Chapter 12 #2
I brush past him toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back. "Try not to look like you've been sleeping on the couch. You're supposed to look thoroughly satisfied. We're newlyweds, remember?"
Then I'm out the door before he can respond, my heels clicking against the terracotta floor as I head toward whatever's waiting for us downstairs.
Behind me, I hear him follow, his low voice carrying down the hall. "Keep talking like that, and it won't be an act." Then, quiet enough that it sends a shiver down my spine: "You're playing a dangerous game, and we both know you're not ready for me to stop playing along."
His words burrow under my skin. Part of me wants to prove him wrong, to show him I can handle whatever game we're playing. But a bigger truth sits heavy on my chest: I'm not playing anymore. And neither is he. That's what scares me most.
Two hours into dinner, and the wine has done nothing to settle my nerves. This isn't like me. I was raised for this, trained to be poised under pressure, to smile through anything. My father made sure of that, but tonight, composure feels impossible.
Across the table, Dar laughs at something her husband says, her hand resting on his arm. She's effortlessly beautiful, warm brown skin, dark hair in an elegant twist, eyes that crinkle when she smiles. My aunt.
Santiago has been telling stories about his trip to Seville, where he'd taken two of their younger bulls to novilladas this morning, and my mind is everywhere but present.
"The smaller one, Valentín, he showed real promise," Rohan is saying, leaning forward in his enthusiasm. "Brave, noble. The young matador barely had to work for it."
Beside me, Trigg's hand finds my thigh under the table, a steady pressure that grounds me. He hasn't said much tonight, content to let me take the lead, but I can feel him watching me.
"More wine?" Rohan asks, already reaching for the bottle.
"She's good," Trigg says smoothly, his thumb stroking a small circle against my leg through the fabric of my dress. A gentle warning that I am decidedly not good.
The dinner has been pleasant—almost too pleasant.
Surface conversations about the vineyard, the merger, Spain's wine country, Santiago's trip to Seville.
Nothing about the photograph in the study.
Nothing about my mother. Nothing about the fact that I'm sitting across from family I never knew I had while my father kept them hidden like a dirty secret.
Why? The question circles my mind on repeat, fueled by wine, confusion, and hurt.
Why would he do this? What reason could he possibly have for cutting Dar out of our lives?
For cutting me off from the only connection I have left to my mother?
I feel a million different things and can't settle on one.
I reach for my wine glass again, but Trigg's hand intercepts mine, his fingers threading through mine instead. When I glance at him, there's a question in his eyes. You okay? I'm not, but I nod anyway.
Then Dar's eyes settle on mine across the table, and the pleasant buzz of conversation around us seems to fade. She sets down her fork with a deliberate care that makes my stomach clench.
"Maybe we should have started the evening with this," she says, her voice quiet but clear enough to cut through the ambient noise.
"But honestly, I didn't know how." Her gaze holds mine, and I see something there, recognition, uncertainty, maybe even hope.
"It's not every day a niece you've never met walks through your front door. "
The table goes silent. My heart hammers in my chest, and I'm suddenly, painfully sober despite the wine coursing through my system. This is it. The moment I've been dreading and desperately needing all night.
"I..." My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat and try again. "I didn't know you existed until yesterday."
The confession hangs in the air between us, raw and honest and devastating, before I force myself to straighten in my chair. "We understand if you no longer want to partner with Hale Ranch. We didn't come here to deceive you."
Dar holds my gaze, silent and assessing. "I believe that's true," she says finally. Then she pauses, her fingers tracing the stem of her wine glass. "But I can't say the same is true for me."
Beside me, Trigg goes very still. Under the table, his grip on my hand tightens.
"What does that mean?" his voice cuts through the silence, sharp and demanding.
Santiago clears his throat, drawing our attention. "What my wife means to say is she was well aware that Hale Ranch bordered Fairfield. It's not a coincidence that we took an interest in partnering when we heard through the grapevine that you were looking to diversify, no?"
