Chapter 35 #2
"She won't drink from a regular bowl." He glances at me. "The running water reassures her it's fresh."
He pulls a container from the fridge that looks like high-end wet food with chunks of meat. He portions it precisely into her bowl.
Malice meows once, imperious, then digs in.
James watches her eat for a moment, his features softer than I've ever seen them. Huh.
"You’re fond of her." I manage to keep from smirking.
I can’t believe it. I might have found James’ Hamilton’s weakness. Cats. Or rather one particular kitten.
His shoulders stiffen. "We tolerate each other."
"She attacked you when you rescued her, and you still brought her home."
"I would have had to be completely heartless to have left her there." And yet, isn't that the image he portrays?
"You could have taken her to a shelter," I point out.
"That was the plan." He rubs the back of his neck. "She grew on me." He looks at where Malice has already wiped her food bowl clean and is lapping up the water from the fountain. "Like a fungus." He scowls.
But his tone is, dare I say, half affectionate, half frustrated.
He’s a goner, and he doesn’t even realize it.
I begin to chuckle, then turn it into a cough.
He arches an eyebrow at me. "You have something to say?"
"Moi? Of course, not." I pull off the hair tie holding up my hair. I sigh as the pressure eases from my crown.
Malice finishes cleaning herself, then pads toward the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors. There's a cat flap installed directly into the glass; custom-cut, seamless, probably cost a fortune to have professionally fitted without compromising the door's integrity.
She nudges through it onto the balcony beyond.
I follow, curious, and stop short.
The balcony has been cat-proofed.
Fine mesh netting extends from floor to ceiling, nearly invisible unless you're looking for it, enclosing the entire space.
It's secured to the railings and overhead with professional-grade mounting, strong enough to stop a cat from jumping or climbing out. It’s subtle enough not to ruin the view of the park.
There's a cat tree in the corner. Not some cheap carpeted monstrosity, but a sleek wooden structure that looks like an actual tree with multiple platforms at different heights.
A heating pad sits on one level, currently off but within reach of an outlet.
A few toys are scattered strategically—a feather wand, some crinkle balls, a mouse that's seen better days.
Malice leaps onto the middle platform and settles into a sphinx position, looking out over London like she owns it.
"Whoa, you cat-proofed your balcony."
"Cats can fall." James, who’s followed me, stands with his arms crossed. Defensive. "Fifteen floors up, she wouldn't survive it."
"So, you had custom netting installed. And a cat flap cut into glass doors that probably cost thousands. And a heated bed for when it gets cold."
"She's an indoor cat. She needs enrichment." He bristles.
I turn to look at him. Really look at him.
The Ice Commander. The perfectionist chef who terrorizes his kitchen. The man who prefers grunts to speaking full sentences. He spent a fortune making sure his rescue cat would be safe and comfortable.
"What?" He shifts uncomfortably under my gaze.
"Nothing. I just—" I shake my head. "I didn't know this side of you existed."
He looks at me with a weird expression "It's just a cat."
"And this apartment is worth at least a million pounds."
"Multi-million, actually, but continue." He stuffs a hand in his pocket. His bearing is straight, but his hunched shoulders indicate he’s far from comfortable with this conversation.
I refuse to be taken in by his wanker-like comment.
I’m sure he does it only to distract from the fact that he’s much softer on the inside that he’d like the world to find out. More humane. Someone who is moved by the human condition.
Something inside me relaxes. Maybe, I didn’t make a huge mistake marrying this man, after all, regardless that it’s an agreement of convenience. Still, it’s good to know I’m sharing a home—however temporary it may be—with someone who will do the right thing.
"My point exactly." I survey his features. "This is prime real estate in one of the most expensive cities in the world, with a view that people would pay vast amounts of money to enjoy. One you didn’t mind messing up for your…rescue cat."
He shrugs. "She’s home all day. I’m not. She should enjoy the view."
I look back at Malice, staring out at a multi-million-dollar view, on her heated platform, protected by netting that cost more than most people spend on their children’s education in this city.
"I rest my case." I half smile.
His jaw tightens. He looks half perplexed, half angry.
But this time, I’m not distracted by his scowl.
I’m starting to understand James Hamilton. He doesn't know how to say he cares. But he does show it through his actions. He rescued and gave shelter to a traumatized alley cat.
Now…me? Did he offer me this agreement because he wanted to help me? Because he wants me but can’t bring himself to openly show it?
Nah. If he really wanted me, he’d have never let me go in the first place.
Nope, I’m nothing like Malice. She’s his pet. And I…am his wife? Nope, his marriage-of-convenience spouse.
Then, another thought strikes me. "Actually, I do have a question. Why did you tell the brigade that they had to respect me?"
His face turns unreadable. But the shadows under his eyes and on his chin, combined with the food stains across his once pristine shirt front, make him more human than I’ve ever seen him before.
