Chapter 17 Alex
The car pulls up to Diana's townhouse just as the sun starts bleeding orange across the city skyline.
I haven't been here in years. Diana prefers to keep her personal life separate from her side job of managing me. The fact that she's invited me to her home instead of her office means something, though I'm not sure what.
"Mr. Alexander," her housekeeper greets me at the door, taking my coat. "Ms. Norris is on the terrace."
The townhouse is exactly what you'd expect from Diana: tasteful and expensive. No family photos, no personal touches that might reveal something human about her. Just perfectly curated art and designer furniture.
I follow the housekeeper through the living room with its twelve-foot ceilings and out through French doors to the terrace.
The view stops me cold. The city spreads out below us, lights just beginning to flicker on like stars coming out.
Diana's managed to create an oasis up here—potted trees, soft lighting. ..
That's when I see him. Jonah sits across from Diana at an elegantly set table, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth. He's in back in his handsewn church clothes and his hands are folded in his lap like a schoolboy called to the principal's office.
"What the fuck—"
"Language, Alexander." Diana doesn't even look up from her wine glass. "Sit."
"You ambushed me."
"I arranged a meeting between a married couple who are being ridiculous." She finally meets my eyes, and there's something almost like amusement there. "Now sit down before Henri serves the first course."
Jonah hasn't looked at me yet. He's staring at his water glass. His honey-vanilla scent drifts across the terrace and I want to run over to him and bury my nose in his neck.
I sit because what else am I going to do? Storm out like a teenager? Diana would probably tackle me before I reached the door.
"So," Diana says, settling back in her chair, "you've both had two weeks to sulk. Henri is serving a seven-course meal, and you're going to talk to each other like adults, or I'll lock you both in my wine cellar until you do."
"Diana—" I start.
"I'm seventy-three years old, Alexander. I don't have time for your dramatics anymore." She stands, smoothing her skirt. "I'll be in my study. Henri will serve dinner. You two will talk. If I come back and find either of you gone, there will be consequences."
She walks away, heels clicking against the stone terrace, leaving Jonah and me alone with the skyline.
The silence stretches. Somewhere below us, sirens wail. The city never stops, even for awkward marital disputes.
"You look good," I say and it’s a lie. He looks exhausted, but I’m not going to say that.
"Thank you." His voice is quiet, careful. "You too."
I laugh, surprising him, because my little church mouse lied to me. Maybe in a few weeks once I’ve settled into a new routine I’ll look good, but right now I look like an alpha who still misses a drink.
“Don’t laugh at me,” he says, bristling.
“I’m not. I’m laughing at me. I know I look awful. I quit drinking and my body’s still working its way through the process of getting rid of all the toxins,” I say, “but thank you for being polite.”
To my surprise, he laughs. "That's good. I mean, if that's what you want."
"It is." The admission comes easier than expected. "We both know I’m an asshole when I’m drunk. It turns out I can actually think clearly when I'm not pickled."
A man in chef's whites appears—Henri, presumably—carrying two plates. "Oysters Rockefeller," he announces, setting them down with a flourish. "Ms. Norris insists you both eat."
The oysters are amazing, but I barely taste them. I'm too focused on Jonah, the way he carefully navigates the shellfish.
"Never had oysters?" I guess.
"No." A small smile tugs at his mouth. "There were some once at a church picnic before I was born. Half the congregation got food poisoning and Pastor David banned them after that."
"Wow."
"Pastor David said it was God testing our faith."
"By giving you all digestive distress?"
"The Lord works in mysterious ways." He's definitely smiling now, and something in my chest loosens.
Henri returns with the second course of soup. The sun has fully set now, and the terrace lights create a golden bubble around us, separate from the city below.
We fall silent as we eat. I don’t really know what to say to him. We have so little in common other than neither of us wanted to get married to each other and that’s a topic of conversation that’s almost certain to one of us pushing the other over the balcony.
And it’d be Jonah shoving me because I might have called Jonah a little bitch more than once, but sober me knows who was being the bitch in almost every interaction we’ve had.
Jonah takes a deep breath and looks at me, and I can see he’s thinking that same thing. He’s searching for a topic of conversation that isn’t going to lead to a fight.
