CHAPTER 50

ITS ABOUT YOU..

Abigail heard the low purr of the engine long before the headlights swept across the driveway. She had been curled on the cream sofa in the drawing room for over an hour, the book in her lap long forgotten. She had read the same page three times without absorbing a single sentence.

Her mind replayed Obetta’s visit with irritating clarity, the smug tilt of her chin, the sweetly poisonous tone, the way she lingered in the doorway as though expecting Abigail to crumble.

It had been hours, yet the faint trace of Obetta’s perfume seemed to cling to the air. Abigail had opened windows, lit a candle, but nothing had quite erased it the cologne was for sure. Soo strong.

The heavy, deliberate rhythm of footsteps echoed from the hall. The moment Luke stepped into the doorway, her spine straightened automatically. He looked the way he always did when the day had been long but productive tie loosened, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, hair slightly mussed in a way that made him look effortlessly in control.

“You’re still up,” he observed, his voice low but clear.

Abigail rose slowly from the sofa, smoothing her skirt. “I was waiting for you.”

His mouth curved slightly not quite a smile, but a faint acknowledgment before he crossed the room. His presence filled it effortlessly, as though he carried his own gravity.

“Good,” he said simply, before his gaze flicked to the untouched book on the sofa cushion. “Reading?”

“Trying to,” she admitted.

He didn’t press. Instead, he moved to the crystal decanter on the sideboard, pouring a generous measure of amber liquid into a glass. The scent of whiskey drifted through the air.

“I had a visitor today,” Abigail said, deciding not to waste time.

His hand stilled mid-pour for a fraction of a second before continuing. “Obetta.”

The certainty in his tone made her blink. “You knew she was coming?”

“I suspected she might,” he replied, swirling the glass in his hand. “It’s what she does shows up when she thinks she can provoke something. Did she?”

“She tried,” Abigail said carefully. “But I didn’t give her the satisfaction.”

Luke took a slow sip, watching her over the rim of his glass. “Good.”

There was a beat of silence before he set the glass down with a muted clink and leaned back slightly against the sideboard. His posture was deceptively casual, but his gaze was sharp.

“She’s not important,” he said, almost as if to himself. Then, without warning, “Speaking of Obetta…”

Abigail tensed. “Yes?”

“There’s a club I want you to join,” he said, as though announcing a simple appointment. “It’s not business it’s social.”

Her brow furrowed. “What kind of club?”

“The kind that doesn’t advertise itself,” he replied. “A private circle for women from certain families. Wives, daughters, sisters. Wealth is the common language there.”

Abigail crossed her arms, a flicker of unease tightening her chest. “And what happens in this ‘circle’?”

“They host luncheons, charity galas, art showings. It’s less about the activities and more about the presence,” Luke said evenly. “You don’t join for entertainment, you join to be seen kind of to be acknowledged.”

Her lips pressed together. “And you want me to join because…?”

“Because you’re my wife,” he said without hesitation. “That means something in this world. I don’t intend for you to fade into the background.”

She stared at him. “Who’s in this club I know?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Obetta.”

Abigail’s mouth went dry. “So you want me to be in the same circle as her? After she came here to..”

“This isn’t about her,” Luke cut in. “It’s about you. You belong in that space more than she does. And I want it to be clear.”

The thought of being in a room with Obetta regularly, of seeing her across polished tables and behind polite smiles was enough to make Abigail’s stomach knot.

“You’re asking me to walk straight into her world,” she said quietly.

“I’m telling you you’re already in it it's not just her world many others are in it,” Luke corrected, pushing away from the sideboard and closing the space between them.

She tilted her chin to meet his gaze. “So this is a power move.”

His lips curved faintly, almost a smirk. “Everything is a power move.”

They stood there, the silence between them thrumming like a wire pulled taut. She could see the decision already made in his eyes. Luke never asked when he had already decided.

He moved past her toward the dining table, gesturing for her to follow. Dinner had been laid out a perfectly roasted chicken, vegetables glazed to perfection, and a bottle of wine breathing in the center.

They sat opposite each other, the flicker of candlelight casting shadows along the sharp lines of his face. He served her first, then himself, his movements deliberate.

Abigail broke the silence. “And if I say no?”

“You won’t,” he said without looking up from his plate.

Her fork hovered in the air. “You’re that sure?”

“I know you,” he said simply. “You won’t walk away from a challenge. And that’s what this will be beside you always want one so...”

The meal passed in an odd rhythm conversation slipping between light observations about his day at the company and quiet pauses where the unspoken topic hung in the air.

By the time the plates were cleared, Abigail felt the weight of his certainty pressing in on her. She wasn’t sure if it irritated her more that he assumed she would agree, or that part of her already wanted to prove him right just to deny Obetta the satisfaction of thinking she’d won.

When they rose from the table, Luke brushed past her, his hand sliding to the small of her back for just a moment possessive, deliberate before he stepped away.

“The introductions will be arranged,” he said over his shoulder, already leaving the room.

She watched him go, her pulse still unsteady.

She had the feeling that by the time she set foot in that club, it wouldn’t just be about wealth or status. It would be another kind of battlefield.

And Obetta would be waiting.