chapter 8
It wasn’t trust. Not yet. But it was movement.
That was enough.
Two days later, Ethan sent flowers.
White roses.
I laughed when I saw them. Actually laughed, right there in the foyer, while our housekeeper held the arrangement with both hands and looked faintly alarmed.
The card was short.
You made a scene. Don’t do it again.
No apology. No explanation. No acknowledgment that he had insulted me in public or accused me without evidence. Just control, flat and instinctive, like breathing.
I sent the flowers back unopened.
That afternoon, I got my first surprise.
His mother came to see me.
Mrs. Shaw arrived in pearls and silence, dismissing the maid with a wave before sitting across from me in the sunroom. She looked immaculate, but there was a tension around her mouth I had never noticed before.
“In another life,” she said softly, “I think you would have married my son.”
Ice slid down my spine.
Her gaze lifted to mine.
For one impossible second, neither of us spoke.
Then she looked away and reached for the teacup in front of her, though she did not drink. “Forgive me. What I mean is, I had hoped you would.”