"So... what was it like growing up," he says finally, clearly finally settling on a subject.
Good for him for trying.
I lean back, thinking. “Well, my parents died when I was four. Mom died of cancer, and then Dad had a heart attack. Both within six months. Bad luck, I guess.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “I barely remember them. It was a long time ago.
I vaguely remember wanting to be an astronaut.
Or possibly a dinosaur." I take a sip of water, wishing briefly for wine. "Diana took over after that, although she wasn’t there that much. She also took over as CEO of Colborne Industries so that kept her busy. I mostly had a series of nannies. They were nice enough.”
“Sounds lonely.”
I consider the comment. “I suppose so. It was my childhood. When you’re a kid, you don’t know any different.
You just accept things for what they are.
Good and bad. I had good things too. I’ve had opportunities most people can never dream off.
I know the media paints me as a poor little rich boy drowning his sorrows. But it's never been that simple.”
“Isn’t it? Why else do you drink so much? All the partying?” He asks the question and then he stills suddenly and I can see him wondering if he has overstepped and broken whatever fragile truce we have going.
I think it over for a moment. "No," I say finally.
"I party because I love it. The energy, the music, the way a room full of strangers can become your best friends for one night.
Dancing until your feet hurt and your shirt's soaked through and nothing matters except the beat.
" I meet his eyes. "It's about feeling absolutely, completely alive. "
He's watching me with an expression I can't read. "You really love dancing that much?"
"It's one of life's greatest simple pleasures. Pure hedonistic joy. The music gets into your bones and suddenly your body knows exactly what to do, and for however long the song lasts, everything makes sense."
"You don't need alcohol for that," he says, and there's a hint of that judgment that usually makes me bristle.
But tonight, with the city lights below and his scent wrapping around me like silk, I can't find it in me to argue.
"You're right," I admit. "I don't need it. I just... got used to it being part of the package."
Henri appears with the third course. It’s lobster that melts on my tongue. We eat in silence for a moment, but it's not uncomfortable now. There's something shifting between us, some wall coming down brick by careful brick.
"Your turn," I say. "Tell me about growing up in the Fellowship."
His face lights up, and I realize I've never seen him talk about home without defensiveness before.
"It was wonderful," he says simply. "Not perfect—nothing is—but wonderful. I’m close to my family. There’s a lot of love."
"Sounds nice."
"It was. Is." He pauses, pushing lobster around his plate. "I know you think it's a cult—"
"Jonah—"
"But it's not. It's just people trying to live good lives, take care of each other. Yes, Pastor David can be... intense. Yes, we have rules that seem strange to outsiders. But there's real love there. Real community."
"I believe you."
He looks surprised. "You do?"
I lean forward slightly. "I may not agree with everything about it, but I can see it matters to you."
"Thank you," he says softly.
Courses four and five pass—duck confit, then palate cleanser—while we trade stories.
Him telling me about the time his brother Robert accidentally set the kitchen on fire trying to deep fry a turkey.
Me explaining how I once "borrowed" Diana's Mercedes at fifteen and drove it into the fountain at the estate.
"She didn't murder you?"
"She wanted to. I was grounded for six months."
By the time Henri brings course six—beef Wellington that would make Gordon Ramsay weep—we're both more relaxed than I've seen us since the wedding. Maybe ever.
Henri arrives with dessert: an architectural marvel of chocolate and gold leaf.
"I have an idea," I say, the thought forming even as the words leave my mouth. "Come dancing with me."
"What?"
"Tonight. Right now. There's a place I know—exclusive, private. Just music and movement and—" I take a breath. "No alcohol. I promise. Stone cold sober, just dancing."
"Alex—"
"If I have even one drink, you can leave. Call a cab, go home, whatever you want." I pull out my wallet, extract my credit card, and slide it across the table to him. "Here. Take this. Your escape route if you need it."
He stares at the card like it might bite him. "You're serious."
"Dead serious. Look, we're never going to work. We both know that. I’m not going to try anything. Just come for a dance."
The silence stretches. Somewhere in the townhouse, a clock chimes ten. Then Jonah picks up the credit card, slips it into his pocket, and stands.
