CHAPTER TWENTY
JULIA
SATURDAY PASSED IN a blur.
Ethan and I spent the morning with the girls down at the beach, chasing shells and sea foam while their laughter carried over the tide.
By the time the sun climbed high, he'd moved into the home gym while I sprawled in the sand with a paperback, stealing glances at him through the open doors like I hadn't been watching him the entire damn time.
Afterward, he showered and barricaded himself inside his home office, surrounded by files, locked drawers, and enough privileged information to make the federal government salivate.
I fell into my own rhythm. I kept the girls occupied, fed everyone, made sure Ethan ate something that didn't come wrapped in plastic, and restocked the refrigerator in his office.
The hours bled together until darkness settled over the house and I finally had time to start on a few things of my own.
When I went to tell him goodnight, I didn't make it right back out.
He decided his face made a perfectly acceptable desert plate, then eventually sent me on my way with his scent still clinging to my skin and a reminder that no matter how complicated the world outside our bedroom became, my husband remained extremely committed to being a menace inside it.
Sunday slid into view far too quickly, like a train barreling down the tracks before I could catch my breath.
The weekly pilgrimage to his parents’ sprawling estate was a ceremony all its own—long, unspoken rules unfolding at every turn.
By the time we’d finished our meal in the high-ceilinged dining room, the tableware had been whisked away, and the children spilled onto the manicured lawn, their laughter echoing across the hedges as they tore through a frantic game of freeze tag.
I lingered on the shaded rear patio, nestled in a circle of wicker chairs with Carmen, Latoya, Serena, my mother, and Isabella.
Scattered between us were crystal wineglasses—deep ruby and pale rose—and mismatched tea cups still steaming faintly of chamomile.
The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trellis overhead, painting dappled patterns on the stone floor.
Inside, the men had been holed up in Alessandro’s study for nearly an hour.
Ethan, Knox, Rafa, Eric, Damian, Tato, and Alessandro themselves had slammed that heavy oak door and retreated behind it to pick apart every detail of Cortez, Monday, and whatever Ethan hadn’t felt comfortable sharing over the phone.
Muffled voices drifted out—urgent, clipped syllables meant for adult ears only.
Carmen lifted her glass toward me, the wine trembling at the rim. “Fuck that. If Cortez dropped the daughter bomb in the middle of a prison meeting, he had to know Ethan would mention it. What was Ethan supposed to do? Lie?”
“Many husbands would have,” Isabella—my mother-in-law—observed, tucking a strand of silvery hair behind her ear. Her voice was as cool as her pearl necklace.
Serena shifted, smoothing her skirt over the wicker armrest. “Well, I was in the room, so I would’ve told you if Ethan stayed silent.” She met my eyes with an earnest tilt of her chin.
I offered her a small smile, grateful for her loyalty.
Next to me, Toya bumped her knee against mine, her grin conspiratorial. “Well, I’ll be popping around Knox’s office with fresh cookies every other day just so I can mean-mug Lila whenever she shows up. Passive-aggression is my gift to the world.”
“Store-bought cookies, right?” Carmen teased. “Because you can’t bake worth a damn.”
“And that’s exactly why you won’t get any when I’m doing my rounds,” Toya shot back, tossing her hair with mock offense.
We all laughed, but my gaze drifted. Too many pieces were moving now, and I couldn’t tell which belonged to the same puzzle—and that unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
At some point, Alessandro summoned Isabella and my mother back inside.
He stood in the doorway like a stern sentinel—an older echo of Ethan, from the precise slope of his shoulders to the unflinching poker face.
The two women rose and vanished through the door like emissaries called to a war council.
I almost exhaled. All evening they’d watched me as though waiting for me to turn Sunday dinner into a special episode of “Snapped.” But I wasn’t there yet.
I’d spent the weekend absorbing what Ethan shared on Friday night: the raw facts were straightforward, but the implications spiraled into unknown territory.
Yes, Lila was Dominic Cortez’s daughter.
Yes, he wanted her looped into his defense.
Beyond that? A gaping question mark. Did Lila know he’d approached Ethan?
Did she have insider knowledge about the case?
Did her role at the firm hinge on her lineage?
I refused to build a case on speculation—but I also refused to ignore what might be lurking in the shadows.
Ethan would fill me in on the study-room debrief later, within his own carefully drawn boundaries. For now, I needed boots on the ground. I leaned toward Serena, lowering my voice. “Rena?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes?”
I dipped my chin. “Can you do me a favor—quietly?”
