Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
It isn't her—or wait, it is, but she is somehow… different. She quickly, nervously diverts her eyes, looking away like she's been caught, and all my alarms go off, a prickling at the base of my neck, instincts honed from boardrooms flaring. There's something wrong, off-kilter, but I can't figure it out, can't pin it down.
I stare at her, and she looks even more beautiful to me than she ever has—her skin glowing in the warm light, that strawberry-blonde bob framing her face just so, eyes a touch brighter, bluer maybe. She's put on a little bit of weight, softer curves that make her dress hug her in ways that stir something primal, and those boobs are definitely much bigger. They strain the fabric of her dress invitingly. Her nose... looks more natural, less ski jump, but everything else is the same, so why does she feel so different? The air around her hums differently too, softer, less edged with that familiar venom.
She exhales, a small sigh—hesitant, almost vulnerable—and goes to sit down in front of my desk, perching on the edge of one of the chairs. Something she has never done before. Usually, she'd complain about being summoned, telling me she’s not my errand girl, her voice dripping with disdain, then she would stand stiffly and sign the papers. I watch her hands shake as she signs the documents, fingers trembling slightly on the pen, ink flowing unevenly across the page.
She's incredibly nervous, in a way that's unnatural for her, and I wonder if the surgery did something to her brain—scrambled her somehow, turned the sharp-tongued woman I married into this rather fetching, but hesitant creature.
I have to ask. I lean back in my chair. "Did all go well with your surgery? Any…er… complications?"
She smiles suddenly—soft, sweet, unexpected. It lights her face in a way that hits me low, stirring heat I haven't felt for her in years. Then, as if she remembers she's not supposed to smile like that at me, the smile dissipates suddenly. "No, everything went well.” There is an undercurrent I can't place in her voice. Something. Something is not the same.
"Anything else?" she asks pointedly.
I lock eyes with her. "Of course not."
As if I’ve dismissed her, she makes her escape quickly, rising with a grace that is unfamiliar to me. Her dress whispers against her legs.
As her hand curls over the door handle, I say, "Hang on."
She turns around slowly, and I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her breath catches, like her heart is in her throat.
"There is something different about you," I observe, not expecting her to tell me that there is something different. I just want to hear her voice again, to see if that slight shift in tone is real or my imagination. It's a crazy thought because why wouldn't it be her voice? But there's something different, and it's driving me crazy that I can't place it, can't name the itch under my skin.
"Yeah. New lipstick," she mumbles evasively, and flees, the door clicking shut behind her.
What a strange answer! Why would I notice lipstick when I've stopped noticing anything about her, when I’ve never cared to linger on any details? But today... today I can't stop thinking about the way her lips curved, the flush on her cheeks, the different scent lingering in the air underneath her perfume.
As if her skin is different!
Chapter Ten
JULIET
Dear God!
I'm shaking as I leave the study, my hand still tingling from the door handle, the brass cold and unyielding under my palm as if it knows I'm a fraud. I was sure I'd pass out, faint right there on his rug. My heart was hammering so hard it drowned out everything else.
What the hell have I gotten into?
I can't quite process what is going on—Blake's voice, low and commanding, echoes in my head, those icy-gray eyes holding mine, searching my face, like he can see right through my colored contacts, my shining bob, the whole damn charade.
My knees still feel like jelly, wobbly from the rush of nerves that hit me the second I stepped into his presence. It was as if he owned the air in that room. I can still smell his subtle cologne—something woody and expensive, like sandalwood mixed with power. It clings to me even now.
I'm rushing for the stairs now, my flats slapping softly on the marble, legs trembling with every step, like they've forgotten how to work after being pinned under his gaze. The grand curving staircase looms ahead, that polished banister calling like a lifeline, and I grab it, steadying myself, the wood warm from the late-summer sun streaming through the tall windows, casting golden pools on the floor that make the whole foyer feel alive, humming with light. Outside, through the glass, the gardens stretch lazy and green, hydrangeas still blooming fat and purple, the humidity hanging heavy, making the air feel thick, sensual against my skin, sticking the black dress to my thighs as I climb.