Chapter 65

Chapter 65:

When I got back from Finn’s office, Geoffrey greeted me with his usual calm face and a little bombshell.

“Mr. Laurent will be dining at home tonight.” Which meant he’d probably be sleeping here tonight. Great.

Not that I was expected to do the whole wife routine in bed—thank God—but still, I was nervous.

Dinner was being served when he walked in.

We sat across from each other, all polished cutlery and polite silences.

He looked like he was waiting for me to say something, but I had no idea what. Then he asked after the first course, “I heard Rhys Granger’s been telling people you cheated on him p>

I nodded.

Soon, Rhys was going to get a nice little surprise in the form of a lawsuit.

“He’s talking shit,” I said dismissively, reaching for my wine. “My lawyer’s on it p>

Ashton dished risotto onto my plate with a serving spoon.

He did it so naturally, like he’d been doing it for ages instead of for the first time.

“I always said Rhys Granger’s unstable p>

“You’re probably right.” I stabbed a piece of asparagus. “Well, this time, I’m not letting it slide. He wants to lie, he can lie to the judge p>

Ashton’s lips quirked.

Barely.

But I caught it.

“Let LGH’s legal team handle it,” he said. “They’ve got more experience with this kind of thing p>

I stopped chewing and looked up slowly. “Isn’t that overkill p>

The LGH legal team handled mergers that shook stock markets.

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Using them to drag Rhys’s sorry ass through court over a defamation case felt like bringing a bazooka to a pillow fight.

“Finn said the evidence is solid. He won’t guarantee a win, but there’s a good chance p>

Ashton cut me off. “You’re Mrs. Laurent. My company’s legal team exists to protect our interests, and that now includes you. If Rhys thinks he can drag your name through the p>

“But he’s picking a fight with me. LGH gets involved whenever a Laurent’s involved; that’s protocol p>

“Fine. I’ll talk to Finn.” I wasn’t sure if Finn would appreciate the extra legal muscle or resent the intrusion. “He’s already put a lot of effort into the case, though. Can he still run point p>

“Sure p>

We dropped the subject. And with it, every last scrap of conversation.

The silence didn’t just settle; it took up residence, moved in with a suitcase, and made itself at home between us.

When I finished eating, I set my fork down and stared at my plate. What now?

Was I supposed to wait obediently like some Victorian housewife, or just stand up and leave like this was a public restaurant?

Geoffrey was loitering nearby like a very polite ghost, another waiter flanking him.

Not exactly the people I could ask about post-dinner etiquette in a situationship.

I racked my brain for a way to fill the silence.

Small talk was a dead end—I’d already burned through the classic “How was your day?” the moment Ashton sat down, and something told me he wouldn’t be thrilled with a thirty-minute monologue on micro-pavé settings or the ethics of synthetic diamonds in haute joaillerie.

There was something I wanted to ask, though.

Was he sleeping here tonight? And, more pressingly—where?

When Carmen and Geoffrey staged a surprise boutique explosion in my room that morning, there were no men’s clothes in sight. But that didn’t mean anything. Maybe Ashton had his own dressing room. Or maybe he didn’t need sleep. Maybe he hung upside down in a hyperbaric chamber like some Armani-wrapped bat.

But if I asked… would it come off wrong?

It was his house, after all. He didn’t need my permission to stay.

If I sounded like I didn’t want him here, that might be rude.

On the other hand, if I sounded too curious, would it read like an invitation? Because let’s be real, “Are you sleeping here tonight?” sounds like a question only a hotel manager could pull off.

Or a mistress checking her sugar daddy’s schedule.

I internally facepalmed. “It’s a yes or no question, dumbass,” I hissed at myself. “Ask it. Use your mouth. You’re not twelve p>

But a snarkier voice in my head rolled her eyes. “It’s Ashton Laurent. You don’t casually ask him about his sleeping arrangements. If you had dinner with J. P. Morgan, you wouldn’t ask if his hotel had turndown service. You’d ask about interest rates. Or the future of the country’s financial system p>

I risked a peek across the table.

He was sitting there like the ghost of European nobility, sipping wine.

His fingers, long, elegant, dusted with calluses, wrapped around the glass stem with effortless control.

And when he swallowed, his Adam’s apple shifted ever so slightly. I had the strongest, dumbest urge to lean over and lick it. Jesus.

“Look away, you thirsty gremlin,” I barked at myself. “Stop leering like a perv p>

No wonder people always say “movie, dinner, then sex p>

Or, in Gen Z speak, “Netflix and chill,” with the heavy emphasis on the “chill p>

There’s a rhythm to it. A build-up.

Dinner after sex just felt… off.

Like watching the end credits first, then hitting play.

I’d done it all backwards, jumped Ashton’s bones before even learning his first name, married him after, and now here we were, eating risotto in weird, loaded silence like a couple on a first date who’d already seen each other naked.

It was just… awkward.

I didn’t know what the hell the next move was supposed to be.

“You don’t have to wait for me,” Ashton said, not looking up. “You can go do your thing p>

“Great,” I said, already halfway to the stairs.