“Hannah!” my mother shouted from the kitchen, not bothering to look up from the flower arrangements she was criticizing. “Get the door! You’re not doing anything useful anyway!”
I walked down the stairs slowly, deliberately. My hand touched the cold metal of the doorknob. I didn’t rush. I turned it, pulled the heavy oak door open, and let the afternoon light flood the entryway.
There he stood.
Nathaniel was six-foot-two of controlled power. He was wearing a tailored charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin, the kind of suit that whispered money rather than shouted it. His jawline was sharp enough to slice egos in half, and his dark hair was perfectly styled.
His brown eyes scanned me instantly. He noted the torn jeans, the faded t-shirt, the raw tension locked in my jaw. His gaze darkened, a storm cloud passing over a clear sky, before drifting past me into the house.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice quiet enough that only I could hear, but deep enough to vibrate in my chest.
I nodded once, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You came?” I whispered.
He leaned forward, ignoring the audience I knew was gathering behind me, and kissed my cheek. “Of course I came.”
Then, he stepped inside.
Aunt Carol was the first to spot him. She was coming out of the dining room to refill her glass. She froze. Her eyes went wide, and her fingers went slack. Smash.
Her wine glass hit the hardwood floor, the sound of shattering crystal breaking the hum of conversation like a gunshot.
My mother turned from the kitchen island, ready to scold whoever had broken the glass, until she saw who had just entered her house. Her face went pale, then red, then pale again.
Nathaniel didn’t wait for an invitation. He offered his hand to my mother, his demeanor calm, commanding, and utterly terrifying in its politeness.
“Nathaniel Ward,” he said smoothly. “Hannah’s husband.”
