Beautiful Ruins

Chapter 2

DAMON

SHE’S EVERYTHING THAT fucker of a husband doesn’t deserve.

Poised.

Elegant.

Articulate.

Forgiving.

From the moment she walked into the party, her gaze finding mine across the room to how her fawn-colored irises lit up when spying the thousands of rare spines lining my wall, she’s already become something of an addiction. The moment her husband entered the office, insults in tow, that beautiful light extinguished, and the joy I was privileged enough to witness for such a fleeting moment has all but evaporated.

He thrives on the darkness he brings her—the sadism that’s his very existence.

I didn’t imagine wanting to have her as far away from him as possible, but here I am, obsessed with the thought.

Jason clears his throat, reminding me of the objective.

“I’m so pleased you could both attend tonight because, as a married couple, the decision to work with us affects you both.” I gesture for the Coopers to sit. Mae approaches, carefully handing the book to me before taking a seat. Her cheeks are flushed. She’s embarrassed, perhaps a touch humiliated. I want to know if it’s what I said about another man’s opportunity or if it’s Peter’s insinuation of her being trash that has caused the reaction. It was a cruel and unnecessary jibe, and it bothers me more than it should. There’s nothing about the woman in front of me that speaks trash . Quite the opposite, in fact. Typically, men like Peter will do anything to distract those closest to them from their depravity. They’d do just about anything to protect their seedy secrets, moving largely undetected through society, keeping their asshole behavior in check so they’re seen as the good guy.

Peter didn’t get that memo, evidently deciding to be a cunt on all fronts.

I flick my pen on the desk in annoyance, caught between needing to conduct business and wanting to kick everyone but Mae out of the room. I glance at Jason, who waits by the door, arms folded in irritation at the incessant tapping of the pen and the delay in proceeding.

I turn to Peter. “You’re here because we’ve headhunted you to be our lead engineer. We’re rather impressed with your online portfolio, and while what we’re doing will be unlike anything you’ve done in the past, Jason and I are confident you’re the right person for the job. However, before we continue, we need to address the formalities.” I look between them as they hang onto every word, Mae, it seems, with a little more skepticism than her husband. “It may appear a little unconventional, but that’s the nature of the business. In saying that, to proceed with any further discussions about the proposal, I require you both to sign an NDA. At the same time, Peter, you’ll be required to sign a contract of completion. You won’t, however, know the finer details until after the contract is signed.”

Peter’s brows furrow in confusion. “So, I’m to sign without knowing any details?”

I nod.

He looks at his wife in disbelief before realizing I’m dead serious. “Well, that’s crazy. How do you know I can even do what you’re wanting?”

“You’re more than qualified,” I lie. This project far exceeds his skillset and imagination.

“So, why the secrecy?”

“It’s a project that requires discretion and is beyond your typical scope of engineering. Essentially, going in blind is the only way to do this in order to protect those involved and to ensure you don’t back out.”

“Well, why would I back out?”

I lean forward, interlacing my fingers. “Because we don’t do mediocre , Peter. We only carry out projects that get the world talking. Projects that put the country on the map. As such, it can and will be overwhelming and at times considered implausible.”

Peter sits back in the chair, his cheeks puffing on exhale. “That sounds intense.”

“Because it is.”

“And everything’s legal?”

I smile because it might reassure him. “Perfectly.”

“Why lock him into the contract?” Her voice pulls me like a magnet, and I’m back to wanting, needing , everyone else to fuck off so I can have Mae alone, all to myself. She grows nervous as three sets of eyes settle on her. “What if Peter decides into the project that this isn’t for him, that there’s too much risk involved? Can’t you find a replacement?”

“Mae—”

“We could,” I reply, cutting off Peter’s attempted scold. She looks between me and her stony-faced husband, her discomfort palpable. “But each day the project runs overtime, severe financial penalties are imposed. We need someone committed.”

“And if something goes wrong, what are the repercussions?” Mae toys with the hem of her dress. It draws my attention to her creamy white legs, the softness of her thighs, and how easy they’d bruise when I bite and suck my way between them.

Movement at the door drags my focus—Jason’s cautionary face meeting mine. Mae looks between us, and before she can entertain her newfound suspicion, I reply, “We’ve been in this business for a long time. From the time we were born, our father lived and breathed the industry and taught us everything we know. There’s nothing that could possibly go wrong that we haven’t already addressed.”

