11. Vivienne #2
The challenge successfully distracts Lily, and soon we're deep in word-score calculations and friendly accusations of dictionary violations.
Jaxon proves to be a formidable opponent, producing obscure musical terms that I challenge unsuccessfully.
The concentration on his face as he arranges and rearranges his tiles is oddly endearing—the same focus he brings to his music applied to a family board game.
When he plays "QUIXOTIC" on a triple word score for 68 points, I gasp in mock outrage. "That's just showing off!"
His smile is smug. "Don't hate the player, hate the game."
"Did you just quote a rap lyric at me during Scrabble?"
"I contain multitudes of depth and rap quotes," he deadpans, making me laugh despite my competitive frustration.
As the evening progresses, I watch him with Lily—the gentle corrections when she tries to spell words phonetically, the way he casually helps her calculate scores, the genuine delight when she makes a good play. They've developed their own language, their own patterns.
And somehow, improbably, I've become part of that pattern too.
After Lily goes to bed—following extensive negotiations about one more game and two more cookies—Jaxon and I find ourselves alone in the den, cleaning up game pieces in comfortable silence.
"Thank you for tonight," he says quietly.
"I had fun," I admit, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "Though my competitive ego may never recover from that Monopoly thrashing."
He laughs, the sound warm and unguarded. "She gets that killer instinct from her father. Andrew was ruthless in games—couldn't stand to lose even when we were kids."
"And you?" I ask, curious about this glimpse into their childhood.
His expression turns thoughtful. "I cared more about the playing than the winning. Used to drive him crazy." He shrugs. "Different perspectives, I guess."
"Yet you're still competitive," I observe.
"Only about things that matter." His eyes meet mine, suddenly intense. "Music. Family. People I care about."
The air between us thickens with unspoken implications. We haven't addressed what happened the night of the gala—the kiss, the almost-more-than-kiss. By unspoken agreement, we've focused on Lily's instead, sidestepping the complicated reality of our changing relationship.
"Jaxon," I begin, not entirely sure what I'm going to say, but knowing we can't continue ignoring it.
Before I can continue, his phone rings. He glances at the screen and frowns. "Luke. I should take this."
I nod, both relieved and disappointed by the interruption. He steps into the hallway, his voice a low murmur I can't quite make out. When he returns, his expression has tightened.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"Fine," he says, but the tension in his shoulders tells a different story. "Just some details about the Lumina campaign launch next week."
I don't push, sensing he doesn't want to discuss whatever Luke really called about. Instead, I finish stacking the board games, hyper aware of Jaxon's presence across the room, of all the things we're not saying.
"I should check on some work emails," I say finally, needing space to sort through my increasingly tangled emotions.
He nods, seemingly equally eager for the respite. "I need to review some contracts anyway. See you in the morning?"
"Of course."
As I head upstairs to the blue room that's become undeniably mine—closet filled with my clothes, bathroom counter bearing my skincare products, bed piled with the extra pillows I like—my phone buzzes with a text from my father:
Your mother and I require your presence for dinner tomorrow evening, 7 pm. No excuses. We need to discuss the consequences of your continued relationship with Jaxon Hart.
I stare at the message, a familiar knot of tension forming in my stomach. The threat is implicit but clear: my parents are done waiting for this "phase" to pass.
A second text follows:
Come alone. Family matters should remain within the family.
The command raises my hackles instantly. After weeks of making my own decisions, of standing my ground professionally and personally, my father still believes he can summon me like an errant child.
More importantly, the deliberate exclusion of Jaxon feels calculated to undermine our relationship—to treat it as temporary and insignificant, not worthy of family consideration.
The irony, of course, is that he's right. Our engagement is temporary, a strategic alliance with a defined end date. I have no business feeling offended on behalf of a relationship that isn't actually real.
Yet as I think of Jaxon downstairs, of Lily sleeping peacefully in the next room, of the evening we just shared—the laughter, the easy camaraderie, the sense of belonging—I can't bring myself to accept my father's framing.
Fake or not, what's developing between Jaxon and me—between the three of us—feels more genuine than anything in my parents' carefully curated world of appearances and advantages.
I type and delete three different responses before settling on:
I'll check my schedule and get back to you.
It's a small rebellion, but a deliberate one. I'm no longer the dutiful daughter who rearranges her life at my father's command.
As I ready for bed, my thoughts remain tangled in contradictions. I'm playing house with a man I barely know, developing real affection for a child who isn't mine, finding more authenticity in a fake relationship than in most of my real ones.
And tomorrow, my parents will demand I end it all—return to the path they've mapped out for me since birth.
The question that keeps me awake long into the night isn't what I'll tell my parents, but what I truly want for myself. Because somewhere between strategic arrangement and domestic harmony, between performance and reality, I've lost sight of where this is all supposed to lead.
And what scares me most is the growing certainty that when our months are up, returning to my old life will no longer feel like freedom—it will feel like loss.