Chapter 10
Elara
The country club air smelled of freshly cut grass, expensive sunscreen, and quiet desperation—mostly wafting off my own family. It made my nose itch. And if that wasn't enough, Julian was giving off a weird energy that let me know he was going to play games today.
We found him on the first tee, in a white polo and dark trousers, radiating predatory elegance. His eyes found mine the moment we approached, and the slow smile that spread across his face made my stomach clench.
“The Ashworths,” he said, his voice a warm, false charm. “And company. So glad you could make it.”
Alastair practically tripped over himself to shake Julian’s hand. “Wouldn’t miss it, Julian. A real honor,” he said, his face a mask of sycophantic glee. They needed the Esmé Group; fast-fashion titans were threatening to put the Ashworths out of business.
Julian’s gaze slid past him, landing on me. “Elara. You look...” He left it at that. That bastard.
“Right back at you,” I said, my tone flat. He just smiled wider.
Then his attention shifted to the mistress clinging to Alastair’s arm. Julian’s head tilted, like he was considering a lesser creature. “And you are?” he asked.
He knew exactly who she was. The question was a masterstroke of pettiness; it erased her.
Brielle’s smile faltered. “I’m… I’m Brielle,” she said, her voice too high. “Alastair’s—”
“Cousin,” Alastair cut in, too quickly. “Visiting.”
Julian’s eyebrows lifted just a fraction. He let the silence stretch, his eyes traveling from her face down to the prominent swell of her belly, and back up. “How… very Southern.”
I laughed behind my hand. Alastair’s father glared at the side of his son's head but said nothing. Alastair was the only person there who didn’t understand they were being mocked.
The first few holes were subtle torture. Julian pretended to be the gracious host, but his chosen pupil was me. “Your grip is all wrong, Elara,” he scoffed for the twentieth time.
Coming up behind me, his front pressed against my back, his hands closed over mine on the club. His breath was hot against my ear. “You’re holding on too tight. You have to learn to relax your grip… before you take your swing.”
His thumbs stroked the inside of my wrists. A full-body shiver caused me to exhale loudly. Alastair, lining up his own shot ten feet away, beamed. “Listen to him, honey! He’s a pro!”
He was so blindly focused on currying favor, he was missing Julian practically molesting me. I pulled away, my swing slicing the ball wildly into the rough. “Oops.”
Julian’s laugh was low and intimate. “We’ll work on it.”
Behind us, Brielle whispered to Alastair. I heard my name. “Ally… don’t you think he’s being a little… familiar with her? All that touching…”
Alastair patted her hand without looking at her. “Don’t be ridiculous, Brie. He’s just being helpful. He’s young, successful—he could have any woman he wants. Why would he want her?”
God, he was an idiot.
We broke for lunch at the clubhouse terrace. Julian sat directly next to me, looking like he owned the space, the table, and the air in my lungs. Mr. Ashworth smoothed his napkin. “Julian, we’ve been discussing models for our new line. What do you think?”
Julian reached for his water. He used his other hand to brush his fingertips across my thigh—a slow drag of heat that made my breath stutter. He didn’t look at me; he looked at my father-in-law.
“Consumers want authenticity,” Julian said smoothly. His hand slid higher. “Models who look real. People want to feel like they’re looking through a window, not at a painting.”
His thumb pressed into the crease of my thigh—dangerously close to where he had no right being in public. I swallowed hard. He smirked.
“Exactly!” Mr. Ashworth nodded eagerly. “Inclusive sizing, diversity—”
Julian squeezed my thigh. I gasped, but too softly for anyone to hear except him. He dipped his head, pretending to check the menu. “Relax,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “You’re shaking.”
Brielle spoke up. “I think models should be aspirational. Gorgeous. Unreachable.”
Julian’s hand began a slow, maddening stroke. “The new luxury is truth. Raw, unvarnished, and…” His thumb pressed down at the junction of my thigh and hip. “…substantial. Men and women want something with weight enough to feel. Someone with body parts that don't need a filter to hold their shape.”
He slid his hand just a little higher—a light, daring question. “And we should make it more explicit. Explicit content performs better than polished.”
Brielle blinked. “Explicit? Like… sex stuff?”
Julian turned his head and smiled right at me. “Yes, sex stuff. We need to make people want to fuck,” he said. “The more visceral, the better. Unfiltered desire. People want what feels forbidden.” His gaze dipped to my mouth. “What feels… dangerous.”