“Let’s say I do sign…” Peter raises his glass to his lips, laughably attempting indifference, “… how much is this all worth?”

I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers. “The contract, should you complete it, is worth five point eight million.”

The idiot near chokes on his champagne. “I’m sorry… what? ”

Mae—evidently the brains of the couple—realizes they stand to lose more than what her husband is willing to sacrifice. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to short-change my husband, but that seems excessive for an engineering role.”

“Don’t listen to my wife. She’s—”

“This is beyond Peter’s normal scope of work. The price reflects the complexity of the job.”

I notice the tremble of Mae’s hand when she tucks a tendril of blonde hair behind her ear. “Can we have some time to think about it?”

I want to say that it’s in her best interests not to go against the grain, not to be the force behind Peter rejecting the proposal. Her cooperation is as vital as is having Peter sign. But she’s understandably wary. Asking for more time, however, is a dangerous path to travel.

“Of course,” I reply, ignoring Jason’s headshake. “We do need an answer within a week.”

Determined to be heard, Peter agrees. “That’s fine. This whole blind contract thing has come as a bit of a shock, but I’m interested.”

Mae isn’t so convinced. “Do you mind if Peter and I have a word in private? Would that be rude?”

She doesn’t want to be alone with him, that much I can tell, but this isn’t the average negotiation.

“Of course, it’s not rude. Jason and I will give you both some space. I know it’s a lot to digest.”

I stand and button my suit jacket, Mae watching the movement and catching something that piques her interest. The way she looks back up at me, her breath hitching, it stirs my cock. I know it. She knows it, her cheeks coloring before desperately focusing on anything else but me.

If she can’t handle my attention now, she certainly won’t stand a chance later.

~

MAE

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

My husband prepares to unleash a tirade, and I can either leave this room now and accept his decision for the both of us or stay and try to convince him that this is the most ludicrous idea yet. Despite his hostility, I try my hand at diplomacy.

“Peter, I was hoping you might take some time to weigh the pros and cons before giving them a firm answer.”

“ Really? That’s what you were doing?”

“Of course, it was.” It wouldn’t matter what I say because he thrives on being the war to my peace.

“Because from where I sat, it looked like you were throwing the offer back in Damon’s face.”

Glancing at the closed office door, I wonder if the brothers would share in my husband’s fury if they could hear me questioning their intent. I doubt it. I’m sure they’ve weathered many contract negotiations, but telling Peter that, when our paths are always destined to collide instead of running parallel, is futile. “My concern is valid, and anyone in our position would approach it the same as I have. If you weren’t being offered so much, I’m certain you, too, would find this whole concept crazy.”

“What’s crazy is my wife trying to talk him into offering me less .”

“That’s not what I was saying, and you know it.”

“That’s exactly what you said. You said I wasn’t worth the price they are willing to pay.” He paces in front of the desk like a caged animal. “You’re just lucky they didn’t agree.”

He holds my stare while the veiled threat sinks in. Except it’s not just a threat. It’s a promise I’ll wear his wrath for a long time after the night has ended.

“The contract requires you to go in blind, and you’re considering signing it.”

“That’s my decision, not yours, Mae. And yes, I am seriously considering it.”

Just once, I’d love for him to consider the both of us instead of just himself. “What do you mean it’s your decision? I have to sign, too, Peter. This involves both of us, which means the consequences also affect me.”

His eyes grow wild like he wishes we could be anywhere else so he could knock some sense into me. “What consequences, Mae? For fuck’s sake, just say what you think could possibly go wrong.”

“ You’re the engineer, Peter. You tell me. What possible scenario could warrant everything being kept so secret?”

“They explained already why the details couldn’t be elaborated on. Royalty , honey. Damon and Jason Shaw work for fucking royalty. Isn’t that enough of a reason?”

I wish it were.

Am I to ignore the gut-churning feeling that something’s wrong purely to avoid upsetting others?

“Listen…” Peter says, cajoling me as if I’m a child, “… they seem like good guys, yeah?”

“They do, yes. But this isn’t our scene, Peter, and these aren’t our people.”

