CHAPTER 44

The next morning, Abigail decided she wasn’t going to chase him.

If Luke wanted to wall himself off, fine. She’d let him. She’d match his silence with her own.

But by noon, she found herself in the sunroom, staring out at the garden, replaying every word from the night before. It was impossible to stop thinking about him about the way he could ignite her one night and freeze her out the next without a flicker of guilt.

Kate appeared in the doorway, a book in one hand, her eyes sharper than her calm smile. “You’re quiet this morning.”

Abigail forced a small shrug. “Maybe I’m just learning from the best.”

Kate’s lips curved faintly, though her gaze never softened. “Matching Luke’s silence is not the same as handling him. He’ll take your quiet as surrender, not strategy.”

The remark stung, but Abigail didn’t look away. “And what do you suggest?”

Kate set the book down on the nearest table. “Don’t play on his terms. If you’re going to hold your ground, you make the ground yours.” She tilted her head slightly, as if measuring her. “He doesn’t yield to anyone not even to himself. That’s why he needs someone who can move him without him realizing it’s happening.”

The words echoed in Abigail’s mind long after Kate left. She wasn’t sure whether it was advice or a challenge.by the way her mind quickly drifted why Kate was here in the first place, she couldn't even remember when she came and what could be the reason and Luke wasn't even home at this moment whatever her reason was she has to find out the reason and Kate's been acting so weird.

By late afternoon, the low hum of Luke’s car signaled his return. This time, Abigail didn’t wait for him to come to her. She stepped into the foyer as he walked in, his tie still in place, his jacket perfectly fitted, his presence filling the space like a storm.

“Busy day?” she asked lightly, though there was an edge under the question.

“Always,” he replied, his eyes sliding over her briefly before he moved toward the stairs.

She stepped into his path. “You can’t keep doing this.”

His gaze narrowed. “Doing what?”

“This pretending last night didn’t happen, pretending you can just shut me out whenever it suits you.”

“I’m not pretending,” he said, his voice cool and measured. “I decide what matters. I decide what stays between us and what doesn’t.”

Her pulse spiked, but she refused to move. “You don’t get to decide everything, Luke.”

Something flickered in his eyes dangerous, unreadable. “I do in my own house.”

They stood there, the air between them electric, charged with something that wasn’t quite anger and wasn’t quite desire but was far too intense to ignore.

“You think that makes you untouchable?” she asked, her voice lower now, steady despite the pounding in her chest.

His mouth curved just enough to show amusement, but there was no warmth in it. “No, Abigail. It just means I’m the one who decides when I’m touched.”

The words hit her harder than she expected. She held his gaze, refusing to look away, even when he stepped past her close enough that his arm brushed hers heading toward his study.

She turned sharply, following him. “Then decide now. Decide not to shut me out.”

He stopped at the doorway, looking back at her with that infuriating calm. “You don’t tell me what to decide.”

Then he closed the door in her face.

The sound was quiet, but it might as well have been a slam.

Abigail stood there for a long moment, her heart pounding, the tension between them wound so tightly she wasn’t sure if it would snap or explode.

She had a choice now: retreat and let him win, or push harder, risk breaking whatever fragile ground they’d found last night.

She turned away slowly, every step deliberate, already knowing she wouldn’t be able to leave it alone for long.

Because if Luke Vandell thought he could decide every battle… he hadn’t seen the war she was willing to start.

Abigail didn’t go to her room.

She didn’t pace the hallway either. Instead, she went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine, and sat at the marble island. Every sip burned a little not from the alcohol, but from the silence pressing in on her.

From the other side of the house, faint sounds drifted from Luke’s study the quiet scrape of a chair, the muted rustle of paper. He was working. Or at least pretending to. She doubted his mind was on spreadsheets and contracts any more than hers was on her wine.

By the time the clock neared eight, she heard him moving again, slow, deliberate steps. He entered the kitchen like nothing had happened, his jacket gone, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows.

He didn’t look at her. He went to the fridge, retrieved a bottle of water, and twisted the cap open.

“You’re really not going to talk to me?” she asked, voice steady despite the ache that had settled in her chest.

He drank, set the bottle down, and finally met her eyes. “Talking isn’t the problem, Abigail. Listening is.”

The words landed like a challenge.

Her grip tightened on her glass. “Then maybe you should say something worth listening to.”

His gaze sharpened, dangerous, but instead of rising to the bait, he simply turned away. “Not tonight.”

And with that, he walked past her again up the stairs, his presence trailing behind him like a cold wind.

Abigail sat there in the kitchen long after he was gone, the untouched half of her wine staring back at her. She knew Kate had been right: Luke wouldn’t yield to anyone.

“By the way why was your mom here…you could at least let me know”but that was fruitless cause he had already gone past hearing her.

But that didn’t mean she had to yield either she must surely find something to uncover the cold treatment he was giving her.