CHAPTER 101

YOU SHOULD OWN YOURS...

The city glowed with its usual evening brilliance when Abigail and Luke arrived at another one of the society gatherings that seemed never-ending in their world. Tonight, it was hosted at the Belmont estate, a sprawling mansion with gardens that rolled out like a carpet of green under the flood of chandeliers spilling their light onto the lawn. The kind of event where champagne was endless, laughter was carefully measured, and whispers were more dangerous than open insults.

Abigail held on to Luke’s arm, her dress flowing like liquid silk, her nerves tucked neatly behind the calm mask she had perfected. Luke, as always, cut a figure that drew eyes wherever he moved power radiated from him in quiet, controlled waves. He leaned close to her ear as they stepped into the ballroom.

“Stay by me tonight,” he murmured, his voice low, firm.

Her brows furrowed slightly. “You say that every time.”

“This time,” he said, his jaw tightening, “I mean it more than ever.”

She wanted to press him, to ask why, but his hand over hers silenced her. He wasn’t in the mood for questions.

The ballroom was alive with music and murmurs. Abigail could feel the eyes on her some admiring, some calculating, others laced with that sharp judgment she was slowly learning to ignore. But it wasn’t the crowd that unsettled her tonight. It was the way Luke’s hand on her waist was tighter than usual, his gaze sharper, as though he expected a storm to roll in at any second.

And then, she saw him.

Oscar Dixon.

He was across the room, laughing with a small group, his sandy brown hair catching the golden light, his hazel eyes bright with charm. He looked almost too at ease, his glass raised casually, his posture relaxed but when his gaze met hers, the ease shifted into something heavier. He inclined his head slightly, a silent acknowledgment, before returning to his company as if nothing had happened.

Abigail felt Luke stiffen beside her. His fingers pressed harder at her waist.

“You don’t look at him,” Luke said under his breath.

“I wasn’t” she started, but his eyes cut to hers, and she stopped. His voice had carried the weight of a command, not a suggestion.

Luke leaned close, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, “He doesn’t exist for you. Do you understand?”

Her chest tightened. She nodded softly, though her mind spun. Luke’s possessiveness wasn’t new, but tonight, it felt different. He wasn’t just jealous he was defensive, almost as if protecting her from something deeper than Oscar’s interest.

The night unfolded with the usual tide of speeches, toasts, and polite exchanges, but Oscar Dixon seemed to linger everywhere. Abigail caught glimpses of him near the bar, standing with a senator, laughing too smoothly with a pair of socialites. And yet, she knew every time he was aware of her.

When they finally crossed paths, it was almost orchestrated. She had stepped aside to take a breath near one of the tall windows when Oscar appeared, his reflection catching hers in the glass before he turned.

“Mrs. Vandell,” he said smoothly, his voice dipped in velvet. “We meet again.”

Her pulse quickened. “Mr. Dixon,” she said politely, her tone cool.

“Abigail,” he corrected gently, his smile curling. “Names are powerful. You should own yours.”

Before she could respond, Luke’s presence closed in like a shadow. He stepped between them, his hand gripping Abigail’s waist, his eyes locked on Oscar with the kind of cold steel that drew silence even in crowded rooms.

“You don’t speak her name,” Luke said evenly, his voice low but cutting. “Not here. Not anywhere.”

Oscar’s brows lifted, amusement flickering in his hazel eyes. “Protective, aren’t you?”

“Possessive,” Luke corrected. His fingers tightened around Abigail as though to prove it.

The space between the men grew charged, electric. Abigail could feel the tension rolling off them both. Oscar didn’t look away, and for a moment, the air seemed to still. Then, finally, Oscar smiled, slow and deliberate.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll respect your boundary.” His gaze flicked to Abigail for the briefest second before he bowed slightly, his charm flawless. “Good evening, Mr. Vandell. Mrs. Vandell.”

He walked away, his retreat smooth, his presence leaving a lingering ripple in the air.

Abigail let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Luke’s grip on her waist hadn’t softened. She turned to him. “Luke, what ”

“Not here,” he said sharply.

The rest of the evening blurred. Luke refused to let her stray from his side, his eyes scanning the room like a predator watching for threats. Abigail obeyed, though unease gnawed at her. When they finally returned to the estate, the weight of the night pressed down.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Abigail turned on him. “You need to tell me what this is about.”

Luke was unbuttoning his cuffs, his movements sharp. “It’s about me keeping you safe.”

“Safe from what? From Oscar? He didn’t do anything tonight.”

Luke’s jaw clenched. “He didn’t have to. Men like him don’t need to make moves in public. They operate in shadows, in whispers.”

Her frustration flared. “Then tell me what you know. Why are you acting like there’s more to this than you’re saying?”

His hands stilled. For a long moment, he didn’t look at her. Then he turned, his eyes dark. “Because there is.”

Her breath caught. “Then tell me.”

But instead of answering, Luke closed the distance between them, his hands gripping her arms. “All you need to know, Abigail, is that you are mine. I won’t let him, or anyone, touch you.”

Her heart hammered at the intensity in his gaze, but the unease didn’t fade. “Luke… you’re hiding something.”

His silence was answer enough. He kissed her suddenly, fiercely, as though silencing her questions with his lips. She melted into him despite the storm inside her, their kiss desperate, consuming. But when they finally pulled apart, breathless, she searched his eyes again.

“You know something about him,” she whispered. “Something you won’t tell me.”

Luke’s jaw tightened, his silence heavy, his hands still framing her face.

And in that silence, Abigail knew she was right.

Later that night, when Luke finally fell into a restless sleep beside her, Abigail lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His words echoed in her head. His silence echoed louder.

Oscar Dixon was more than a threat of jealousy. He was something else, something Luke knew and refused to reveal.

And that, more than anything, unsettled her.