43. Graham
43
GRAHAM
I’m running on fumes by the time I finally shut down my computer.
My eyes burn from hours of staring at cascading lines of code, my brain wired but my body exhausted. These assholes should’ve taken the bait by now, jumped on my hook like the little worms they are.
Either they’re better than I gave them credit for or they’re on vacation.
I rub a hand over my face, exhaling slowly before pushing back from my desk. It’s late, later than I planned to be up. I’m used to it but my wife is not. Last I looked, she was reading. Even that was so distracting that I had to minimize her security feed so I could get some work done.
It’s been a week since she first slept in my bed, and I’ve asked her to sleep in it every night since then. Some nights she does, some she goes to her own bed. I’ve been trying not to read too much into it, trying not to let myself hope it means something deeper. But it’s hard when she fits so perfectly against me, her soft curves melding to my hard edges like they were made for each other.
I’m not used to wanting someone like this, needing them in a bone-deep way that terrifies me if I examine it too closely. So I don’t. I lose myself in lines of code and the satisfaction of unraveling digital puzzles, anything to keep my mind from dwelling on the way my chest aches when I wake up and she’s not beside me.
I push to my feet with a low groan, my body protesting the sudden movement after hours of stillness. I flick off the office lamp and make my way toward the bedroom, rolling my shoulders to work out the kinks.
Padding barefoot down the hallway, I pause outside her closed bedroom door, debating.
I want her in my bed. Want to fall asleep with her tucked against my chest, her hair tickling my nose, her scent surrounding me. Want to wake up to her sleepy smile and wandering hands, her body soft and pliant beneath mine as I take her.
But I won’t push. She’s had enough of people making demands and expectations of her. The last thing I want is to be another source of pressure in her life.
With a sigh, I turn away from her door and head to my own bedroom. It’s probably for the best anyway. I’m exhausted and liable to pass out the second my head hits the pillow.
I don’t bother turning on the lights as I step further into my room. I reach behind my head and grab the collar of my shirt, stripping it off and tossing it on the armchair.
My breath catches in my throat when I see a flash of blonde, curled up on my side of the bed, fast asleep. The delicate sleepwear she loves to tease me with, thin straps, soft fabric, short shorts. Her hair spills across my pillow in a golden wave, her face shadowed in the dark.
Something clenches in my chest, a feeling I’m not ready to name. I take a step closer, drawn to her like a magnet, unable to resist her pull. The sight of her in my bed, wrapped up in my sheets, it does something to me.
I take a step toward her, then stop.
Something’s wrong.
The air is too still, too heavy with a strange uneasiness that prickles along my skin.
I draw in a slow breath, trying to shake off the odd sensation as I stare down at her slumbering form. I should find comfort in the sight of her here, so trusting and vulnerable. But the tightness in my chest only grows, an icy tendril of unease snaking through my veins.
I reach out to brush a lock of hair from her cheek, but my fingers hover an inch from her skin. Something holds me back, some instinct I can’t name.
Frowning, I let my hand fall away and take a step back, my gaze roaming over her still form. My instincts kick in and roar to life.
I snatch the wooden bat from beside my nightstand, grip firm, heart hammering. I point it at the woman sleeping in my bed.
“You are not my wife.” My voice is sharp, ice-cold.
The figure shifts slowly, a languid stretch, deliberate. And when she rolls over, her smirk is too familiar. It’s like looking at my wife in a distorted mirror, like some alternate reality version of her. Her smile is all wrong and her eyes are too narrow and her smirk is mean.
I know exactly who she is. But what I don’t understand is why the fuck she’s here. In my fucking bed.
“Oh come on.” She lays back dramatically. “If you turn off all the lights, I’m sure we’ll feel exactly the same.” It’s a taunt. “We used to do the twin switch thing when we were younger. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.” The woman laughs, low-toned and throaty. And loud . Nothing like my wife’s bright, infectious giggles.
It makes my skin crawl. Or maybe it’s this whole fucked-up situation.
“Get out of my fucking bed. Don’t make me say it again.” My grip on the bat tightens before I force myself to rest it on my shoulder.
Florence pouts dramatically. “C’mon, don’t tell me she didn’t mention me.”
The muscles in my jaw tick as she sits up, tossing the blanket off with unnecessary theatrics. Her movements are slow, deliberate, meant to provoke. She stretches her arms overhead like some bored debutante in a romance novel, sighing dramatically.
I don’t move. Just stare down at her with flat, unimpressed silence.
She smirks. And then, she starts making noise. Loud, deliberate noises. Nothing too obvious or explicit, but enough that someone listening might hear and assume the worst.
Florence’s eyes flick toward the wall Francesca’s room shares with mine. Smug. Calculated.
I don’t know what this is, but the last thing I want is for my wife to wander in here and get the wrong idea. Which seems to be Florence’s goal. My narrow to dangerous slits, body coiled tight with barely adrenaline.
“You gonna make me tell you again, Florence?”
Her smirk widens. She leans back on her elbows, cocking her head at him. “I knew she mentioned me. But let’s be real, temporary brother-in-law, you’re not gonna do shit.” She laughs, the sound grating.
Romeo starts whining. He’s right on the other side of the wall, woken up by delusional laughter.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, biting back a groan. My options are limited, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
The whining turns into barking.