A jolt of pure, unwanted heat shot through me. His hand dropped as he reached for a roll, his fingers skimming the hem of my panties. I choked on my water.
“Everything alright, Elara?” Mrs. Ashworth asked.
“Fine,” I croaked.
“Excuse me,” I said abruptly, my chair scraping back. “I need to use the restroom.”
I pushed into the women’s locker room, heading straight for the sinks. The door swung open barely thirty seconds later. I saw him in the mirror’s reflection.
“This is the women’s locker room,” I hissed.
“And you’re my woman,” he declared.
In two strides he was behind me, his hands caging me against the sink. He bent, his mouth finding the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder. He bit down—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make me gasp.
“I hate your husband.”
“Julian, stop,” I breathed. “Everyone is right outside.”
“Let them be,” he muttered, his teeth grazing my earlobe. “Your husband is pathetic. He’d sell you off hole by hole if he thought it would get him a better deal.”
He turned me in his arms, his mouth crashing down on mine. It was all tongue and teeth. I kissed him back because the taste of him—mint and malice—was the only thing that felt real.
A sharp knock rattled the door. “Elara? You in there?”
Alastair.
I froze. Julian didn't flinch. He raised his voice, calm and perfectly composed, while his thumb stroked my swollen bottom lip. “She’s here, Ashworth. I wanted to have a private conversation with your wife about the business at hand. She’ll be out in a second.”
While he spoke, his other hand slid up under my skirt. He slid my panties down slowly, catching them in one hand. We heard the sound of Alastair’s retreating footsteps.
I shoved against Julian’s chest. This time, he let me go.
“You’re insane,” I whispered.
“I’m going to ruin your marriage. Really, it’s already a corpse. Your actions will decide whether I bury it… or display it.” He slammed his hand against the mirror.
I laughed in his face. “You can’t ruin what’s already splintered, Julian. Go ahead, baby. Try ruining the ruins.” I said, then paused and added “Stop having people following me. You don’t follow me either.”
I walked out before he could respond, feeling nude without my underwear. I found Alastair in the lobby, pacing. The moment he saw me, he grabbed my upper arm in a vise grip.
“What the hell was that?” he snarled. “You better not be doing anything to fuck this deal up. You smile, you nod, you be grateful. That’s it.”
My eyes went wide. The audacity was flabbergasting. Before I could wrench free, Julian and Brielle approached. Julian’s eyes went immediately to Alastair’s hand on my arm. A dark flash crossed his gaze.
“Well, this has been… enlightening,” Julian said. He reached out and removed Alastair’s hand from me, shoving it away. “I’ll be taking my leave now.”
Alastair transformed back into the sycophant, thrusting his hand out. “Thank you again. We really must—”
Julian ignored the hand. He held my eyes for a beat too long. “Goodbye, Mrs. Ashworth,” he said, the title a deliberate mockery. Then he looked at Brielle. “Goodbye, Mistress.”
Brielle gasped. Alastair looked like he’d been slapped. “She’s not my—”
“No need to lie,” Julian cut him off, turning toward the exit. “I do my research on anybody I work with. If your wife doesn’t mind being a third wheel, why should I care? But just make sure it doesn’t get… out of hand.”
He paused at the glass doors, glancing back at me with eyes like chips of frost. He sneered, and then he was gone.
I was glad I’d driven my own car to the golf course. I’d spent ten minutes arguing with Alastair in the parking lot about whether I had told Julian about his mistress, while she sat in the car sobbing. Honestly, what did they think—that everybody was stupid?
The silent sanctuary of my Audi was the only thing that got me home without screaming. I laughed out loud. Julian had humiliated Alastair with surgical precision, which I hated to admit was deeply satisfying. He deserved it.
I pulled into my assigned spot and took the elevator up to my condo—a place of high ceilings, soft lighting, and blessed, utter silence. Unlike the estate, there were no lavender sachets. No portraits of old white people. No impending family dinners.
I showered, scrubbing the day from my skin, and wrapped myself in a towel.
I pulled on the oldest, softest pair of pajamas I owned—faded cotton shorts and a worn-out tee from a college fundraiser.
It was Saturday night. The world could wait.
I needed to unravel; the tension in my neck was killing me.
I went straight to the kitchen and poured a glass of Pinot Grigio, then another. I leaned against the kitchen island, the cool quartz under my palms, and tried to settle my mind.