POV James
The quarterly projections blur on my screen, columns of numbers that should demand my complete attention but instead fade into meaningless patterns.
"James, the Henderson account needs your signature before five." My assistant's voice cuts through the fog. "And your father called twice about tonight's arrangements."
"Tell Henderson I'll review the documents within the hour. And confirm with my father that the car will collect Miss Ellsworth at seven."
She nods and retreats, leaving me alone with thoughts I cannot seem to control.
This morning, I stood at Lucy's grave.
The February wind cut through my overcoat, and I stood there for nearly an hour, staring at the polished granite that bears my sister's name. I didn't bring flowers. Lucy would have mocked flowers—she preferred practical gestures, actions over symbols. So I stood in the cold and told her the truth I haven't admitted to anyone else.
I cannot stop thinking about Caroline Ellsworth.
Not the woman I took to my hotel room six weeks ago—that version was anonymous, desperate, a transaction we both needed and neither wanted to examine. The woman haunting me now is something else entirely. The terror in her gray-green eyes when the panic seized her. The way her body shook against my bookshelf, fragmenting into pieces she couldn't hold together. The trust it took to let me count breaths with her, to accept help from the brother of the woman she blames for destroying her life.
I stood in that cemetery and told my dead sister that her killer's accusation might be unraveling every rule I built to survive.
The attraction isn't the problem. I've managed attraction before—channeled it into transactions with clear terms and cleaner endings. Victoria Carrow wanted my attention, and I gave her exactly what we agreed upon, nothing more. The women before her wanted the same, and I provided it with the precision of a business arrangement.
Caroline doesn't want my attention. She wants to escape me entirely, and somehow that makes the wanting worse.
The problem is that I want more than her body.
I want to know what she's hiding. The way her hand pressed against her stomach when she thought I wasn't looking. The pallor in her cheeks that has nothing to do with grief. The appointment she mentioned that couldn't be moved, then apparently was.
I want to understand why she looks at me like she's waiting for me to disappoint her. Like every moment of decency I show is merely a prelude to the inevitable betrayal she's already accepted.
I want to be the reason she stops waiting.
My phone buzzes. A message from my father: Helen has confirmed for tonight. Box seats at seven-thirty. Don't be late.
The first setup worked better than expected. When I suggested the opera to my father—casually, like it was an afterthought—he immediately mentioned inviting Helen Ellsworth. His voice changed when he said her name. Softer. Almost uncertain, which is an emotion Edward Calloway rarely permits himself.
Caroline's theory might be less fantasy than I initially believed.
The car collects me at six forty-five, and Caroline is already waiting in the back seat when I slide in beside her.
She wears midnight blue tonight, a gown that makes her skin glow like moonlight. Her hair is swept up, exposing the elegant column of her neck, and I force myself to look at the window instead of the pulse point I remember tasting in a dark hotel room.
"You're early," I observe.
"I'm punctual. There's a difference." She doesn't look at me, her gaze fixed on the passing streetlights. "Your father called my mother four times today to confirm the arrangements. I've never heard Helen sound so flustered."
"Flustered how?"
"She changed her dress three times. Asked my opinion on her jewelry, which she has never done in twenty-seven years of my existence." Caroline's lips curve into something almost like a smile. "I believe your father makes her nervous."
"Nervous is good. Nervous means she cares what he thinks."
"Nervous could also mean she's dreading an evening of forced proximity with a man she tolerates for business purposes."
"Is that what you're dreading? Forced proximity with me?"
She finally turns to meet my eyes, and the challenge in her expression makes my pulse quicken. "I'm dreading three hours of Italian tragedy while pretending to be madly in love with a man whose sister killed my brother. But I suppose we all have our crosses to bear."
The words should sting. Instead, I find myself admiring the precision of her cruelty—the way she wields pain like a scalpel, cutting exactly where she intends.
"La Traviata is about a courtesan who sacrifices everything for love," I tell her. "Perhaps you'll find it educational."
"Perhaps you'll find it cautionary. Violetta dies in the end, in case you've forgotten."
"Everyone dies in the end, Caroline. The question is whether we live first."
The opera house rises before us, all gilded grandeur and glittering society. We arrive deliberately late—fifteen minutes past curtain—and slip into my father's box while the orchestra swells through the overture.
Edward and Helen sit in the front row of seats, their heads bent close together. My father is pointing at something in the program, and Helen's laugh is low and genuine in a way I've never heard from her before.
Caroline grips my arm, her fingers tightening with significance. "Look at them," she breathes against my ear. "He's practically courting her over the libretto."
"She hasn't looked at the stage once since we entered."
"Neither has he."
We settle into the seats behind them, close enough to observe but far enough to provide the illusion of privacy. Caroline's shoulder presses against mine in the confined space, and I'm acutely aware of every point of contact—the warmth of her through the fabric of her gown, the subtle shift of her breathing, the perfume that mingles with something underneath that is purely her.
"Your father just refilled her champagne glass," she whispers. "He's not even watching the performance."
"Helen is laughing at something he said. I didn't know your mother was capable of laughter."
"Neither did I." There's wonder in her voice, and something that sounds almost like hope. "James, this might actually work."
On stage, Violetta sings about the folly of love, the impossibility of happiness. In front of us, our parents lean toward each other like flowers turning toward sun.
I reach for Caroline's hand without thinking. Her fingers stiffen, then slowly relax into my grip.
"We should look like a couple," I murmur, though we both know that's not why I'm touching her.
"We should." She doesn't pull away.
The music swells around us, and I find myself studying her profile in the dim light—the curve of her jaw, the sweep of her lashes, the way her lips part slightly when something on stage surprises her. She catches me looking and raises an eyebrow.
"Enjoying the performance, Mr. Calloway?"
"More than I expected, Miss Ellsworth."
Her mouth curves, and for a moment—just a moment—she looks at me without the armor. Without the hatred. Without the weight of everything that stands between us.
My thumb traces circles on her palm, and she doesn't stop me.
This feels normal, I realize. Sitting in the dark with her hand in mine, watching our parents fall in love while we pretend to do the same. It feels like something I could want. Something I could choose.
The thought terrifies me more than Victoria telling me she was pregnant.