Chapter 42

[ 1,075 words ]

Julian’s POV

I woke up to the soft, unforgiving light of a Manhattan morning filtering through the heavy velvet curtains of the guest suite. I never really take bitches to my main bedroom, but if Katia Kensington so much as looked my way, I wouldn’t hesitate. The air in this wing of the estate was cooler, detached from the suffocating domesticity Delia was trying so desperately to cultivate. Beside me, Chloe stirred. She was a top-tier Parisian model I’d known for years—a woman who understood the language of silence and the transactional nature of high-end companionship.

But what I appreciated most about Chloe this morning wasn’t her striking bone structure or her effortless poise; it was the specific, high-gloss set of pale pink nails she wore.

I had personally requested she get that exact shade before her flight touched down.

I smiled, a cold expression, as I brushed my thumb over her knuckles. I didn’t love Chloe. I didn’t love anyone. But I did love a well-executed variable. Delia was becoming too comfortable in her new role, too loud with her assumptions, and far too insistent on playing a part she hadn’t earned. She needed to be reminded that in this house, I was the architect, and she was merely a tenant.

“Breakfast?” I whispered, my voice devoid of the warmth a husband should offer his wife, yet filled with the dark charm I used to control my world.

“Only if it’s served with a view,” Chloe purred, stretching with a feline grace that Delia could never replicate. Chloe had class, a natural, inherited elegance that made the room feel smaller around her. Delia, for all her designer labels, always looked like she was trying too hard to fit into someone else’s skin.

I dressed in a robe and led Chloe down to the dining room. I didn’t hide her. I didn’t sneak her out the back like a common affair. I wanted the confrontation. I wanted the collision. As we rounded the corner into the sun-drenched breakfast nook, I saw Delia already seated at the head of the table, a cup of coffee halfway to her lips, looking every bit the “lady of the manor” she imagined herself to be.

When her eyes finally landed on me, she froze. The cup hovered in mid-air as her face turned a sickly, ashen shade of grey. Her eyes bulged as they locked onto Chloe.

“Good morning, Delia,” I said smoothly, my voice as calm as a still lake.

I pulled out a chair for Chloe with a flourish, my hand lingering on the model’s shoulder in a display of intimacy I had never once shown my wife. Delia’s gaze dropped instantly, searching for the “evidence” she had been obsessing over. When she saw Chloe’s nails—the exact, shimmering shade of pink from the Instagram post she choked. A harsh, spluttering sound echoed through the room as she gasped for air.

I leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to Chloe’s cheek, my eyes never leaving Delia’s trembling form. I wanted her to see the contrast. I wanted her to feel the displacement. “I have a few calls to take in the study, darling,” I told Chloe, my tone intimate. “I’ll be back shortly to see you off p>

I walked away without a backward glance, the silence behind me heavy with the scent of an impending explosion.

Delia’s POV

I couldn’t breathe. It felt as though someone had reached into my chest and squeezed my lungs until they were empty. I stared at the woman sitting in my chair, at my table, eating my breakfast. She was radiant, her skin glowing with the kind of effortless, post-coital flush that I had been praying for since my wedding night.

But it was the nails that truly broke me. That pale, shimmering pink. The exact same set.

“Who do you think you are?” I hissed the second Julian’s footsteps faded into the hallway. My voice was a jagged edge of rage. “Coming into my home, sitting at my table? Do you have any idea who I am? I am Mrs. Windsor. I am the woman who belongs here p>

Chloe didn’t even look up from her fruit plate. She delicately pierced a strawberry, slow and mocking, as if I were a minor annoyance she was waiting to pass. “You’re the woman who sleeps in the other wing, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice a low, melodic lilt with a trace of a French accent. “Julian mentioned the house was large. I didn’t realize it was large enough for a wife he never actually sees p>

“You were in France with him!” I screamed, slamming my hand onto the marble table so hard the silverware rattled. “I saw the photo! You think you’re so clever, but he’s mine. He married me. You’re just a distraction. A temporary fix for a man who’s bored p>

Chloe finally looked at me. Her eyes were full of a pity so profound, so devastating, it felt like a physical slap across my face. “Oh, honey. You think that was me in France?” she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Julian is a man of… specific tastes. He likes things that remind him of what he can’t have. He likes symbols p>

She leaned forward, resting her chin on those perfectly manicured hands, the hands that were supposed to be mine. “But let’s talk about reality, Delia. If I were you, I’d spend less time screaming at me and more time wondering why your husband would rather fly a woman across the Atlantic than touch you in his own house. You look tired. The stress of the lie is showing in your skin p>

“Get out,” I breathed, my body shaking with a fury I couldn’t contain. “Get out of my house right now, or I’ll have security drag you to the gates p>

“It’s Julian’s house, actually,” Chloe corrected, her smile widening into something predatory. “And he’s the one who asked me to stay for breakfast. You want to talk about ’claiming’ a man? Look at how he just kissed me. He didn’t even care that you were sitting right there, watching us. He looked through you like you were the wallpaper, Delia. You’re holding a marriage certificate; I’m the one holding his attention. I’m the one who knows the sound of his breath in the dark p>

“I am his wife!” I shrieked, the words sounding hollow even to me.

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