After a drive steeped in awkward silence, with Vincent radiating displeasure beside me, we finally pull into my parents' house.
Living in Vincent's enormous mansion had warped my perspective, because now, the house I grew up in feels almost small, as if it had shrunk over time. I expect a simple dinner, something quiet and intimate, but the moment I see the parked cars and hear laughter spilling from the open windows, I realize it's more of a gathering. Some faces are familiar, others are strangers—people my parents must have invited without warning me.
As we make our way toward the entrance, a voice calls from behind, warm and unmistakable.
"Ell…"
I turn over my shoulder—and freeze.
Xaden.
The same moment I turn, so does Vincent, his hand immediately circling my waist, tugging me close in a way that leaves no question about possession. My pulse spikes at the contact, that familiar heat rushing through me. I don't know what to call this reaction he drags out of me every single time he gets close to me—my blood quickens, my body betrays me, even when I don't want it to.
"Xaden," I greet, my voice a little too tight. His smile falters as his gaze lands on Vincent's arm wrapped securely around me.
Xaden is a close family friend. We literally grew up together.
He had actually tried to ask me out before, but I couldn't say yes. I didn't want to lead him on knowing I didn't hold the same sentiments. He is such a sweet soul… the kind who always made people around him feel at ease.
His smile returns, softer this time as he says, "It's been quite a long time, Ell. How are you doing?" The warmth in his tone makes me feel both guilty and relieved all at once, because despite everything, Xaden is still the same—kind, patient, and genuine.
He quickens his steps and joins us by the entrance, extending his hand to Vincent, though his eyes linger on me. "This must be—"
"Her husband," Vincent cuts him off smoothly, his tone cool, final. They shake hands, Vincent's grip firm enough that I can see the faint strain in Xaden's expression.
Before the tension can sharpen into something worse, my mother appears at the doorway, clapping her hands together with delight. "Oh, there you are! Finally!"
I take this chance to pull away from Vincent, whose hand is casually resting on my stomach, but he doesn't immediately let go. His hold lingers, fingers pressing lightly against my waist before finally releasing me with a slow squeeze. What the hell was wrong with him?
"Oh my, don't you look beautiful," my mother exclaims warmly, pulling me into a hug before moving to embrace Vincent, who is practically towering over her. She has to tilt her head back just to meet his eyes.
"How have you been doing?" she asks, her voice filled with genuine excitement. Before I can respond, her gaze shifts and softens at the sight of Xaden standing a step behind.
"Xaden, how was your flight?" she asks, a familiar fondness in her tone.
"It was smooth, thankfully," he answers with that easy smile of his. "Though I think I've missed your cooking more than I realized. Airplane food doesn't even come close."
Mother laughs, clearly charmed. "Still as flattering as ever, I see."
As Xaden and my mother get carried away in their own easy chatter, Vincent's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me firmly inside without a word. His silence feels heavier than any reprimand.
The moment we step into the foyer, my eyes catch on a man across the room—older, broad-shouldered, his gaze fixed openly on me in a way that makes my skin crawl. He doesn't even bother to hide it. The fact that he's old enough to be my father sends a shiver of unease through me.
Vincent leans down, his voice a low whisper against my ear. "This is exactly what I was trying to avoid when I told you to dress decently."
"There's nothing wrong with my dress," I shoot back under my breath. "People wear things like this all the time."
His jaw ticks. "So you're comfortable with the looks you're getting?"
"As long as no one lays a hand on me or says something inappropriate, it doesn't bother me."
Today seems to be the day I'm exceptionally good at pressing his buttons, and I can practically feel the storm brewing in him.
"It might not bother you," he snaps, his voice sharper this time, "but it damn well bothers me."
I tilt my head toward him, refusing to lower my gaze. "And that has nothing to do with me."
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw ticking in that controlled way that tells me I'm grating on every last nerve he has. But he doesn't snap. Instead, he stays glued to me the whole time.
With every chance he gets, doesn't fail to introduce himself as my husband. I can't tell if he's drawing lines in the sand for the men who dare to look at me or if it's his pride bristling because I refused to bend earlier. Either way, I wouldn't dare call it jealousy—not when he's made it abundantly clear there will never be an "us."
The dinner drags on, filled with chatter, toasts, and the kind of laughter that feels too loud, too false in my ears. And then, finally—finally—he steps away. A muttered word about the bathroom, and I watch his tall frame disappear down the hall.