“What the hell do you mean, ‘these aren’t our people?’ ” He stops and stares, and my heart rate is thrown into a gallop. “Go on, explain it to me.”

“Okay, well, they’re billionaires who take billionaire-size risks. They know how to make that money back fast if they lose it. We don’t.”

“See,” he seethes, “this is exactly what I was talking about in the car.”

I will him not to make this personal. “Please, don’t—”

“ You don’t take risks, Mae, with anything. I’ve been waiting for a decent opportunity to present itself, and it finally has. So, am I considering taking on the risk? Quite possibly.” He downs the rest of his champagne and puts the empty glass on Damon’s desk before pointing an accusatory finger at me. “And is it so much to ask that my wife fucking support me?”

“I want to support you, I do—”

“Then show it!” Spittle shoots from his mouth, the veins in his neck bulging. Like the shit on his shoe he sees me as, Peter shakes his head in disgust. “No, I see what you’re doing. You’re determined to fuck this up for me because of your own insecurities.”

No.

“I would never do that.”

His laugh cuts a little too deep to the bone, exactly as intended. “Come on, honey, we both know that’s not true. You’re more than capable of destroying everything that’s important to me.”

He reaches a hand toward me, lips hinting at a malicious smile when I flinch, then proceeds to stroke my cheek with the same hateful intent I’ve felt in all its variations. “Isn’t that why you keep trying to run?”

I don’t want this war. Not tonight.

“Peter, I only want what’s best for us.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

That’s just not fair.

“I need you to consider the possibility that they’re attempting to blind you with an exorbitant paycheck so the risk factor is overlooked.”

Nostrils flaring, he drags his bottom lip through his teeth. It looked painful, but he’s too riled up to care. “You think I’m stupid?”

“ No , I—”

“Then what , Mae?”

“I just… I think if you agree to this, you’ll be signing our life away to people you know next to nothing about.”

The movement is swift, too fast for me to avoid because there’s a hand wrapped tight around my throat, my back forced against the wall. He looks down at me and I up at him, back in our familiar embrace. “That’s just a long way of saying you do think I’m an idiot.”

I know better than to fight back. I don’t claw at his arm or beg for his mercy, despite knowing one day, when I’m broken down just enough—forgetting the rules of play—the switch will flip, and he’ll end me. This time, as his face inches closer to mine, his hot breath irritating my skin, I see something far more sinister in his eyes.

My dress is dragged high on my thighs, his hand forcing a path in between. When his touch grazes the underwear he’s strictly told me not to wear, his scathing gaze could see me dead.

Leaning his forehead against mine, he seethes, “You’re a fucking liar.”

“I’m sorry.” While I at least sound it, I’m not.

“I didn’t quite catch that.”

The tears slipping down my cheek go unnoticed. “I said, I’m sorry !”

Despite his frightening level of contempt for me, Peter crushes his lips to mine, kissing hard and without love. I’ve grown to despise his touch and find his taste nauseating, but the more he catches the scent of my repulsion, the more he forces himself on me.

When he finally pulls away and fools me into thinking I’m free, I fall victim to his cruelty once more when he snatches at my jaw the moment I turn away from him. “Fix yourself up, honey. No deals will be won with you looking like shit.” He digs his fingers in to earn my whimper. “Oh, and one last thing… as the night progresses, you owe it to me to keep your mouth shut and a smile on your face. You hear me?” Stepping closer until his body presses against mine, he tips my head back at a jarring angle. “Remember, honey. You. Fucking. Owe . Me.”

~

DAMON

“Our future with this contract relies on that piece of shit?”

Down the hall from my office, we wait for Peter and Mae to conclude their discussions. Jason, however, no longer carries the confidence he did an hour ago.

“It relies on both of them doing their part,” I say, tempering his frustration. “The dollar signs may be wetting his dick now, but with time to think and with Mae’s apprehension, he may scare off.”

Folding my arms, I lean against the wall and consider the tense husband-and-wife dynamic. As suspected, Peter boasts a sociopathic character. Mae, however, is softly spoken, demure, and gentle in nature, possibly too gentle if she’s to survive her abusive husband.

“Despite the cunt’s behavior…” I say, keeping my voice low, “… she fights for him.”

“Years of enduring controlling behavior will do that to someone. We’ve seen it firsthand.”