I feel the blood drain from my face.
"How could you have known I was married to Trigg?" Confusion bleeds into my voice as I try to make sense of the timeline. "The partnership discussions started before..." I stop myself before I say too much.
"She didn't." Trigg's voice is calm, measured, his eyes focused on Dar as if he's already worked everything out.
"She didn't know we were married. That part is truly the coincidence.
" He leans back slightly, though his hand remains locked with mine.
"She wanted to partner with me so she would have a reason to come to Bardstown.
A reason to accidentally run into Warrick or maybe even you. "
The table falls silent again, and I watch Dar's face carefully. She doesn't deny it.
"Is that true?" I ask, though I already know the answer from the way she's looking at me.
Dar sets down her wine glass with care. "I've never spoken to Warrick.
Not once." Her voice is steady, but there's an undercurrent of old pain there.
"Your mother was the one who sent me that picture.
" She pauses, her eyes meeting mine. "She was searching for his family, not him.
She was so excited when she found us. Warrick wasn't. The last time I spoke to your mother, she told me he would come around.
That he just needed time." Her voice drops.
"But then I stopped hearing from her too. "
My chest constricts, the wine turning sour in my stomach because I know exactly why she stopped hearing from my mother.
"Maya passed away shortly after that picture was taken," Trigger speaks for me.
"Yes," Santiago says quietly, his accent softening with sympathy. "After months went by with no response to any of our exchanges, I did a little digging and found her obituary online."
The silence that follows is suffocating even though we're outside.
Around us, the Spanish countryside stretches into darkness, the ranch below barely visible now except for scattered lights dotting the landscape like fallen stars.
The terrace where we sit is lit by warm string lights that cast everything in a golden glow, intimate and almost romantic if not for the weight of what's being said.
A warm breeze carries the scent of fresh dirt, rustling through the olive trees that frame the stone terrace.
I can hear the low calls of cattle settling for the night, a sound that should be comforting and familiar, but instead feels like it belongs to someone else's life.
"Listen," Dar finally says, her voice stronger now, steadier.
"I know your trip was supposed to wrap up tomorrow.
Tonight was supposed to be spent discussing terms over a meal and drinks, and we can still do that if that's what the two of you want.
" She pauses, looking directly at me. "But if you can, we'd like it if you could stay through the weekend. "
The request hangs in the air between us, weighted with possibility.
"It would give us some time," she continues, "not just to speak as partners, but as family. If you're open to it, Asha, I'd like to get to know you as my niece."
I try to speak but can't get words past the lump in my throat.
"Can you give us a minute?" Trigg asks, feeling the tension coiled tightly in my hand.
Dar nods, understanding in her eyes. "Of course. Take all the time you need."
She and Santiago rise from the table, and Rohan follows their lead. For a long moment, I just sit there, trying to hold myself together. My breathing is coming too fast, too shallow, and there's a pressure building in my chest that feels like it might crack my ribs.
"Hey." Trigg's voice is soft, closer than before. "Come here."
He doesn't wait for me to move. Instead, he shifts his chair closer and gently pulls me toward him. I go willingly, pressing my forehead against his shoulder as he wraps his arms around me.
"I've got you," he murmurs into my hair. "I've got you, Asha."
And just like that, every wall I've built crumbles. The fakeness, the pretense, the careful distance we've been maintaining…it all disappears. In this moment, he's not my fake husband. He's the only solid thing in a world that's tilting sideways.
I bury my face in his chest, my hands fisting in his shirt as I try to breathe through the storm raging inside me. He just holds me, his hands stroking my back in slow, soothing circles. He doesn't tell me to stop, doesn't tell me it's going to be okay. He just lets me feel all of it.
"She wanted to know me," I finally manage, my voice muffled against his shirt. "All this time, and he kept her away. He kept family away from me."
"I know." His arms tighten around me.
