Alexander became quieter after the luncheon.
Not distant, just… contained.
He still walked beside me through the house, still asked if I wanted tea in the evenings, still made the effort to be present. But something in him had tightened, like a door closing carefully rather than slamming shut.
I noticed it in the way his gaze followed me when he thought I wasn't looking.
I noticed it when his phone buzzed and he ignored it, not just Elena's calls now, but anyone who might pull his attention elsewhere.
That unsettled me more than distraction ever had.
That afternoon, I stepped out onto the terrace with my laptop, intent on finishing a report I'd been delaying for weeks. The sun was warm, the air still. It felt good to sit somewhere open.
I didn't notice Alexander watching me from the study until I heard the door slide open behind me.
"You're working?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "I told you I would."
"I didn't think you meant out here."
I shrugged. "It's quiet."
He nodded and leaned against the railing, close enough that I could feel his presence without him intruding. For a while, he said nothing.
Then, "The man from the luncheon emailed me."
I paused mid-sentence. "Which man?"
"The one you were talking to," he said, too quickly.
I looked up. "What did he say?"
Alexander hesitated. "He asked if you'd be attending the foundation dinner next week."
"And?"
"And if you'd like to sit with him."
The words were clipped, restrained. Controlled.
I closed my laptop. "And how did you respond?"
"I didn't," he admitted. "I deleted it."
I stared at him. "You did what?"
He straightened, his composure snapping into place too late. "It was inappropriate."
"It was a question," I said evenly. "And it wasn't addressed to you."
"I know," he said. "That's the problem."
The admission slipped out before he could stop it.
I stood slowly, setting the laptop aside. "Alexander," I said carefully, "this is not your decision to make."
"I'm aware of that," he replied. "Which is why I didn't answer. I just… removed it."
The honesty hit harder than denial would have.
"You don't get to erase people from my world," I said quietly.
He flinched. "I'm not trying to control you."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration cracking the calm. "I'm trying not to imagine you with someone else."
The words landed heavily, raw and unguarded.
I crossed my arms, more to ground myself than to shield. "That's your work to do. Not mine."
"I know," he said. "I know that. I just didn't realize how fast it would happen."
"How fast what would happen?"
"How fast the idea of you being wanted by someone else would make me feel like I was losing something again."
Again.
The word lingered.
"You didn't lose me," I said. "You gave me up."
He closed his eyes briefly. "That's worse."
We stood there, the space between us charged with things neither of us could safely reach for.
"I won't do it again," he said finally. "I won't interfere."
"I need to believe that," I replied.
"You don't have to," he said. "I'll prove it."
That night, I dressed for dinner with deliberate slowness, aware of his presence in the room behind me. When I turned, he was watching me in the mirror again.
"You're doing it on purpose," he said quietly.
"Doing what?"
"Reminding me what I could lose."
I met his gaze in the reflection. "I'm reminding myself that I don't belong to anyone."
He nodded once, accepting the boundary even as it cut him.
In bed, he lay on his back, hands folded over his chest like a man practicing restraint rather than sleep.
"I used to think jealousy was weakness," he said suddenly.
I didn't respond right away. "And now?"
"And now I think it's fear wearing armor."
I turned my head slightly, studying his profile in the dark.
"Fear of what?" I asked.
"Of being irrelevant," he said. "Of realizing too late that what I dismissed was irreplaceable."
The silence that followed was thick and honest.
I reached for the light and turned it off, leaving us in darkness.
Because there was nothing more dangerous than a man who had begun to understand exactly what he stood to lose, and was learning, far too slowly, that wanting wasn't the same as deserving.