Chapter Forty-four

The Oden estate was abnormally quiet—so quiet, in fact, that Luke could hear the gentle ticking of the old-fashioned grandfather clock in the hall outside his study. It was a rich, powerful quietness, not of tranquillity but of unstated things.

Luke sat by himself at the long mahogany dining table, the same one that had witnessed years of lovingly constructed family dinners, public outings, and Jackson Oden's boisterous expectations. Today, however, the table stretched out like a bench in a courtroom. Cold. Solitary. Judging.

He sipped bitter black coffee, untouched toast drying out on either side of him, when the door groaned open.

Mrs. Oden swept in like a gust of winter air—elegant, poised, but icy beneath the silk.

"You didn't come to breakfast," she said, voice crisp.

Luke didn't look at her. "I'm not hungry."

"Clearly," she said, her heels clicking on the shining floor. "But when has need ever stopped a man from asserting he's in control?"

He finally raised his eyes