I shake my head. “I agree on both, but we’ve missed something in our recon. She isn’t just tolerating his behavior because she feels she has to. It’s as if she feels it’s owed it to him.”

Jason peers around the corner to where the rest of the guests await our return. “So, he’s lording something over her.”

“Perhaps. She’s damn near a saint, though. I guarantee we won’t find anything on her. His name is already tarred with his own shit, which means we’re going to have to dig a little deeper.”

“That takes time, Damon.”

“It’s better than receiving unwanted surprises farther down the track.”

“Well, whatever we uncover, it has to land on our desks before the week is out.”

From behind my closed office door, we hear Peter’s raised but muffled voice, and instinctively, I want to move to Mae’s defense while knocking him out in the process.

“Don’t even think about it,” Jason cautions, placing a firm hand on my shoulder when I’m midstep. “Lose sight of the objective, and we lose this contract.”

But the satisfaction earned by teaching the prick a lesson is temptation at its finest.

“Damon.”

“I get it.” As much as I hate to admit, he’s right, but leaving Mae behind closed doors with her husband is eating away at my better conscience.

Leaning back against the wall, I think of how she looked up at me when we were first alone. How some of the sadness so deeply clouding her pretty eyes gave way to something else that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since.

Too much is riding on that asshole’s signature, and yet, even as I say the words, I feel my betrayal against a woman I barely know.

“I’ll make a few calls,” I finally cave. If there were an option to leave her out entirely, I would. What we need from Peter Cooper is not his expertise or lack thereof. He’ll soon learn of his role, and when he does, he’ll be tempted to divulge all the details. NDAs aside, husbands talk, even to the wives they hate. So, the two come as a package deal. Not only will Mae be required to keep quiet on the matter, if needed, she’ll also be expected to convince Peter to sign the contract of completion because him walking away without doing so is simply not an option.

“Damon, we need them both on board and on the same page if we want this shit to run smoothly. You know as well as I that her resistance to the proposal will become an obstacle if she’s not swayed.”

“We knew this would be a possibility.” My response is flat because Jason views collateral damage of an innocent as nothing to lose sleep over.

“If this is going down the road I think it is, perhaps we need to create something to lord over her that’s far more detrimental than anything Peter’s got to offer.”

Jason would hate me to say it, but he’s becoming more like our old man every day. For what it’s worth, it serves its purpose in our line of work. What he lacks in diplomacy and social skills, I make up for. My brother prefers coercion and all the perks that come with it. And sometimes, I’m no better.

“I’ll give her something to think about,” I reply, knowing exactly what needs to be done.

With a telltale smirk, he says, “I get the feeling you’ve been hoping it would pan out this way.”

He might be right.

“Let’s just say I’m not disappointed by the idea.”

The office door swings open, and out walks a stony-faced Peter, fidgeting with his tie and rolling his shoulders as if to come down from his abusive high. He’s like a fucking clean-cut, all-American boy who snorts lines thinking no one can notice the snow he’s missed when wiping his nose—guilty as fuck and without enough sense to cover up his crimes.

“Gentleman,” he greets, but it’s not him I’m interested in.

Walking six feet behind her husband, Mae keeps her gaze glued to the marble floor. Then, as if she’s as aware of me as I am her, she catches my eyes for only a fleeting moment, but long enough to see hers are now red-rimmed, cheeks flushed.

“Everything okay, Peter?” I ask, imagining just how good it would feel to put his head through the wall.

“Couldn’t be better.” I might even believe him if he wasn’t wearing the face of a psychopath who’s just thrown a weighted bag of puppies off a bridge. “My darling wife, however, has a few opinions on the matter. But you needn’t worry.” Grabbing her chin with more force than necessary, he adds, “Nothing a night of persuasion can’t fix. Hey, honey?”

Fucking cunt.

With a weak smile Mae pulls out of his grasp. “I’m sorry we kept you waiting.”

Is she? Or are they the words he’s fed her? A warning of sorts to cooperate.

“I understand. Your thoughts on the project are both welcome and valid.”

Behind me, Jason—unimpressed with the sentiment—clears his throat. “Perhaps we should just get on with the night.”

Needing no further invitation and looking right at home in a place he certainly doesn’t belong, Peter skirts around me. “I could do with another drink.”

