Chapter 7

I was still thinking about my lunch with Eleanor when I arrived back at the bookstore. The afternoon sun filtered through the windows, casting warm patterns across the wooden floors, but I barely noticed. My mind kept circling back to the same questions, over and over.

Who exactly was Christopher Zane?

Claire looked up from the register as I walked in, her expression shifting from curiosity to concern when she saw my face.

"That bad?" she asked.

"That confusing," I corrected, dropping my purse behind the counter. "Eleanor was lovely. The restaurant was incredible. But something feels off, Claire. Like everyone knows something I don't."

Before Claire could respond, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out to find a message from Christopher.

Christopher: Dinner tonight. I'll be home by seven.

I stared at the text, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. He'd been coming home every night this week, arriving just in time for dinner, sometimes even earlier. For a man who claimed to work constantly, his schedule seemed remarkably flexible lately.

Anastasia: I'll have something ready.

Christopher: You don't have to cook every night.

Anastasia: I know. But I want to.

The three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again. Finally, his response came through.

Christopher: Thank you.

Two simple words, but something about them made my chest feel tight.

"You're smiling at your phone," Claire observed, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. "That's new."

I quickly shoved my phone back into my pocket. "I'm not smiling."

"You absolutely were. You had that look." She gestured vaguely at my face. "The one girls get when they're falling for someone."

"I'm not falling for anyone," I said firmly, even as heat crept up my neck. "This is a practical arrangement, remember?"

Claire raised an eyebrow. "Practical arrangements don't usually involve cooking dinner every night and smiling at text messages."

I turned away, busying myself with straightening a display of bookmarks that didn't need straightening. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Fine." Claire pulled out her phone, scrolling through something with a frown. "But just so you know, I've been doing some research."

My stomach dropped. "Research on what?"

"Your husband." She turned her phone toward me, showing a search engine results page. "I tried looking up Christopher Zane, businessman in New York. You want to know what I found?"

I wasn't sure I did, but I found myself leaning closer anyway.

"Nothing," Claire announced. "Well, not nothing. I found a few Christopher Zanes, but none that match your husband's age or description. It's like he doesn't exist online."

A chill ran down my spine. "That's not possible. Everyone has some kind of online presence."

"Exactly." Claire's expression turned serious. "Unless someone is deliberately keeping a low profile. Or using a different name professionally. Or," she paused dramatically, "hiding something big."

I shook my head, trying to dismiss the unease settling in my chest. "You're being paranoid. Not everyone broadcasts their life online. Maybe he just values his privacy."

"Or maybe," Claire said slowly, "your average businessman husband isn't so average after all."

I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to focus on work, but Claire's words kept echoing in my mind. By the time six o'clock rolled around, I was more than ready to leave, if only to escape my own spiraling thoughts.

The ride home felt longer than usual. I stopped by the market to pick up ingredients for dinner, selecting vegetables and meat with careful attention, trying to remember what Christopher had eaten most of during our previous meals together.

He never complained, but I'd noticed he preferred simpler flavors, nothing too spicy or heavily seasoned. And he always finished everything on his plate, which gave me more satisfaction than I wanted to admit.

When I arrived at the apartment, I was surprised to find Christopher already home.

He stood on the balcony, his suit jacket discarded, his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. The evening light caught in his dark hair, and for a moment, I just stood there, watching him through the glass door.

He looked different like this. Less untouchable. More human.

As if sensing my presence, he turned, his blue eyes meeting mine through the glass. Something flickered across his face, an expression I couldn't quite read, before he slid the door open.

"You're home early," I said, setting the grocery bags on the kitchen counter.

"I had to review some contracts, so I decided to work from here." He stepped inside, closing the balcony door behind him. His gaze drifted to the bags. "You went shopping."

"I'm making stir-fry tonight." I began unpacking the vegetables, hyperaware of him standing nearby. "Unless you'd prefer something else?"

"Stir-fry is fine." He moved closer, leaning against the counter, watching me with that intense focus that always made my hands feel clumsy. "Anastasia, can I ask you something?"

I looked up, surprised by the hesitation in his voice. "Of course."

"My grandmother invited you to lunch today." It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway. "What did you talk about?"

I considered my answer carefully as I rinsed the vegetables in the sink. "She wanted to know how we were adjusting to married life. She mentioned you've been coming home every night."

"Does that bother you?"

The question caught me off guard. I turned off the water, reaching for a towel to dry my hands. "Why would it bother me? This is your home."

"It's your home too now." Christopher's voice was quiet, but there was something underneath it, something almost vulnerable. "I don't want you to feel like you have to perform some kind of wifely duty just because I'm here."

I met his gaze directly. "I don't feel that way. I cook because I enjoy it, and because it's nice to have company for dinner. If I didn't want to do it, I wouldn't."

Something in his expression softened, just a fraction. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

He was quiet for a moment, his fingers drumming lightly against the countertop. "Someone who would demand more. Want more. Someone who would see this arrangement as an opportunity to take advantage."

The words stung more than they should have. "Is that why you wanted me to track every expense? Because you thought I'd rob you blind?"

"That's not what I meant." Christopher straightened, his expression tightening. "I've just learned to be cautious."

"Cautious," I repeated, turning back to the vegetables with more force than necessary. "You mean suspicious. You thought I was just another woman after your money."

"Anastasia." He moved closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. "I was wrong. I know that now."

I kept my eyes on the cutting board, slicing through a bell pepper with practiced precision. "What changed your mind?"

"You did." His voice was so close now, just over my shoulder. "You refused my money. You insisted on paying your own way. You made this place feel like a home without asking for anything in return." He paused. "You locked me out of my own apartment and didn't even apologize properly."

Despite myself, a laugh escaped me. "I did apologize."

"You said, 'Oops, my bad,' and went back to bed."

I bit my lip, trying not to smile. "In my defense, I was half asleep."

"You're stubborn," Christopher said, but there was something almost affectionate in his tone. "Independent to a fault. And you make me want to come home at the end of the day, which is something I've never wanted before."

My hands stilled on the knife. Slowly, I turned to face him.

He was closer than I'd realized, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. The intensity in his gaze made my breath catch.

"Christopher," I started, not even sure what I wanted to say.

His phone rang, shattering the moment like glass.

Christopher's jaw tightened, but he stepped back, pulling his phone from his pocket. He glanced at the screen, and something shifted in his expression, his walls slamming back into place with practiced ease.

"I have to take this," he said, his voice once again cool and professional. "Excuse me."

He disappeared into his study, the door clicking shut behind him.

I stood alone in the kitchen, my heart racing, staring at the closed door and wondering what the hell had just happened.

And more importantly, wondering what might have happened if that phone hadn't rung.