CHAPTER 42

SHE DOESN'T LOOK LIKE SHE BELONGS HERE..

The morning sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, brushing the room in a soft, golden glow. Abigail stirred under the covers, blinking as her eyes adjusted. The other side of the bed was empty again. She reached out instinctively, her fingertips brushing against cool sheets. No trace of warmth remained.

It had been like this for some weeks: Luke rising before dawn, slipping away in that deliberate, unhurried way of his, leaving behind only the faint scent of his cologne. No lingering goodbyes. No casual touch. No words but he stayed coming back to being warm a bit.

She lay there for a moment, listening to the quiet hum of the estate. She could hear distant footsteps of staff moving through the hallways, the occasional clink of dishes from the kitchen. Life went on as if nothing had shifted, but she knew better.

With a slow breath, she pushed herself up and wrapped the robe tighter around her. She had grown used to the silence between them, but it still weighed on her. She wasn’t sure if the heaviness came from his distance or her own inability to reach across it.

When she finally padded into the dining room, she found him there sitting at the head of the long table, already dressed in a navy suit, his tie knotted to perfection. He was sipping coffee, his phone resting beside the saucer, his posture straight but relaxed.

His eyes lifted briefly as she entered, scanning her with that detached assessment she had come to dread. But this time, something lingered in his gaze not warmth exactly, but not the chill she had grown accustomed to.

“Good morning,” she said carefully, testing the waters.

“Morning,” he replied, his voice low, smooth, and though she searched for it not entirely edged with frost.

It wasn’t much, but it was… something.

She sat across from him, her fingers curling around the warm ceramic of her mug. He didn’t speak further, but the silence wasn’t quite as suffocating as before. The clink of cutlery and the faint tick of the clock filled the space instead.

Halfway through breakfast, he set down his coffee and looked at her fully.

“I need to step out today,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

Her brows rose. “Where?”

“Downtown. I have an errand to run.” A pause. “And we’ll make a stop after.”

The fact that he even included her in his plans caught her off guard. Lately, his days had been sealed away from her, not all, at least places he went, meetings he had, errands he didn’t care to explain. She nodded, careful not to let her surprise show too much.

The city’s midday buzz greeted them as the car pulled up to the curb outside a high-end watch boutique. The glass storefront gleamed under the sun, gold lettering etched elegantly across the door.

Inside, the faint scent of polished wood, leather, and steel hung in the air. A tall man in a tailored suit greeted Luke immediately, speaking with deference as he led them toward a display case filled with time-pieces that looked like they belonged in a vault.

Luke drifted toward one of the cases, leaning slightly as he examined the rows of gleaming dials. Abigail followed, her gaze wandering over the intricate designs, the way the light caught each surface.

It was then that she heard it.

“Is that her?” A woman’s voice, low but sharp, floated over from a few feet away. Abigail turned her head slightly. Two women stood near the entrance impeccably dressed, hair styled to perfection, dripping with the kind of subtle wealth that didn’t need to announce itself.

“I thought Luke Vandell had better taste,” the first woman murmured, not even attempting to hide the disdain in her tone. “She doesn’t look like she belongs here.”

The words struck like ice water down Abigail’s spine. Her instinct was to keep her eyes on the display, to pretend she hadn’t heard. But she felt the sting anyway sharp, humiliating, and unexpected.

Before she could move away, Luke’s head turned sharply. His posture shifted, straightening, his entire presence hardening in a way she had seen only in moments when his patience had worn dangerously thin.

He crossed the space between them in three long strides. The women stiffened as his shadow fell across them.

“Say that again,” he said, his voice deceptively calm but carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of threat.

The woman’s eyes widened. “I”

“No?” His head tilted slightly, his gaze narrowing. “Then I suggest you keep my wife’s name out of your mouth, before I make sure you’re never invited to another event in this city again.”

The other woman looked away, suddenly fascinated with the floor.

Without waiting for a reply, Luke turned and closed the distance back to Abigail. His hand found hers not a gentle touch, but firm, claiming. He steered her toward the exit without another glance at the women.

Outside, the cool breeze was a relief, though her pulse still raced. He didn’t speak for several moments, only keeping her close as they walked toward the waiting car.

“You didn’t have to” she began softly.

“Yes,” he cut in, his voice low and certain. “I did.”

They spent the next hour moving through his errand a meeting in a glass-walled office high above the city, a quick exchange of documents, and a short detour past a street market where vendors called out their wares in a medley of languages.

It wasn’t until they turned down a quieter side road toward a small art gallery that the second incident happened.

A shout broke the calm from behind them. Abigail turned just in time to see a delivery cart loaded with heavy boxes rolling downhill, its handle slipping from the hands of a man who had tripped. The cart rattled over the pavement, gaining speed and heading straight for her.

Before she could move, an arm wrapped tight around her waist, yanking her sharply back. She stumbled into the solid wall of Luke’s chest, his other arm braced against her shoulder to keep her steady.

The cart thundered past, missing her by inches before crashing into a curb.

Her heart pounded in her ears. She tilted her head up, finding his jaw tight, his eyes scanning her quickly, almost frantically, as if searching for any sign she was hurt.

“You okay?” His voice was low, urgent.

“Yes… I”

“Stay close to me,” he said, the words more command than request.

He didn’t let go of her until they were inside the gallery, the quiet, airy space swallowing the noise of the street outside. His hand lingered at her back even as they moved past vibrant canvases and sculptures.

The rest of the afternoon unfolded in a strange, fragile peace. Luke wasn’t warm exactly, but something had shifted. He asked her opinion on several pieces, actually listening when she spoke, his responses not clipped but thoughtful.

She found herself lingering over a small framed sketch tucked in the corner of one room. The lines were delicate but purposeful, the subject a lone figure standing on a cliff, wind tugging at their clothes. There was something about it that made her chest ache.

When she turned away, Luke was watching her. A moment later, he signaled the gallery assistant and quietly purchased it.

By the time they returned home, Abigail carried the wrapped sketch in her lap, her fingers brushing over the paper. She replayed the events of the day in her mind his sharp defense in the boutique, the way he had pulled her out of harm’s way without hesitation, the faintest thread of connection that had woven itself back between them.

For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to think maybe, just maybe they were finding their way back.