As he follows my brother back to the party, I block Mae from leaving. Her gaze is back to the floor, unable to meet mine. In a move that doesn’t seem foreign to either of us, my fingers graze across her cheek. She doesn’t flinch the way she does with him , and when she looks at me, it’s utter torture. “You’re like a timid bird, Mae, eager to take flight.” Her eyes glisten because it’s closer to the truth than she’ll ever admit. “How can I convince you to stay?”

A single tear slips down her cheek. “You don’t have to. Because he’ll never let me go.”

~

MAE

Damon caught the tear before it fell.

He didn’t press further on my reply, but the long silence that followed and the frown marring his devastatingly handsome face told me all I needed to know.

He’d be storing that piece of information for the right time.

How it will be put to use, I don’t know, but he appeared affected enough that perhaps I might even consider him an ally. Unless, of course, if my suspicion of him is correct, he’ll screw us both over the first chance he gets.

For now, without a hope of getting through the tall iron gates without my husband initiating a hunt, I let Damon lead me to join the others, his hand placed neatly on the small of my back, thumb drawing rhythmic circles. It’s dangerously intimate, and, reckless .

“They may look intimidating.” The rumble of Damon’s voice against my ear elicits a tingle over my entire body—a foreign, addictive response compared to the shivers of dread my husband provokes. Despite my hesitation, I find myself being lured by him, enjoying the caress of his suit jacket against my bare skin and the intoxicating yet subtle scent of summer, citrus, and sandalwood. “But I promise you’ll leave in one piece.”

“What are you doing to my wife?”

His voice hits from somewhere out of my peripheral, but it’s enough to send a shockwave of fear up my spine. Instead of allowing me to step out of his touch, Damon smooths a hand over my hip, drawing me closer to his side. A silent directive. Stay .

“Enjoying her company, Peter.” It’s a simple response but loaded with accusation.

“Better you than me.”

I look up and watch the slow spread of Damon’s smile. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Despite it being calculated, despite how he winks down at me, I enjoy it more than I should.

“Let me introduce you both to Frank and his wife, Carmen,” he says, a couple in their fifties turning to us. “Frank, Carmen, this is Peter Cooper and his lovely wife, Mae.”

“Well, aren’t you just a stunning creation,” greets the bronzed woman dressed in white silk and dripping with jewels.

Once more, Damon—proving he doesn’t care who’s watching—murmurs against my ear, “I’ll be seeing you soon.” And with that, his hand leaves the small of my hip, and the haven he provided with such a simple touch is now gone.

In his absence, my own smile is forced because projecting a happy marriage is taking a toll. “Lovely to meet you both,” I greet the waiting couple.

Peter and Frank shake hands, and although strangers, they are immediately engrossed in conversation. A robust man with heavy features and a familiarity I can’t quite place, Frank has a loud but infectious persona. He rocks from toe to heel, bringing energy to each word.

“You are just stunning,” Carmen’s honeyed voice regains my attention, her enormous diamond ring glinting under the chandelier whenever she taps her finger on her champagne flute.

“Thank you, and you also.” There’s no denying she’s a glamorous woman who would have a group of equally glamorous friends—an LA socialite.

“I do miss the days when it was all natural like yourself.” A raucous laugh erupts, and she deigns a glance over her shoulder. “Don’t expect to see much of your husband for the rest of the night. Once Franks starts, he can’t stop.”

That suits me fine.

“So, how do you know Damon and Jason?” Carmen asks, cutting to the chase.

At the mention of his name, my eyes instinctively gravitate to his across the room. It’s there I find him already watching. Observing. Waiting . The corners of his lips hint at a smile, and I wonder if he can hear my thudding heart above the noise.

“Mae?”

“Yes?” I startle.

“How do you know the Shaw brothers?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know them. We actually only officially met tonight.” Carmen’s perfect brows furrow in confusion, so I clarify, “Peter may or may not have future business with them, so this is like an introductory dinner, I guess.”

“Right… well, I hope for your sake the business ventures play out. Just look around you.” She scans our surroundings—the epitome of what I expect American royalty to be. “These boys have all the right connections and the smarts to succeed. Besides…” she turns mischievous, “… I’m sure you’ll agree, they’ve both fared well genetically. It certainly makes doing business all the more fun, for you at least.”