She set down her glass with delicate precision. “You’re speaking my love language.”
“I want to know exactly what perfume Lila wears. Brand, fragrance notes—everything. And her go-to lipstick shade. Plus, I need her address.”
Carmen’s brow shot up; Toya peered over her glass. “Are we building a murder basket?” she asked with a half-smile.
“No,” I said, and I meant it. “This isn’t about hurting her.”
Serena’s amusement faded, replaced by her customary steel.
“I want information. Because right now, I don’t know what we’re dealing with—and I’m not going in blind.”
Serena tapped her chin, then nodded. “I can get it. Discreetly.”
I paused, swirling the last of my wine. “Another thing—I checked the Marinos’ history. Neither of the women connected to the family before this ended well. One died, the other vanished without a trace.”
Carmen leaned in, concern creasing her brow. “What do you mean?”
“One funeral nobody attended,” I said softly, “and one empty apartment that’s gone cold—hardly any paper trail. I’m not accusing Lila of anything, but it tells me something about the world she belongs to. And now that world has reached into mine.”
I set down my glass with purpose. “I’m not waiting for the next shoe to drop before I start paying attention.”
Carmen placed a steady hand on mine. “If you ever want more eyes on her, just say the word. It never hurts to know where the pieces are.”
“That’s all I want.” I offered her a grateful smile.
Toya pointed a playful finger. “And if shit ever stops being theoretical—midnight, three in the morning, peak crisis time—you call me. I won’t be stuck at home twiddling my thumbs while you bitches form the Avengers.”
“Noted,” I promised, the slant of their solidarity warming me against the unknowns gathering just beyond the patio’s shaded edge.
Their quiet confidence settled a tension I hadn’t even realized was coiled inside me. I wasn’t gathering evidence to accuse Lila; I was fashioning safety nets—multiple, unbreakable contingencies—just in case.
Mehgan was already crawling through records and whispers on my behalf, and I’d spent every spare minute tracing my own lines of inquiry.
Not because I believed Ethan was lying. Not because I suspected Lila had been strategically slipped into his firm.
And certainly not because I thought my husband was one wayward look away from forgetting our vows.
I trusted Ethan with my whole heart. I also trusted myself enough not to confuse devotion with na?veté or doubt my intuition telling me to be on guard.
Some women swore they’d never sift through a partner’s phone or track a location or notice if his clothes carried someone else’s fragrance—because if you had to check, the relationship was already dead.
Fine for them, but not for me. I had never caught another woman’s perfume clinging to Ethan’s collar, and I prayed I never would.
If that day came, I wanted to know the name of the floral top note before I called it betrayal.
If a rogue swipe of lipstick ever imprinted itself on his skin, I wanted to identify its exact shade.
If Ethan slipped away to Lila’s house without Laurel or Serena or Eric in tow, I wanted a map pinpointing her doorstep before I had to ask. He already shared his location with me; I shared mine with him. That was Tuesday in our marriage—not paranoia, but partnership.
Did I believe my husband would ever stray? No.
Ethan wasn’t a man who chased cheap thrills or fleeting fantasies. But I’d inherited my mother’s instinct: love someone fiercely, and still build a fortress around your own heart. One shielded your feelings; the other protected your ass. Maybe it sounded clinical. It wasn’t.
I loved Ethan Marcelli with a devotion so profound it sometimes made me scared.
He’d been my refuge, my collaborator, my closest friend, the father of my children—the steady beat I recognized even in a crowded room.
If he ever became the one to shatter that life, I would crumble.
I would unleash a rage so fierce it might destroy something priceless—and I’d feel no shame.
If Ethan ever chose someone else, that would be his rupture to make. What happened afterward would belong to me. That truth lay crisp and chilling in my mind. I did not want that future, and I was certain it wasn’t looming. Yet even knowing I could survive it gave me a terrifying kind of freedom.
This wasn’t really about Lila. She might turn out to be nothing more than an overambitious associate with a terrible draw in sperm donors—and I hoped she was. Because the alternative suggested something far larger had crept through my family’s life without any of us noticing.
I glanced toward the house. Somewhere behind those walls, Ethan sat with his father and the men he trusted most, piecing together dossiers, legal strategy, surveillance footage, and whatever Dominic Cortez had laid on the table.
I had my own designs unfolding in parallel. His plans safeguarded the firm; mine would shield our family. The scales remained locked in perfect balance, for now. I wasn’t planning to tip them.
If someone else did, I would make sure I stood on the side that survived the fall.