Chapter Ten

Aria sighed, a hint of frustration in her expression. “Maybe. I just I worry about you, El. You’ve been through so much. And he’s… well, he’s a lot older, and he’s your guardian. It’s just… complicated.”

“It’s not complicated,” Ella insisted, a touch of irritation creeping into her voice. “It’s perfectly straightforward. He’s a good friend to my family, and he’s looking out for me. End of story.”

She knew she was pushing too hard, but she couldn’t back down. Not now. The thought of Aria, or anyone, knowing the truth, sent a wave of icy fear through her.

Aria studied her for another long moment, her dark eyes still holding that unshakeable concern.

Finally, she relented, though a flicker of doubt remained in her gaze. “Okay, okay. If you say so.” She pushed her empty espresso cup away. “Just… be careful, El. Promise me.”

Ella managed a weak smile. “I’m always careful, Aria. You know me.” The lie felt like ash on her tongue. Careful was the last thing she had been. With James, she had been reckless, impulsive, utterly consumed.

Aria finally brightened, shaking off the serious mood. “Okay, enough about boring old James.

Let’s talk about your classes! Did you get into that advanced literature seminar you wanted?” The conversation shifted, flowing into familiar academic territory, a welcome distraction.

Ella gratefully plunged into it, her mind still reeling, but relieved to have steered the conversation away from the treacherous waters of James.

As they walked out of the café an hour later, the sun high in the sky, Ella felt a lingering unease.

Aria’s words, innocent as they were, had pricked at a raw nerve. *He likes you. Too much.* The phrase echoed in her mind, a haunting refrain.

She had dismissed it, vehemently, but the seed of doubt had been planted.

And deep down, in the secret chambers of her heart, she knew Aria was right. James did like her. Too much. And she, terrifyingly, liked him back. Even more than ‘too much’.

She liked him in a way that defied reason, defied propriety, defied everything she thought she knew about herself.

She thought of his hands on her skin, the rough rasp of his voice, the way he had claimed her body with such primal intensity.

The memory was a warm, illicit flame in her belly. She remembered his last words, his promise to call, his implicit assurance that he would return. And she knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and terrified her, that she would be waiting.

The thought of his return was a dangerous, exhilarating anticipation. The secret was hers, and his, and for now, it would remain hidden, a scorching ember in the quiet corners of her life.

But Aria’s intuition, sharp and unwavering, was a subtle warning, a crack in the carefully constructed façade.

The world was beginning to notice. And soon, perhaps, their secret would no longer be just theirs.

James was home. The scent of his cologne, a sharp, clean cedar, already permeated the air, a familiar anchor after days of its absence.

He had called from the airport, a clipped, impersonal message about his flight landing, nothing more. Not the excited, hushed whispers of Paris, not the playful promises of what awaited her.

He emerged from the study, a dark shadow against the pale light filtering through the window.

His tie, usually loosened after a long day, remained meticulously knotted, a stiff barrier at his throat.

His eyes, those intense blue depths that had devoured her in Paris, now held a cool, distant gaze. He didn’t smile. He didn’t offer a touch, a glance that acknowledged their shared intimacy.

“You’re still up.” His voice, usually a warm rumble, was flat, devoid of inflection.

“I was waiting for you.” Her own voice sounded small, almost a whisper, in the sudden chasm between them.

She took a tentative step forward, wanting to bridge the distance, to feel his hand in hers, to erase the strange chill that had settled over the house with his return.

He simply watched her, unmoving, a statue carved from granite.

“No need. I can manage.” He turned, walking towards the kitchen, his back a wall of indifference.

A knot tightened in Ella’s stomach. “Is everything alright? Your trip… it went well?”

He paused at the threshold, a hand resting on the doorframe, not looking at her. “The trip was fine. Business is business.” He pushed through the door.

The clatter of ice in a glass, the gurgle of liquid, punctuated the silence that stretched between them.

She followed him, needing to understand, needing to pierce the veil of his new demeanor. He stood by the island, swirling amber liquid in a heavy glass, his jaw tight.

“James,” she began, her voice soft, pleading. “You’ve been gone for days. I missed you.”

He took a slow sip, his gaze finally meeting hers, but it was cold, assessing, like a stranger’s. “Missing me, were you? Or perhaps just enjoying the freedom?”

Her breath hitched. “What are you talking about?”

“The house. It’s… not quite as I left it.” He gestured vaguely, his eyes sweeping over the immaculate living room visible from the kitchen. “A certain… disarray. A lack of attention to detail.”

Ella’s brows furrowed. She had spent the entire day cleaning, ensuring everything was perfect for his return. “I cleaned everything. It’s spotless.”

He scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. “Spotless? The dust on the mantelpiece begs to differ. And the throw pillows, carelessly tossed. Hardly the meticulous standard I expect.” He set his glass down with a sharp thud. “Honestly, Ella, one would think you had nothing else to do but maintain this home.”

A flush crept up her neck. The words stung, not just for their unfairness, but for the stark contrast to the man who had whispered how beautiful she was, how perfect her touch felt, just days ago in Paris. “I do have other things to do. I have my studies, my friends. I don’t just sit around waiting to polish your furniture.”

His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint entering them. “Your studies. Your friends. Priorities, Ella. You seem to have misplaced yours. My home, my expectations, come first. Always.” He stepped closer, invading her space, his height suddenly oppressive. “Or have you forgotten who provides this ‘freedom’ you seem to enjoy so much?”

Her heart hammered, a frantic drum against her ribs. This wasn’t James. This was a cruel, cutting stranger. “I haven’t forgotten anything. I just… I thought we were past this. After Paris…”

He laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Paris? Paris was a moment, Ella. A pleasant diversion. Not a renegotiation of terms.” He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, but the touch was devoid of warmth, almost clinical. “You seem to forget your place. Your gratitude.”