Except she has no idea what’s being asked of us—to waive our rights away and put us both at risk of litigation if things turn sour. If Peter wants this, then he can do it on his own. He can have the fortune that might wait for him on the other side of whatever illegal activity the brothers have orchestrated.

But that’s simply not an option.

He’ll never allow me to walk out our front door without ending my life soon thereafter.

“And what about you?” I ask, my palms sweating. “How do you know Damon and Jason?”

With a flippant wave of her hand, Carmen says, “We actually go back some years now. My husband works closely with them on and off.”

“Oh.” This could be interesting. “What sort of business—”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Damon’s commanding voice quiets the room. “If you could all find your way to your seats, dinner is ready.”

As guests migrate, Carmen falls into step with me. “I glanced at the menu earlier. Exquisite. But I expect nothing less from the Shaws.” Then she’s gone, hooking arms with Frank as they round the table.

I pause midstep, dreading to have to sit next to my husband and a stranger he can impress with his belittling of me. Then I notice the name cards.

Damon and Jason are at opposite ends, with guests finding their place in between. Peter and I are sitting together opposite Carmen and Frank, my seat closest to Damon.

So far, I’m learning that everything to do with that man is intentional. That the meticulous level of detail, right down to each word from his mouth is carefully crafted and to his benefit. So, I’m left to wonder why he would have me sitting within arm’s reach. What purpose do I serve for him ?

Peter is already flipping his napkin over his legs and signaling the server for another champagne when Damon pulls out my chair, his hand resting on the small of my back.

“Thank you,” I offer, despite sensing an audience.

“My pleasure.” And by the sound of his velvety voice, I can tell that it is. Only when he slides the chair and me closer to the table does Peter deign to notice.

“Books and chivalry,” he mocks. “You’re making me look bad.”

“Oh, I don’t think you looking bad has anything to do with me, Peter.” It sounds like a good-natured jibe but the undertone is clear. Denying a chance for my husband to respond, Damon dings a fork against a wine glass, gaining the attention of his devoted guests. “I’d like to welcome everyone back. Life is nothing if not organized chaos, and amidst it all, sometimes it surprises you with new friendships, business relations, and…” Casting a gentle glance at me, he adds, “And everything in between.”

A warm blush colors my cheeks, forcing me to avert Carmen’s curious glance and Peter’s hostile energy. Instead, I focus on the polished gold cutlery beside the gorgeous Baroque mosaic charger plate and listen to the soothing sound of Damon’s voice.

“Jason and I keep a tight circle of friends, and we very rarely welcome new faces into the mix. Tonight, however, is different. Here’s to continued prosperity and the journey it takes to get us there.”

A chorus of clinking crystal follows as servers set down our appetizers. For others, artfully plated sea scallops and caviar while I’m served burned butter and sage ravioli. I’d like to question how he knows I’m vegetarian because I’m certain Peter wouldn’t have felt obliged to pass it on.

My curiosity, however, will have to wait because once the elegant flavors hit my tongue, my eyes close in a quiet moment of appreciation.

“To your liking?”

I find Damon watching me, and my goodness, it makes the butterflies in my stomach swarm. “It’s quite possibly one of the best things I’ve ever eaten.”

While he seems pleased by my response, there’s a flicker of something in his expression—something provocative.

I don’t want to look away, and neither does he.

It’s far too easy to become so completely lost in him, his gaze reluctantly shifting from mine only when his name is called from across the table.

To my relief, Peter remains engrossed with Frank, with Carmen affectionately teasing her husband by animatedly contradicting his version of a story. Damon chips in, casting a light-hearted observation at Frank’s expense, which easily earns a raucous laugh from the entire table. The good rapport they share is evident, and when Damon speaks, they all hang onto each insightful and often humorous word.

While everyone’s distracted with conversation, my line of sight is drawn to Jason, who sits at the far end.

He’s watching. Me.

Eerily unperturbed, he makes no effort to look away or ease his deepening frown. Then, as if by way of silent communication, his stare momentarily shifts to Damon’s, and the second it does, everything around us becomes white noise.

It’s a red flag I didn’t want to see.

It only perpetuates my earlier suspicions that things are not what they seem, and I wonder if, or when, the truth will be revealed.

