Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Family Dinner Disaster

Two months of dodging James's calls had given me a false sense of security. So when his name lit up my phone for the hundredth time, I almost declined it out of habit. Almost.

"What?" I answered, balancing my phone while sorting through client files at my desk.

"Soph, please don't hang up." The desperation in his voice was new. "Mom's worried about you."

Victoria Henderson. The woman who'd treated me like a daughter for two years. My chest tightened. "I'm fine."

"She wants you to come to dinner. Just family—the way it used to be. Dad's finally back from his London trip, and you know how Mom gets about her Sunday roasts."

I closed my eyes, remembering warm Sunday evenings in the Hendersons' elegant dining room. Victoria fussing over portions, James's younger sister Emma sneaking her vegetables to their golden retriever. They'd been my second family.

"James—"

"As friends," he added quickly. "I know I screwed up. Monumentally. But you were part of this family for two years. Mom misses you. Emma misses you."

The worst part? I missed them too.

"Just dinner," he pressed. "You can leave the moment you feel uncomfortable."

I should have said no. But Victoria had been more maternal in two years than my own mother had been in twenty-five. "What time?"

"Seven. I'll pick you up—"

"I'll drive myself."

The Henderson estate looked exactly the same as it had two months ago, when I'd been planning to move in after the honeymoon. The same manicured gardens, the same warm lights glowing from within. Only I was different.

Victoria opened the door before I could knock, pulling me into a perfumed embrace. "Sophia, darling! You look thin. Haven't you been eating?"

The familiar scent of her Chanel No. 5 made my throat tight. "I'm fine, Victoria. Just busy with work."

"Nonsense. Come in, come in. James said you might come, but I hardly dared hope..."

The foyer's crystal chandelier sparkled overhead as I followed her inside, my heels clicking against the marble floor. Everything screamed old money, from the original artwork to the antique furniture. I'd once felt at home here. Now I felt like an imposter.

Emma bounded down the grand staircase, her teenage energy unchanged. "Sophia! Oh my God, you came!"

Her hug was fiercer than Victoria's, and I hugged her back just as hard. "Hey, squirt."

"James is an idiot," she whispered in my ear. "Team Sophia forever."

I laughed despite myself, but the sound died in my throat as voices drifted from the study. One was James—the other was deeper, richer, hauntingly familiar.

No. It couldn't be.

"Marcus, darling," Victoria called out. "Come say hello to Sophia."

Time seemed to slow as footsteps approached. I knew before I turned. Knew from the way the air suddenly felt charged, the way my skin prickled with awareness.

James's father stepped into the foyer, and my world tilted on its axis.

Silver-streaked dark hair. Storm-gray eyes. The same powerful presence that had drawn me in that night at The Skylark. Marcus Henderson—my almost father-in-law, the man who'd made me forget my own name between expensive sheets—stood frozen, his face a masterpiece of careful control.

"Sophia." His voice was perfectly steady, betraying nothing. "Welcome back."

The room spun. This couldn't be happening. The mysterious stranger who'd kissed away my wedding night sorrows, who'd left marks on my skin that had taken weeks to fade—was James's father?

"Mr. Henderson." I was proud that my voice didn't shake. "Thank you for having me."

Our eyes locked for a fraction of a second too long. In that moment, I saw everything: recognition, shock, and something darker that made my pulse race.

"Dad, you remember Sophia," James said, appearing beside his father.

Remember. The irony would have been funny if I wasn't fighting the urge to flee.

"Of course." Marcus's smile was polite, distant. As if he hadn't whispered praise against my skin, hadn't made me cry out his name—though I hadn't known it was his name then.

Victoria ushered us toward the dining room, chattering about roast temperatures and wine pairings. I followed on autopilot, hyperaware of Marcus's presence behind me. The weight of unspoken words hung heavy in the air.

"Sophia, dear, sit here." Victoria gestured to a chair—directly across from Marcus.

Torture. This was actual torture.

The first course arrived, something delicate involving scallops that I couldn't taste. Every accidental brush of Marcus's leg against mine under the table sent electricity through my veins. Every time he reached for his wine glass, I remembered how those hands had felt on my body.

"How's the firm?" James asked, trying to break the tension he couldn't possibly understand.

"Good." I took a large sip of wine. "Busy. We just landed the Peterson account."

"Impressive," Marcus said, his deep voice making me shiver. "They're notoriously particular about their legal representation."

"Sophia's always been impressive," James said proudly, as if he still had any right to be proud of me.

Marcus's eyes met mine over his wine glass. "Indeed."

I choked on my scallop.

The evening stretched on endlessly. Every minute brought a new form of exquisite torture. The way Marcus's fingers wrapped around his fork made me remember how they'd wrapped around my wrists. The rich timbre of his laugh reminded me of whispered promises in the dark.

"More wine, Sophia?" Victoria offered.

"No!" Marcus and I said simultaneously.

Everyone stared.

"I'm driving," I explained weakly.

Emma looked between us, her teenage radar for drama pinging. "Dad, you're being weird."

"Just concerned about our guest's safety," he said smoothly. But his knuckles were white around his water glass.

I had to get out of here before I combusted. "I should actually go. Early meeting tomorrow."

"But we haven't had dessert," Victoria protested.

Dessert. God. The last thing I needed was to watch Marcus Henderson eat anything.

"Another time," I managed, standing so quickly my chair scraped the floor. "Thank you for dinner."

I barely heard their goodbyes as I fled to my car, heart pounding. Behind me, I heard the front door open again.

"Sophia." Marcus's voice stopped me in my tracks.

I turned, hand on my car door. "Don't."

"We need to talk about this."

"No, we really don't." I yanked my door open. "This never happened. Any of it."

His laugh was dark. "You think it's that simple?"

"It has to be." I slid into the driver's seat, refusing to look at him. "Goodnight, Mr. Henderson."

As I drove away, his figure grew smaller in my rearview mirror. But the memory of his touch, his taste, his voice—those stayed with me, as impossible to escape as the mess we'd unknowingly created that night.

This wasn't just a disaster. This was a catastrophe.