That, along with the fact that, at some point, he slipped his ring back on, gives me the courage to approach him. "Why, Chef?"
A strange light flares in his eyes.
“I told you to call me James when we’re not in the kitchen.”
He did. But it feels too familiar. Too intimate. I’m not ready for that yet.
I don’t say any of that.
Instead, something stubborn rises in me. Something restless. Something that has been simmering beneath the surface ever since he proposed our arrangement.
Because the truth is, part of me is angry.
Angry that this marriage didn’t happen because he wanted me. Angry that it exists only because of a contract and a set of practical needs.
And that frustration keeps pushing at me, looking for somewhere to land.
“There’s no one here. We don’t have to pretend.” I let a hard edge creep into my voice.
Even as the words leave my mouth, I know I’m being deliberately difficult.
But I can’t seem to stop myself.
Part of me wants to push him. To test the limits of that iron control he wears like armor.
Just once, I want to see it crack.
His lips firm. A muscle works at his jaw. But he refuses to take the challenge. When he speaks his tone is even.
"I asked them to respect you because I didn’t want to make things more difficult for you in the kitchen."
I scowl, feeling conflicted and, perhaps, a little disappointed. Doesn’t he realize I have to already work twice as hard as he does to get my peers to respect me? And then, to have him come across all protective in the kitchen, it minimizes my achievements.
I draw in a breath.
“Your intentions were in the right place. But if I want the team to take me seriously, it’s best that you let me fight my own battles.”
His jaw grows even harder.
"I’m not trying to fight your battles. But the reality is, you're my wife.
For this marriage to look real, the team has to believe it.
And for them to believe it, they need to see me defend you.
No one gets to question your position in the restaurant.
No one gets to question our marriage. That's all I was doing. "
I deflate. He’s right. And I was wrong to expect more from him. He’s only delivering on his part of the agreement. Why did I expect more from him?
Suddenly, I’m so tired, I can barely keep my eyes open.
"Where’s my bedroom?" I yawn.
"This way." He leads me up the stairs and toward one of the doors opening off a seating area.
I walk in, and when I see the big bed, I all but moan with pleasure. "My clothes—"
"I hired a service to pack your things, bring them over, and unpack them."
I shoot him a grateful look over my shoulder. "Thank you."
He stays just outside the door, not entering the room. A tall, hulking figure with muscular shoulders who fills the doorway.
I turn slowly to face him.
His gaze drifts toward the bed, lingering for a moment too long before he shifts back. He jams his hands into his pockets as if he’s caught himself thinking something he shouldn’t.
The room grows very quiet.
His eyes flick back to mine. For a second, neither of us moves. His gaze turns intense. It feels like he’s mentally tracing my features with his eyes.
A familiar heat flushes my skin. That unspoken connection between us tightens. The one which brought me here to his penthouse.
There’s something in his eyes. A question, perhaps. Or the shadow of one. Something unspoken that hangs between us, heavy and fragile at the same time.
This is our wedding night.
The thought settles in my chest, heavier than it should be. Not frightening. Not entirely unwelcome either. Just…real in a way I haven’t let myself consider until now.
In another life, in another version of this marriage, tonight would have been different. Nervous laughter. Whispered confessions. The shy anticipation of sharing the marital bed for the first time.
Instead, we stand a few feet apart.
The distance between us feels charged, like the air before a storm. Quiet, but vibrating with something neither of us seems willing to touch.
My gaze drifts to his mouth before I can stop it. The firm line of it. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his lips press together as if he’s holding something back.
He notices.
Of course, he does.
His eyes darken, the blue turning deeper, almost midnight in the low light of the room. He scans my face leisurely, then down my body. I feel it like he's touching me with those thick, blunt fingers of his, rather than his eyes.
Heat stirs low in my belly.
My toes curl against the floor. My breath grows shallow.
He hasn’t moved, but there’s a subtle shift in his stance. His shoulders seem to swell. His biceps strain his shirt. His hands remain buried in his pockets, like he’s restraining himself.
Like he doesn’t quite trust what he might do if he doesn’t.
The silence stretches.
The tension radiating from him presses into the room until it feels almost tangible. My head spins slightly with the force of it, with the awareness of him standing there—my husband, now—close enough that a single step would erase the distance between us.
Neither of us takes that step.
Levity. I need to lighten the moment.
I clear my throat. “If you stand there any longer, I’m going to embarrass us both by falling asleep standing up.”
The corner of his mouth shifts in a faint smile. Instantly, the atmosphere feels easier.
His nods toward the bed. “Get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”
He turns toward the door.
Then stops.
He half turns back, like a man remembering something he nearly forgot.
My heart somersaults in my rib cage. Is he going to—
"Henrik messaged. His daughter is much better. He’ll be at The Edge tomorrow morning to kick off the prep. We only need to go in around noon."
My heart sinks to my feet.
He hesitates again.
I open my mouth to ask him what’s on his mind, but he leaves and shuts the door behind him.