CHAPTER 100

DON'T LET HIM COME BETWEEN US..

The morning after the gala carried a strange heaviness with it. The Vandell estate was quiet, too quiet for Abigail’s liking. Sunlight spilled through the tall glass windows, warming the cream-colored walls, but there was no warmth in Luke’s mood. He had left their bed before dawn, slipping out with the same silence that always came when his mind was troubled.

Abigail found him hours later in the garden behind the estate. He was standing by the stone railing that overlooked the lower lawns, a cup of black coffee in one hand, his other buried in the pocket of his trousers. His sandy hair caught the morning light, but the stiffness in his shoulders told her he had not slept well.

She approached slowly, her steps soft against the stone path. “You’ve been out here all morning,” she said, her voice careful, testing.

Luke didn’t turn. He sipped his coffee, the silence stretching long before he finally spoke. “Do you know what’s already in the papers?”

Her brows furrowed. “What?”

He turned then, his eyes locking with hers, sharp as glass. “Oscar Dixon. Abigail Vandell. One headline said he ‘came to her rescue.’” His jaw flexed. “As though I wasn’t even there.”

Abigail exhaled slowly, walking closer until she was right beside him. She laid her hand on his arm. “Headlines are written to stir people up. You know that. It doesn’t mean anything.”

But his eyes stayed dark. “It means they saw him, not me.”

Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Luke, they always see you. But I don’t care about them, or what they write. I care about you. About us. No headline can change that.”

For a moment, something in his gaze softened, but it was fleeting. He looked away, staring out over the lawns. Abigail didn’t press him further. She knew when to let his silence sit, even if it burned inside her chest.

By noon, the estate had returned to its usual rhythm the staff moving about, cars pulling in and out of the gates but Abigail could feel the shift. Whispers seemed heavier, more watchful. Even some of the staff carried glances they thought she wouldn’t notice.

She was reminded of it later, when her phone buzzed with an unknown number. She hesitated, then answered.

“Mrs. Vandell.” The voice on the other end was smooth, young, with a self-assurance that immediately told her who it was. “This is Oscar Dixon.”

Her breath caught, though she forced her voice steady. “How did you get this number?”

A low chuckle. “The same way I stop glasses from shattering where they shouldn’t. I make it happen.”

She frowned, her fingers tightening around the phone. “What do you want?”

“To apologize,” he said simply. “For last night. I didn’t mean to draw attention to you. But when I saw what Obetta was about to do, I couldn’t sit back.”

Abigail’s lips pressed together. “I didn’t need saving.”

“I know,” he said, his tone sharper, respectful but unwavering. “But sometimes power isn’t about what we need it’s about what we allow others to see. And I couldn’t let them see you brought down like that. You don’t deserve it.”

Her chest tightened. His words were strange half compliment, half something deeper she couldn’t name. She steadied herself. “Thank you. But that will be all.”

“Will it?” His question lingered, laced with something that made her uneasy. “I think we’ll be seeing each other again soon, Mrs. Vandell. Our families live in the same world. You’ll find it hard to avoid me.”

Before she could respond, the line went dead.

Abigail lowered the phone, her pulse unsteady. She had no desire to keep this conversation from Luke, but she knew what telling him would ignite. His jealousy was already simmering another spark could set it ablaze.

Still, secrets had a way of festering. And she didn’t want any between them.

That evening, Luke returned to the estate later than usual. Abigail waited for him in their sitting room, the fire crackling low. He entered, loosening his tie, his expression unreadable. She rose immediately.

“We need to talk,” she said.

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t resist. He set his jacket aside and joined her. “About what?”

Her hands trembled slightly, but she steadied them. “Oscar Dixon called me.”

The change in him was instant. His jaw locked, his eyes blazing. “What did he say?”

“That he was apologizing for last night,” she said quickly. “And… that he didn’t want me humiliated. That was all.”

Luke’s laugh was bitter, humorless. “That was all? Abigail, men like him don’t call to apologize. They call to make a mark.”

She stepped closer, her voice urgent. “Then let him mark nothing, Luke. Because I won’t let him. I told him thank you, and that was it.”

But Luke wasn’t soothed. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the room. “He’s young, powerful, arrogant and now he’s set his eyes on you. That makes him dangerous.”

Abigail reached for him, forcing him to stop, her hands gripping his shoulders. “Luke. Look at me. I am your wife. Nothing he says, nothing he does, will change that. Do you hear me?”

His eyes searched hers, fierce and desperate all at once. “Do you know what men like him do when they want something?”

She didn’t flinch. “Yes. They try. And they fail. Because I’ve already chosen.”

Her words sank into him, softening some of the storm, though not all. He pulled her close suddenly, his lips pressing against her forehead, his voice low. “Don’t give him room to think he can touch you.”

“I won’t,” she promised.

But Luke’s grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it grew tighter, as though holding her was the only way to keep her tethered to him. Abigail let him, her heart aching at the sharp edges of his jealousy, but also at the love hidden beneath it.

Far across town, Oscar Dixon sat in a private lounge, a glass of bourbon in hand. The night outside glittered with city lights, but his mind lingered on Abigail’s voice.

Calm. Steady. Fiercer than he’d expected.

He smirked to himself, leaning back in his chair. “So that’s the Vandell wife,” he murmured. “Interesting.”

His cousin, seated beside him, raised a brow. “You stirred quite a storm last night, Oscar. Luke Vandell is not a man you want to make an enemy of.”

Oscar’s smirk didn’t fade. “I didn’t make him an enemy. I reminded him his world isn’t untouchable.”

“And the wife?”

Oscar’s hazel eyes gleamed, thoughtful. “She’s stronger than they give her credit for. Strong enough to stand beside him. That makes her rare.” He swirled his glass. “Rare things always draw attention.”

Back at the estate, Abigail curled against Luke on their bed later that night. He hadn’t spoken much after their earlier talk, but his arms around her were firm, protective.

“Luke,” she whispered into the darkness. “Do you trust me?”

His lips pressed against her hair. “With my life.”

“Then don’t let him come between us. Please.”

For a moment, the silence stretched again. And then, his voice came, raw and low. “He won’t. Not if I can help it.”

Abigail closed her eyes, her hand over his heart. But even as sleep tugged at her, she knew Oscar Dixon’s presence was a shadow now cast over them both.

And shadows had a way of lingering.