Chapter 29: In Sync, For Once
Sunset poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing him in a soft, amber glow.
The focus. The ease. The unstudied elegance. It was exactly the kind of sight that pulled a woman’s eyes—and kept them.
Cora’s did. She watched him far too long.
From the doorway, Aunt Zhang quietly drifted back. Austin joined her a beat later.
“Master Julian’s early,” she whispered. “He never leaves before close.”
“Going forward,” Austin murmured, eyes on the piano, “he probably won’t be working late.”
Julian’s fingers shifted without pause, sliding into the melody she’d been singing on the balcony that morning—I’m Yours. Cora’s head snapped toward him, startled, then—unable to help herself—she slipped in on the next breath, voice light and clear:
So I won’t hesitate no more, no more…
Piano and voice braided together. For once, the house fell into an easy hush: staff pausing in doorways, a couple of stunned smiles, Aunt Zhang stealth-recording a ten-second clip for the family chat. Someone would show it to the matriarch within the hour.
When the last chord faded, Julian glanced over. “If you hate the piano,” he said mildly, “why learn it?”
Cora was still smiling from the song. “Most of my life has been… chosen for me,” she answered softly. “So I try to do things well—at home, at work—because there isn’t really a choice.”
His gaze sharpened. “So you’ll also do your wife’s duties—well?”
The smile dimmed. Her lashes lowered, hiding the small ache that crossed her face. Motherhood. Marriage. Both had happened to her.
Julian saw it. The careful, dutiful smile that didn’t reach her eyes landed like a pinprick he couldn’t ignore.
Damn it. Why did it feel like pity gouged at him?
The music cut off mid-phrase. He stood. “Dinner.”
He should have walked away. Instead, the way she’d said no choice followed him down the hall.
⸻
They ate facing one another across a table set to impress: linen, crystal, candlelight. Warm towels arrived; Cora wiped her hands with the exact etiquette Aunt Zhang had drilled into her that afternoon.
She was starving—pregnancy made sure of it—but she kept the pace Aunt Zhang had shown her: small bites, quiet movements. Watching her try so hard tugged something loose in him and—annoyingly—cooled what was left of his temper.
A single look to Aunt Zhang; a subtle nod to the maid. Cora’s plate changed; a fillet replaced by a petite steak.
“Don’t want Western tonight?” he asked.
“It’s fine,” she said.
His eyes rested on her a moment. “No more Western this week,” he told Aunt Zhang.
The housekeeper almost swallowed a gasp. He loved the chef’s steak. But she flicked her fingers, and within minutes the table shifted: porcelain, steam, and the quick, clean perfume of ginger and greens. Backup menus, always ready.
Cora stared. They keep whole extra dinners on standby?
Wealth really did mean never having to commit.
She lifted the chopsticks she’d practiced with all day, caught a tender baby bok choy heart, and tasted. The flavor bloomed—simple, perfect. She didn’t hide her pleasure.
Julian’s mouth eased. The chef would get the note: keep the hearts.
He placed a sliver of bamboo shoot in her bowl. She paused—conscious of the eyes, his most of all—and ate it dutifully.
When she glanced up, he was watching her again, unreadable. Was he… annoyed? Over what? She’d been obedient all evening.
Is it because he served me and I didn’t… Ridiculous. He had a notorious thing about germs.
Still, she reached, braced herself, and set a piece of orange-peel chicken into his bowl. “This one smells… good.”
The hint of satisfaction in his eyes was immediate. He ate it without hesitation.
Around them, jaws hit the floor in silence. Master Julian. Eating food placed with her chopsticks. The legend of his immaculate standards wobbled and quietly fell.
Cora kept her gaze down, finishing quickly. Aunt Zhang noticed and lifted a hand. “Slowly, Madam. Bring the tonic.”
A covered porcelain tureen arrived, fragrant and rich. The first breath of steam turned Cora’s stomach. She went pale, hand to her mouth, turning away.
“Switch it.” Julian’s brows knit. “And don’t make that again.”
“Yes, sir.” The soup vanished.
When the air cleared, color crept back into her face. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean—”
“Milk,” he said.
Since discovering she could only stomach a certain kind, he’d had the pantry swapped out—Japanese fresh milk flown in, always on hand.
Cora wrapped her fingers around the warm glass, then, almost unconsciously, laid her other palm over the small curve of her belly. The life there was still so new, so fragile—and somehow, in this house, treated like a crown jewel.
For once, she didn’t feel entirely alone at the table.