Chapter 46: A Night to Clear Our Heads

“About the chairman and his wife…” Cora set down her spoon. “What’s the plan?”

“What plan is left?” Julian’s mouth tipped wryly.

“I could try,” she ventured. “I think the wife liked me. Maybe that’s our opening.” She hesitated, then pushed through. “It was my mess too. If this falls apart because of me, I won’t sleep.”

“Do what you can—don’t break yourself doing it.” He’d meant to refuse, then thought better of it. Let her move. Let her mind have less room for pain.

The butler, listening from the doorway, bowed and slipped out, quietly pleased.

Dinner remained calm—oddly gentle after the day they’d had. When they finished, Cora stood automatically, ready to retreat to bed.

“You slept half the afternoon,” Julian said, blotting his mouth with a linen napkin. “You’ll toss all night. First time in Linzhou, right? Come on. I’ll take you out.”

He paused, then added—almost awkwardly, as if to justify the softness—“Fresh air is good for the baby.”

She heard what he was doing—we’re doing this for the child—and nodded. Fine. Let it be for the child.

He looked…unreasonably happy at her yes.

She changed, grabbed the handbag her assistant had matched to tonight’s clothes, and stepped outside as his car slid to the curb. He glanced back and smiled, easy and devastating, and she felt the night air loosen something in her chest.

“Got a favorite label?” he asked, steering toward the river of light. “Linzhou gets the earliest drops.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because Watson releases half of them,” he said, laughter in his voice.

Right. She kept forgetting—fashion was only one of the empires he ran.

“I’m good,” she said, honest. “There’s already a lot at home.”

His fingers tapped the leather-wrapped wheel, then turned decisively. They pulled up to a Watson flagship—four floors of glass and light. The store manager nearly tripped over her own feet when they walked in.

“Mr. Watson—” She’d heard he was in town. She’d not imagined this.

Julian’s presence changed the room’s temperature. Staff lined up, polished smiles snapping into place. No one addressed Cora; headquarters people were fortresses when it came to gossip.

“This season’s collection…” He glanced at Cora, and his gaze snagged on her narrow waist, the curve that shouldn’t have been there yet—subtle, but his. His voice dropped a fraction. “Smallest sizes. Box them all.”

“Right away, sir.” The manager snapped her fingers and half a dozen associates scattered with military purpose.

Jealousy glimmered behind their training. Whoever she was to him, she mattered. Tonight, that would be enough of a legend to dine on.

“Walk around,” Julian told Cora, softer now. “First floor is ready-to-wear. Bags on two. Shoes on three. We’re already out—don’t you dare save me money.”

She smiled for real. “In that case, I’ll be reckless.”

“Other houses, too,” he added. “I won’t be offended.”

She drifted through the displays. Two associates shadowed her, murmuring facts about fabrics and cuts. Cora nodded, touching, not choosing.

A shirt stopped her. Pale sky-blue, the exact color that gentled his eyes when he wasn’t wearing a mask.

This afternoon, she’d cried into his white shirt until it was a ruin.

She pointed. “That one… Jule, what size are you?”

The associates blinked, twin owls. Jule?

Julian’s mouth curved. “They know my sizes. Bring it in my fit; I’ll try it on.”

It was the first time she’d suggested buying him something—even if she was buying from his own brand. He stood there in the middle of the salon and shrugged off his jacket, then his shirt, unbothered by the collective intake of breath. He buttoned the blue one and turned to her.

“How is it?”

“Good,” she said simply. On him, a sack would look couture.

“I’ll wear it out,” he told the manager, who was now visibly fighting to remain upright.

Cora noticed the collar sitting wrong and, without thinking, rose on her toes to fix it. He let his hands fall, watching her—watching the concentration in her eyes, the gentleness of her fingers. He was about to say something when a bright, practiced voice cut across the space.

“Well, what are the odds! Mr. Watson—fancy seeing you here.”

Cora turned, and recognition slid into place. A familiar face was walking toward them, smile gleaming like a knife.