"Why would he do that? What else has he lied about? What else don't I know?"
"We'll figure it out." His lips press against my temple, and the tenderness of it makes something crack open inside my chest. "Whatever it is, whatever we find, you're not alone in this. Not anymore."
I pull back just enough to look at him, and what I see in his face steals my breath. There's no calculation there, no careful distance. Just raw concern and something fiercer, something that looks almost like...
"Trigg," I whisper.
His hand comes up to cup my face. "Yeah?"
His eyes search mine, dark and intense, and I've never felt more seen, more understood.
"Kiss me." The words escape before I can think better of them.
He goes very still, his hand freezing against my cheek. "Asha…"
"Please." I lean into his touch, my fingers clutching his shirt tighter. "I need—"
"Not like this." His voice is pained. He shakes his head slowly. "Not when you don't know what you want. Not when you're messed up inside like this."
"Trigg, I'm asking you to kiss me." My hand covers his where it rests against my face, holding it there. "You're right. I'm lost. So help me feel something real. Help me feel anything other than—"
His mouth captures mine before I can finish.
The kiss isn't gentle. It's desperate and consuming, like he's been holding back for too long, and my words shattered whatever restraint he had left.
His hand slides from my cheek to tangle in my hair, and he tilts my head to deepen the kiss.
The move pulls a sound out of me I don't recognize, half sob, half moan.
I kiss him back with everything I have, pouring all my grief and confusion and need into it.
I pull him closer, and when his tongue sweeps against mine, I forget how to breathe.
He tastes like wine and something darker, something that's purely him.
His other hand grips my waist, fingers pressing into my side through the thin fabric of my dress, and I arch into him, chasing more contact, more of whatever this is that's making my head spin and my heart race.
When he pulls back just enough to change the angle, I actually whimper at the loss. But then he's kissing me again, harder this time, more demanding, and my hands slide from his shirt to his shoulders, to the back of his neck, threading into his hair.
"Asha." My name comes out broken against my lips. He doesn't pull away, though, just kisses along my jaw, down to that sensitive spot below my ear that makes me shiver.
"Don't stop." My voice is breathless, needy, and raw. "Please don't stop."
A low sound erupts from his chest, one that I feel more than hear, and then his mouth is back on mine. This time, when he deepens the kiss, it's slower, more thorough, like he's memorizing the taste of me. His hand tightens in my hair, and the slight tug makes heat pool low in my stomach.
This is fire and hunger and years of complicated history burning between us.
This is every argument we've ever had, every heated glare across a room, every moment of tension that I told myself was hatred but was always something more.
This is real in a way nothing else has been, no pretense, no performance, just raw want and need and something that terrifies me because I don't know how to name it.
The sound of the back door breaks our kiss. We're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel his heart hammering beneath my palm where it's pressed against his chest.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt," Dar says, her voice carrying across the terrace before she gestures apologetically to the table. "I left my phone."
"It's okay," I manage, my voice still breathless. She gives a curt nod, quickly retrieving her phone from beside her abandoned wine glass.
As she disappears back into the house, I let out a shaky breath and mutter under my breath, "Well, that was perfectly timed."
I feel Trigg go rigid against me. His hands, which had been holding me so tenderly moments ago, loosen their grip. When he pulls back, there's something shuttered in his expression, something cold that wasn't there before.
"Yeah," he says, his voice flat. "Perfect timing."
He releases me completely, leaning back in his chair and putting distance between us that feels like miles. His jaw is tight, and he won't quite meet my eyes.
I blink, confused by the sudden shift. "Trigg," I start.
"We should probably head in soon," he cuts me off, his tone now detached. "Figure out if we're staying for the weekend or not."
The warmth from moments ago has evaporated, and in its place is a chill that has nothing to do with the night air. I don't understand why, don't understand what just changed, or what I said wrong. All I know is the walls are back up in his eyes, and I feel like I lost something I didn't know I had.