"Okay," he says. "Let's dance."
The club doesn't have a name, just an address and a certain quality of silence that money buys. The entrance is an unmarked door between a high-end law firm and a gallery that only opens by appointment.
The main floor is already pulsing with bodies when we arrive, but I guide Jonah up the stairs to the mezzanine level where the music is just as good but there's actually room to breathe.
He looks overwhelmed and trying to hide it, taking in the beautiful people in their calculated casual wear and the bartenders who look like they moonlight as models.
"It know it's a lot," I say close to his ear, having to lean in over the music.
"It's..." He turns to respond and suddenly we're close, so close I can see the gold flecks in his eyes, smell his honey-vanilla scent even over the club's expensive air filtration. "Very loud."
I laugh. "Come on."
I lead him onto the dance floor just as the music shifts to something with a dirty bass line that gets into your spine. For a moment, he stands there, uncertain, watching the bodies around us move like water.
"I don't really know how—"
"Don't think." I step closer, not quite touching but close enough that our body heat mingles. "Just feel the music. Let it tell you what to do."
He looks skeptical, but then his shoulders start to loosen, his hips finding the rhythm almost reluctantly. I match his movements, careful to keep space between us even though every instinct screams to pull him close.
"There you go," I encourage, and he flushes but doesn't stop moving.
Song bleeds into song, and slowly, incrementally, he relaxes. Starts to actually dance instead of just swaying. His shirt comes untucked. His hair, so combed, begins to curl with sweat. He's beautiful.
A waiter passes with a tray of champagne, and I snag two glasses before remembering.
"Shit. Sorry. Habit." I'm about to put them back when I notice the little tag on the stem. "Wait. These are marked NA. Non-alcoholic."
"They make non-alcoholic champagne?"
"Yes. Want to try?"
He takes a glass, sips cautiously. His nose wrinkles. "It's weird. Fizzy grape juice."
"Perfect description." I set mine aside, not even tempted. "Come on, they're playing our song."
"We don't have a song."
"We do now."
The music has shifted to something slower but still rhythmic, and this time when I move closer, he doesn't pull back. We're not quite touching, but I can feel the heat radiating off him, see the way his pulse flutters in his throat.
Suddenly the space between us feels like too much and not nearly enough at the same time. His scent spikes, honey going darker, richer.
"Alex," he says, and my name sounds like a prayer and a warning all at once.
The music swells, crowd presses closer, and somehow we end up flush against each other. He’s still holding the champagne glass.
His hands are on my shoulders, mine are at his waist, our bodies moving in sync like they were made for this. Like they were made for each other.
I don't know who leans in first. Maybe both of us, maybe neither, maybe it's just gravity pulling us together. But suddenly his mouth is right there, lips parted, breath mingling with mine—
We both pull back at the same second, stepping apart like we've been burned. My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised the whole club can't hear it.
This is a bad idea. The chemistry is there. The compatibility isn’t. I am not going to ruin this perfect omega. He deserves better than me.
"We should—" he starts.
"Yeah."
We leave the dance floor, make our way through the crowd to the exit. The cool night air hits like a slap, bringing reality crashing back. We're still married. Still completely wrong for each other. Still heading for disaster if we don’t stave it off.
But when we reach the curb to wait for the car, Jonah turns to me and extends his hand.
"Thank you," he says formally. "For tonight. For being honest. For... trying."
I take his hand, shake it like we're business associates instead of husbands who almost kissed on a dance floor.
"We can be friends," I offer. "Or at least friendly. Amicable."
"Amicable." He tests the word, still holding my hand. "I can do amicable."
"Good. Me too."
We stand there, shaking hands for far too long, neither willing to be the first to let go. Finally, the car arrives, breaking the spell.
The ride back is quiet. I drop him at his parents' house, watch him walk to the door. He turns before going inside, gives a small wave.
"Goodnight, Alex."
"Night, church mouse."
He smiles at the nickname, then disappears inside.
I sit in the back of the car for a long moment, skin still humming from almost-touches, lips still tingling from the almost-kiss.
Amicable. We're going to be amicable.
That feels like progress.