“So, Mae…” Carmen’s voice startles me back to the table. “How do you spend your days?”

To my horror, there’s an immediate lull in table conversation, the guests of esteemed positions awaiting my response. A media tycoon is hardly likely to share my enthusiasm for the arts, and the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court sitting beside Jason is surely more interested in allocating critical cases than she is in learning about an oil painter’s inspirations.

It seems I have no choice in the matter because beside me, Damon leans back in his chair, his interest piqued.

Peter takes it upon himself to answer. “My wife fell into the LA trap of becoming an artist.” Under the guise of appearing good-natured, he laughs while everyone else has the decency to see the comment for what it really is.

“I, um… actually, I was an artist before moving to LA,” I correct, my cheeks burning. “I moved here for Peter.”

My husband’s fork clatters onto his plate, further fraying my nerves. “The job prospects here are endless, yet still, she persists in chasing a penniless occupation.” His hand clamps down on my wrist, the act enough to see Damon’s expression darken. “Isn’t that right, honey?”

Sixteen other pitying faces await my response, but I’m unable to give them one.

Satisfied, Peter releases his hold, our host’s attention now falling to the red fingerprints marring my skin.

“Tell us, Mae,” Frank begins, “which part of the country do you hail from?”

“New Hampshire.”

He nods before pointing his fork at Peter. “You’re telling me, you left your beautiful home of New Hampshire for this guy?”

I stop just shy of proclaiming it as my deepest regret. “Crazy, isn’t it?”

While Damon finds this particularly amusing, Peter, on the other hand, will stow the comment away, saving it for a private moment where it’s just him and me, the press of his thigh against mine a timestamp of his silent promise.

“So…” Carmen continues, keeping me in the spotlight, “… an artist! I wondered why you have a purple smudge on the back of your arm.”

“ Oh …” I twist my arms and find a thumbprint-sized violet smudge just above my right elbow. “I didn’t realize. It’s impossible to get…I, ah… I do actually shower, but you’d be surprised where I find paint.” Stop, Mae. “It’s like sand really, getting into all the nooks and crevices.”

Not a word is uttered and I could just die, or at the very least, hide somewhere away from Peter’s critical stare and Damon’s barely restrained smile.

“I can see how that would happen,” Carmen says. “Do you have any upcoming exhibits?”

Peter will be hanging on to and hating every word I say.

“In just over two months, I’ll be exhibiting at the Augustine in New York.”

And just like that, judging by the line of surprised faces, I’ve gone from being the creative failure my husband often paints me as, to a rare artist success story.

“You’re exhibiting at the Augustine!” Carmen repeats. “My God, that’s huge .”

“Andrew Augustine himself approached her to hold the exhibit,” Peter adds as if saying it aloud will make the notion more believable.

“That’s impressive, kid,” Frank compliments, his cheeks red from the pinot noir.

“Congratulations, Mae.” Damon’s penetrative voice lulls me back into his world where everyone else might as well not exist. A safe place he’s granting me, away from the inquisition of others, away from Peter. “That’s quite an accomplishment and something you should be incredibly proud of.”

“That’s kind of you to say.” My tense shoulders relax.

“Tell me… why painting?”

“Ah… my mother. She was an incredible artist who practically taught me how to paint before I could write.”

“She sounds like a special woman.”

Grief strikes a chord in my heart. “My mom passed two months before my first exhibit. To know I’m exhibiting at the Augustine, she would be so excited.” One minute ago, I could barely string a sentence together, but now I feel like Damon and I could talk for hours and I wouldn’t even register the time slipping by.

The whiplash, however, is bound to leave a mark.

I’m torn between the red flags I suspect Damon of having and the ones I know Peter possesses.

“I have no doubt she’d be incredibly proud of your achievements.” It takes a moment for the words of encouragement to carve through the years’ worth of Peter’s criticism. “And I would like to see your collection.”

Chipped confidence betrays my smile. “Well, it’s still a work in progress with a rapidly approaching deadline.”

“Does an artist ever truly know when to stop? Restraint is typically not a characteristic many artists possess.”

He’s a hundred percent correct, and I’m definitely not the exception to the rule. There’s something about his tone, perhaps it being suggestive, or perhaps the way he says ‘restraint’ like he’d very much like to show me firsthand how unrestrained he can be. My stomach flutters because lines are rapidly blurring.

