Chapter 5 Compromised Record
COMPROMISED RECORD
LILA
The Mayfairs don’t do casual dinner. They’re all about the extravagant.
So when Theo steps out of the en-suite, looking like he just stepped off a GQ cover, wearing a charcoal grey suit that tapers perfectly down his thick frame, I nearly choke on my own spit.
I have to fight to keep my mouth from falling open, hoping to Fanny that he didn’t notice the drool that escaped.
For the love of all things holy, I cannot let Serena and Calla find out about this.
When I regain my composure and face him again, Theo’s staring at me like I’ve just sprouted a second head. His eyes flicker between my eyes and my mouth, then dip lower.
“What, do I have something on my face?” I ask, half-joking, half-panicking.
He clears his throat, clearly caught off guard. “No. No. You’re, uh… put together. More than usual.”
I glance down at the dark blue dress I picked. It’s a form-fitting thing that’s meant to be elegant but currently feels like a bad decision in fabric form. Put together? More than usual? I look like a complete disaster, and he’s too polite to just say it.
Well, probably not too polite because Theo is not exactly polite, but maybe afraid to poke the bear?
“Should I change?” I ask, half-expecting him to tell me to throw on something less… whatever this is.
“Only, um, if you want to. Are you uncomfortable?”
Well, I wasn’t until now. Thanks, Theo.
I pause for a beat, letting the awkwardness settle in before I regain some semblance of confidence. If Theo is embarrassed to be seen with me because he thinks I look bad, then he can just deal with it. I happen to like this dress.
And, let’s be real, it’s the only one I brought that could even come close to passing for dinner appropriate tonight. Ugh.
I summon all the false bravado I can muster, straightening my shoulders. “I’m not uncomfortable. I think I look nice.”
Theo nods, a little too quickly, like he’s trying to convince himself. “Good. Great. Fine.”
But why does he seem so… bothered?
Oh my god.
Do I have a nip slip? My heart jumps into my throat as panic surges through me.
I look down, quick and subtle, assessing the situation. The girls are exactly where they should be. Everything’s in place.
I want to bang my head against the wall. Is it my posture? My face? Something? There has to be something that’s putting him off.
He extends his arm. “Ready?”
I suppress the urge to bolt, to find some excuse to hide in the bathroom and avoid whatever volatile interactions are about to take place. But instead, I put on a brave face and hook my arm through his. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
I hope I sound more confident than I feel because inside, I’m panicking a little.
The dining room looks exactly how you’d expect the home of a family with a murder problem to look.
The table is so long it could host a medieval summit. It’s massive. Imposing. It would make an excellent setting for the dramatic reading of a will, or a dinner where at least one other heir dies under mysterious circumstances before dessert is served.
Theo looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here. His shoulders are stiff, his body rigid, like he’s mentally preparing for battle. I can practically feel the tension radiating off him.
“I know you hate being around me,” I mutter in a tight-lipped whisper. “But could you at least try to pretend you don’t find having dinner with me something akin to waterboarding?”
He looks down at me, brow furrowing in confusion. “Lila, I don’t—”
Whatever Theo was about to say is cut off by the slow creak of the door swinging open. The shift in the room is immediate, a cold draft spilling in.
That cold draft would be Baryn, strolling inside with that usual assumption that the room belongs to him. Hell, that the air in it does too.
His eyes flicker to me, keen and assessing, before his lips pull into that fucking leer of his.
He doesn’t hesitate before sliding up beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body, the weight of his presence pressing in. His exhale skates along the shell of my ear, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. Not the good kind.
“If I’d known you cleaned up this well, I’d have made more effort during our conversations,” he says, leaning in enough to test boundaries. “Especially the ones you insisted on having horizontally.”
I bristle, heat prickling my neck. Of course he’d bring that up. He’s incapable of letting anything be sacred—not even the one time I was short-sighted enough to think he might’ve actually been kind. Gentle, even. Turns out he was just quiet for once.
His gaze drops to my dress, eyes roving over it like he owns the damn fabric. “I’m trying to be polite, but that dress isn’t making it easy.”
I resist the temptation to roll my eyes straight out of my head. “You haven’t been polite a day in your fucking life, you opportunistic doorknob.”
Theo goes still next to me.
Not just still—rigid—every muscle in his body locked up tight. I feel the shift in his posture, the way his composure falters.