Florence throws me a mocking smile, her voice pitched just loud enough. “Oops.”
Romeo barks again, louder this time. And a few seconds later, he’s running into my bedroom.
And there, running in behind him, wearing my henley and sleep-tousled frustration, is my wife.
There’s a collective beat between us. It’s not quiet, since Romeo’s doing his best impression of a protective dog right now. After a quick sniff inspection, he stands in front of Florence and barks the house down. His hair stands on end and his lips peel back from his teeth a little.
Francesca freezes in the doorway, eyes locked on Florence. For a second, she doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Just stares. Her knuckles go white around the hem of my henley, her expression flickering so fast I can’t track it—confusion, irritation, something sharper.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I assure her quickly.
Then, like a switch flips, she snaps out of it. Her posture straightens, her shoulders set, and her expression goes flat.
“So that isn’t my sister in your bed?” she drawls, head tilting. The casual delivery is a lie, a well-practiced performance. But I see the tension in her jaw.
I don’t buy it for a fucking second.
“I’m pretty sure it is. But I honestly don’t know how she got in here. I thought it was you.” I cross the room and stand in front of her. Bending down, I hold her gaze and murmur, “I swear nothing happened. I knew it wasn’t you right away.”
“He’s lying,” Florence purrs. “It took him at least thirty seconds. Maybe even sixty. You know how much can happen in sixty seconds.”
Francesca reaches out, resting her hand on my arm. “I believe you.”
“Oh thank fuck.” I exhale deeply.
“Like the digs, Frankie. It’s smaller than you would have if you came home, but I can see the appeal,” Florence says from behind me.
Francesca’s gaze narrows over my shoulder as she walks around me. “Are you kidding me right now?”
Florence, who’s still reclining on her elbows on my bed, just shrugs. “It’s the truth.”
Francesca balls her hands into fists, stopping in front of her sister. “Tell mom she’s going to have to try harder than this. First Giovanni and now you. Maybe you should think for yourself for a change and stop taking orders from our mother.”
Florence’s smirk falters for the briefest moment before she slips her mask back into place. She sits up slowly, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. “Oh, Frankie. Always so dramatic. Can’t a sister just drop by to visit her twin sister?” Her voice drips with false sweetness.
Francesca scoffs, folding her arms across her chest. “At one a.m.? In my husband’s bed? Try again.”
Florence rolls her eyes and stands, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her clothes. “Congratulations, temporary brother-in-law. You passed the test.”
Florence’s smirk widens as she saunters toward us, all arrogance and superiority. But once she gets closer, I see the cracks. The fissures deeply embedded into her mask of arrogance.
My wife tenses, tilting her head up. “Call me when you’re ready to be my sister, Flora.”
Florence’s steps falter, her smile curling down at the edges before she forces it back into place. She arches a brow, stopping a half-foot in front of Francesca. “Don’t you even want to know how I got in here?”
Francesca shakes her head, jaw set. “You’re not welcome here, Flora. Not like this.”
She lets out a humorless laugh, but it lacks any real malice. “Fine. Have it your way, Frankie.” She brushes past Francesca, purposely bumping her shoulder. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. This little fairytale life you’ve built here? It’s not going to last. Mother won’t let it.”
Francesca stiffens, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. But she doesn’t rise to the bait. “Goodbye, Flora,” she says evenly, not turning around.
Florence pauses in the doorway, and that’s when I see it. The pure longing and deep regret etched into her face when she looks at my wife.
Without another word, she spins on her heel and stalks out of the room, her footsteps echoing down the hallway until the distant slam of the front door signals her exit.
Silence.
Thick, suffocating silence.
Francesca doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn around. She just stands there, stiff and unmoving, like a statue carved from tension and old wounds.
Romeo lets out a soft whine, nosing at her leg, but she doesn’t react.
I don’t move either. My grip tightens on the bat still hanging loosely in my hand, my mind replaying the last five minutes on a loop, turning it over, dissecting every second.
What the fuck was the endgame here?
The answer is obvious. To make Francesca doubt. To make her second-guess everything. And it almost worked.
I set the bat down, exhaling through my nose. This is not fucking happening.
I step toward her, curling my hands over her shoulders and pulling her against my chest. She sags against my chest, trembling faintly beneath my touch.
“Francesca,” I murmur, my thumbs rubbing soothing circles over her skin. “Talk to me, sunshine.”
She draws in a shuddering breath before turning to face me, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice thick. “I’m so sorry she did this, that she came here and?—”
“Hey, no.” I cut her off gently, cupping her face in my hands. “You have nothing to apologize for, Francesca. This isn’t your fault.”
She exhales shakily, leaning into my touch. “Still.”
I smooth my hand over her back once more before stepping back.
“I’m going to make sure everything is locked up. You and Romeo wait for me here. In my bed.”
I hesitate for a beat, my jaw flexing as my gaze drifts to the doorway. Where Florence stood just minutes ago, her final words still ringing in my ears.
My voice comes out low, calm, even. But edged with something lethal. “If she or anyone else ever tries this shit again, they won’t make it past the front door.”
Francesca exhales, tension unraveling slightly. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to.
Installing more security measures will have to wait until tomorrow.