Chapter Two: The Edge of Everything

Chapter Two: The Edge of Everything

The morning begins with silence. Not the natural kind, but the thick, pointed sort that hums under the surface like a held breath. The storm has passed, leaving the estate damp and steaming in the heat. Birds return to the trees. The pool glints blue beyond the patio, perfectly still, like glass waiting to shatter.

Grace wakes alone, but not undisturbed. Her skin remembers his hand at her neck, the taste of his mouth, the way his breath had caught in his throat when she leaned in. Her lips are still tender, as if bruised by the pressure of everything they didn’t finish.

She lies in bed longer than usual, the sheets tangled around her bare legs, sunlight pouring through the open window and painting pale lines across her thighs. Her nipples stiffen against the thin cotton of her sleep shirt. She runs her palm across her belly, lower, until—

No. Not yet.

Let him suffer first.

When she finally descends the stairs, she does so slowly, deliberately, every step a whisper against the old wood. Julian is in the kitchen again, standing at the stove with his back to her, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. He’s shirtless this time, only a pair of charcoal pajama pants slung low on his hips. The muscles in his back move as he stirs something on the stove. He looks like a painting. Like something dangerous carved out of restraint.

Grace says nothing at first. Just watches.

“Coffee’s there,” he says without turning. His voice is quiet, controlled.

“I see that,” she answers, moving past him. She pours herself a mug and perches on the edge of the counter, facing him. “Didn’t expect breakfast after last night.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look at her. “I figured you’d be hungry.”

“Not that kind of hungry.”

That gets his eyes—sharp, dark, and rimmed with something that looks too much like guilt.

“Grace,” he warns.

“What?”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just talking.”

“No,” he says softly. “You’re circling.”

She sips her coffee, smiling behind the rim. “So circle back.”

But he doesn’t take the bait. He plates the eggs and toast, sets them on the table without a word, and retreats. The air between them buzzes with the weight of everything they haven’t said.

After breakfast, she retreats to the sunroom—the most indulgent room in the house, all glass and pale wood and long cushions warmed by sunlight. She doesn’t bother with a bra. Her tank top is nearly transparent, her shorts nonexistent. She curls up on the lounger, book open, but she’s not reading. She’s listening.

For footsteps. For hesitation in the hall. For the pause that says he saw her and had to stop.

It comes, of course. A soft creak of the floor just outside the doorway. She doesn’t look up. Just shifts slightly, one leg falling open, the edge of her shorts riding dangerously high.

She can feel his gaze like heat on her skin.

“Do you need something?” she asks, voice light.

There’s a beat.

“No.”

And then his footsteps retreat.

She smiles to herself. The game has begun.

The day turns hot. Oppressive. A blanket of humid air that clings to her skin like a lover’s breath. She pulls on her skimpiest bikini—barely there, thin as floss when wet—and heads to the pool. Julian’s in the study, but she makes sure to pass the open doorway. Slowly. Dripping.

She doesn’t say anything this time. Just walks past, leaving the sound of her wet feet and the trail of chlorinated water as a message.

Come find me.

The pool is cool and perfect. She swims slow laps, lets her hair float behind her like seaweed, then pulls herself onto the edge and lounges in the sun, letting the fabric of her bikini cling to every curve.

She knows the exact moment he steps onto the patio. Doesn’t open her eyes. Just tilts her head slightly, lets her thighs part as if by accident.

Julian’s voice cuts through the heat. “You’ll burn.”

“Then come rub something on me,” she murmurs without looking.

There’s silence. Thick and startled. Then: “Grace.”

She opens her eyes. “I’m joking.”

“Don’t.”

“Why? Does it scare you?”

He doesn’t answer. She sits up, water beading down her chest, between her breasts. Her bikini top is soaked through, the pink fabric almost transparent now.

“I’m not a child,” she says softly.

“I know that.”

“Then stop treating me like one.”

He hesitates at the threshold, framed by sun and shadow. His hands flex at his sides. His jaw tightens.

“I’m going inside,” he says finally. “Dry off before you catch cold.”

And just like that, he’s gone again.

But not for long.

That night, she makes sure her door is cracked. Not wide—just enough to let the air in. Just enough to let sound travel. She slips under the covers naked, fingers playing across her own skin, slow and deliberate.

She moans softly. Then louder.

Lets her hips rock against her hand, lets her breath quicken. She says his name once, just above a whisper.

“Julian…”

She doesn’t care if he hears. She wants him to hear.

In the morning, he avoids her. No breakfast. No casual kitchen conversation. He disappears into the garden and doesn’t come back for hours.

She spends the day escalating.

Wearing nothing under her dress. Leaning over the counter just a little too far when she passes him a plate. Catching his hand with hers and holding it for a second too long, thumb brushing the vein on his wrist.

Every touch is electric.

Every glance a war.

By late afternoon, the air is too thick. She strips again and heads to the pool, calling out over her shoulder, “You should join me.”

No answer.

But an hour later, she catches him watching from the upstairs window. Just a flash of movement, his silhouette behind the glass. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. Just climbs out of the water slow, lets her bikini bottom ride low, clinging like second skin.

That night, the house is too quiet. She wears a long nightgown—thin, white, nearly translucent in the hall light—and lets the breeze from the open window catch it as she walks to the kitchen.

She sees him there. Barefoot. Shirt unbuttoned. A half-glass of red wine in his hand.

His eyes find her instantly. Then lower. The hem of the nightgown lifts with the breeze, exposes the curve of her thigh, the bare slip of skin just below her hip. She doesn’t fix it.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks.

“No.”

She steps into the kitchen. Doesn’t speak for a moment. Just leans against the counter, close enough to smell him. His wine. His skin.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks quietly.

She tilts her head. “Doing what?”

“You know what.”

She reaches for a glass, lets her fingertips brush his. Holds the contact.

“You kissed me,” she says. “I’m just… responding.”

“I stopped.”

“I noticed.”

“I had to stop.”

“Do you still want to?”

His silence is answer enough.

She pours herself wine, sips slowly. Her lips are stained the color of berries. His eyes keep finding them. Returning to them. She steps closer.

“I don’t think you do.”

“I’m not a good man,” he says. “Not in this.”

“Then don’t be good.”

Her fingers trail down his arm. She can feel him tense, see his throat work as he swallows. But he doesn’t move away.

The nightgown lifts again in the breeze, this time brushing his legs. Her skin touches his. Bare. Warm.

“Grace…” His voice is rough now, breaking.

She leans in. Her lips are a breath away from his. Her eyes never leave his.

“Say it,” she whispers. “Say you want me.”

His hand curls into a fist at his side. He shakes his head.

But his eyes say it.

His body screams it.

And just as she rises onto her toes, lips brushing his cheek, she hears it.

A sound upstairs.

Soft. Quick.

Like someone moving.

They freeze. The illusion shatters.

Julian steps back like he’s been burned. Sets the glass down so fast it clinks too loud.

“Go to bed,” he says, voice hoarse. “Now.”

Grace doesn’t move.

“Now.”

His tone slices through the air. And for the first time, she hears it—that edge of panic, of fear. Not of her. But of himself.

She turns without a word. Walks away. The nightgown floats around her like smoke, her bare feet silent on the tile. She doesn’t look back.

And she doesn’t close her door behind her.