Aware of his lure, Damon inches closer, his large hand circling my elbow, thumb ever so gently stroking the paint smudge. His touch is warm and dangerously intimate, and the sun-kissed glow against my ivory skin has me hooked. “So, are you more a Rembrandt, Picasso, or Banksy?”

Blue eyes fall to the noticeable beating of my chest. “I’d prefer Artemisia Gentileschi,” I say of the Italian Renaissance painter often known for her dark portrayals of the female perspective.

“That’s a clever choice.”

“Thank you.”

“From stolen moments caught in time to brutal acts of revenge. Which do you prefer?”

“Although I’m influenced more by the stolen moments , I do like to think those she visually destroyed deserved it.” Rapists. Conquerors. Tyrannical husbands .

“That they did.” Damon, evidently disinterested in his other guests, releases his hold and leans back, his thumb now ideally stroking his perfectly defined jaw. It’s hypnotic, like falling down a rabbit hole I’d happily get lost in. “Did your mother classical train you?”

“No, I trained under Francois Dupont in France, so I’ve been able to refine his classic techniques to a contemporary aesthetic influenced by my mom’s teachings. Then once I returned from Europe, I held my debut solo exhibit in New Hampshire.”

Damon seems to muse on this—on me —and I feel the afterglow of his silent praise.

“And that brings you to now, getting set to exhibit at the prestigious Augustine.”

He seems so taken by the idea. Proud the way a lover—who actually loved— would be.

A sweaty hand wrenches my elbow, pulling me away from the safe place Damon created for me.

“My wife fails to understand that there will be no exhibition if she cannot commit to completing a body of work.”

Quick to defend me before the humiliation sets in, Carmen holds up her phone to display my Instagram artist page. “How much did this one sell for?” She clicks on the last commissioned piece.

Feeling the heat of everyone’s stare, I answer quietly, “Thirty thousand.”

“And how long did it take you to complete the painting?”

“Almost a month.”

Carmen exhales heavily and turns her attention to my husband. Not missing a beat, she calls his bluff. “You must be so proud of her achievements, Peter. It’s refreshing to see a husband supporting his wife, especially in the arts, which has a reputation for being rather unrewarding for ninety-eight percent of artists. How incredible that Mae has found a place in the top two.”

“Of course,” he lies through his teeth. “She supports me in everything I do. So, I guess we can call it even.”

“Everything?” A voice travels from down the table. A voice that, up until now, has been absent from the conversation.

Like a synchronized dance, all heads turn to the other Shaw brother.

Peter takes the bait. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t she be supportive?”

With a casual shrug and a point to make, Jason continues, “You strike me as someone who doesn’t like being told no .”

A nerve has been struck and my husband loosens his tie. “Does anyone appreciate being told when or if they can’t do something?”

“Well, that depends on the situation. And , how you behave thereafter.”

If a pin drops, we’ll hear it. So, when Peter laughs, it’s jarring.

“Look, I’m hardly a saint, and we have our issues, but I don’t actively deceive my wife if that’s what you’re implying.”

When Jason remains quiet, allowing the question to fester, Peter takes it upon himself to set the crooked record straight.

“We’ve weathered our fair share of shit shows.” His index finger taps a constant beat on the table while he carefully builds the facade of our relationship. “There are no secrets between us. We’re unbreakable.”

Only a fool would subscribe to such empty words. There’s so much debris-filled murky water under the bridge that not even he can paint us convincingly.

Jason leans back in his chair in a casual attempt to appear less cutting. “Come on, Peter,” he goads. “You can’t expect us to believe that. Everyone has secrets.”

My husband gives a tight-lipped smile, determined to hide his growing irritation. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but if you’re looking for a couple to set as an example, it’s not us.”

“What about you, Mae?” Damon’s quietly authoritative voice draws my attention back to him, but not before I see all heads once again turning in perfect unison. “Do you hold any secrets from Peter?”

His unwavering gaze stays fixed on mine, and in it, I sense a subtle challenge. “No, I don’t have any secrets.”

Not yet convinced, Damon searches for an inkling of a lie that will support whatever hypothesis the brothers have formulated. After a contemplative pause and a smile just for me, Damon raises his wine glass. “To being unbreakable.”