer, stopping just short of where I stood. "Because it made me realize how easily someone else could have what I took for granted."
The admission was raw in a way I hadn't anticipated.
I felt the air shift between us, charged with something dangerously close to desire.
"Thirty days," I reminded him softly. "You don't get to claim me now."
His gaze darkened. "I'm not trying to claim you."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
He looked away, jaw tightening. "Figure out where I stand."
The vulnerability in that answer unsettled me.
Later that evening, as we prepared for bed, I caught him watching me in the mirror. Not in the careless way he used to, but with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"You're thinking again," I said.
He nodded once. "I don't like the idea of losing you."
I met his gaze in the mirror. "You already did."
The words hurt to say. They hurt him to hear.
We lay down that night, the distance between us smaller than before, but heavier. His arm rested close enough that I could feel the warmth, but he didn't touch me.
Sleep came slowly.
And when it did, it carried with it the uneasy knowledge that Alexander Sterling had crossed an invisible line.
Not into control.
But into fear.
Fear of absence.
Fear of replacement.
Fear that, for the first time, wanting me might not be enough.