I turn my head just enough to glance at him, and what I see makes my throat constrict. His expression is nothing short of fury, hazel-brown eyes dark and locked onto Baryn like he’s deciding exactly how much effort it would take to throw him through the stained glass window.
For a second, I wonder if he’s going to say something. If he’s going to step in, tell Baryn to fuck off, make some excuse to pull me away. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just stands there, radiating something I can’t quite put a finger on. It’s potent. New.
I open my mouth, about to tell Baryn exactly where the fuck he can go, but before I can get another word out, the tension snaps when someone speaks from the doorway.
“Mister Mayfair,” the man says, warm but lined with authority. It’s the exact tone teachers use when they’ve caught you cheating, or when they’re giving you one last chance to stop being a jackass. “I do hope I misheard that.”
Baryn’s shoulders pull back, posture stiffening as he seems to recalculate.
The man steps into view, silver hair catching the chandelier light. He’s in his sixties, maybe older, though there’s something about him that makes age feel irrelevant. He’s steady, unbothered, entirely competent.
His eyes—clear, blue, assessing—sweep the room, taking stock of who’s here and what kind of mess he’s walking into, like he’s already deciding which Mayfair brand of disorderly conduct he’ll have to manage first.
I know instinctively this has to be Gerry.
The one name everyone in this house says with the same rare, genuine fondness.
Henry’s best friend. The man who’s basically filled the father-shaped hole in Emily’s life since Peter died.
She talks about him constantly—little anecdotes woven between heavier things, always with that same soft look in her eyes that she doesn’t have for anyone else in this family.
He smiles, but it’s the kind of smile that could level a man without so much as a raised voice. “Your mother raised you better than to talk to guests like that.”
“I—” Baryn starts, but Gerry lifts a hand.
“Let’s not,” he says, gentle but firm. “You’ll only dig yourself deeper, and I’d rather not have to call for a shovel to fill the hole back in before dinner.”
Theo’s lips press together, amusement flickering before he reins it in. I have a feeling that if I meet his eyes, I’ll lose it completely, so I glue my attention to the front like my life depends on it.
Gerry turns to me and dips his head slightly, all old-school manners and steady warmth. “Dr. Jennings, I presume. My apologies. Mayfair hospitality is usually better than this.” His words carry no pretense, just sincerity. “Gerald Whitaker, though everyone here insists on ‘Gerry.’”
“Pleasure,” I shake his offered hand. His grip is firm but not overcompensating. “I’ve heard so many lovely things about you.”
Then he turns to Theo. “And you must be Professor Grayson. My dear Evelyn has always spoken highly of you.”
Theo blinks, caught between surprise and gratitude. “She has?”
Gerry nods, a knowing glint in his eye. “And she’s got a good eye for character,” he says, punctuating it with a wink.
Baryn’s already taken his seat, pretending to study the swirl of his wine like it holds the secrets of the universe. The back of his neck is flushed red.
Gerry sighs and looks at him again. “I’ll assume you’ll offer a proper apology after dinner, Bear.”
“Yes, sir,” Baryn mouths, the words barely there at all.
“Good man,” Gerry says lightly, then gestures toward the table. “Now, if we can avoid further theatrics, dinner’s surely almost ready, and I’d prefer to enjoy it without needing to mediate another domestic skirmish.”
One of the staff flits nervously around the table, adjusting forks that don’t need adjusting and smoothing invisible wrinkles from the linen runner.
“Tillie, dear, thank you,” Evelyn says warmly, with a little wave of her fingers. “That’ll be all for now.” Tillie gives a small, grateful nod and retreats through the swinging door that leads to the kitchen.
“Lila, sweetheart, you look beautiful,” Evelyn says, probably louder than necessary, and pats the table in front of her, signaling for me to take the seat across from where she’s sitting.
Which would be good and fine and great, if Baryn wasn’t sitting next to her, because this places Theo across from him.
Theo releases my arm with an easy grace, stepping ahead of me to pull my chair out. It’s a small gesture, but the way he does it—measured, determined—feels different. More like a claim than simple courtesy.
Then, as if he’s been doing this forever, he guides me down with a light touch at the small of my back, his fingers pressing just enough to send a ripple of warmth through me.
I barely have a second to process that before he leans down, close enough that his breath stirs a loose strand of my hair. And then, with the ease of someone who’s done it before, he presses a kiss to my temple.
Soft. Warm.