Chapter16 God help me
Chloe
"Grandmother," Julian said, his arm sliding around my waist. "This is my wife, Chloe Harrison Astor."
Matilda's sharp blue eyes traveled from my carefully styled hair to the Dior gown Julian had picked out—deep blue velvet that hugged every curve I'd worked so hard to reclaim. Her gaze lingered on our joined hands.
Then she stepped forward and took my hand in both of hers. "Chloe, welcome to the Astor family. Contract or not, Julian rarely brings anyone home. You must be very special to him."
The kindness in her voice caught me off guard.
For a moment, I was transported back—my biological father Robert, dying before I could call him "Dad." My mother Margaret, fighting cancer in a ward I couldn't afford.
My eyes burned. I blinked hard. "Thank you, Mrs. Astor."
"Call me Matilda." She patted my hand, understanding flickering in her eyes. "Come. The family is waiting."
---
The main hall was overwhelming.
Julian never let go of my hand, his fingers laced through mine with unmistakable possession.
The room filled with ten, maybe fifteen family members in designer evening wear. Conversation died when we entered. Every eye turned toward our joined hands.
Julian's grip tightened. This was his family, and he was making a statement—one that required no words at all.
A middle-aged man stepped forward. "Julian. So this is the mysterious bride."
"My wife," Julian corrected, his arm sliding around my waist, hand settling possessively at my hip. "Chloe, this is my uncle Charles."
Names blurred together—cousins, aunts, uncles. They were all watching, cataloging every gesture. Some looked curious, others jealous, a few openly hostile.
But none dared challenge Julian's claim on me.
Grandmother Matilda gestured toward the dining room. The table was set in a U-shape, Matilda at the head. She indicated seats on either side—me on her left, Julian on her right, facing each other across the width.
I sank into my chair, hands twisting the napkin until my knuckles turned white. Julian's amber eyes locked onto mine, and the intensity made my breath catch.
"Relax, child," Matilda said gently. "This is just a family dinner, not an inquisition."
But that was exactly what it felt like.
The first courses arrived—delicate French fare for everyone else. But when servers set Julian's plates down, I nearly choked.
Raw oysters on the half shell—at least a dozen, glistening obscenely on ice. Grilled asparagus drizzled with truffle oil. A thick, rare ribeye steak, so red it was practically bleeding. Roasted figs wrapped in prosciutto. And a bowl of creamy lobster bisque.
It was a textbook menu of aphrodisiac foods.
I pressed my lips together, fighting a smile. A dark flush crept up Julian's neck, staining the sharp line of his jaw.
Around the table, his cousins were trying not to laugh.
His gaze snapped to mine, and the look could have melted steel. Heat. Promise. A warning that made my pulse spike.
Slowly, deliberately, he picked up an oyster shell and tipped it back, swallowing in one smooth motion. He stared at me the entire time, his throat working. When he dabbed his mouth with his napkin, the gesture was almost obscene.
"Julian," Matilda said mildly, "I had the kitchen prepare these especially for you. You've been working too hard."
She paused, glancing at me with a knowing smile. "Marriage requires energy, after all. Isn't that right, Chloe?"
I choked on my wine. Julian's fingers tightened around his glass, knuckles going white, but his eyes flashed with something between murder and dark amusement.
The tension built with every glance, every accidental brush of fingers.
Julian leaned forward to pass me a towel. "You have sauce on your lip," he murmured.
I reached for it, but his fingers didn't release immediately. Instead, they brushed against mine—deliberate, electric. His thumb grazed my palm, drawing a small circle.
I snatched my hand back. When I dabbed at my mouth—there was no sauce—I could feel his attention on me like a physical weight.
"Chloe," Julian said, his voice dropping an octave. "Your project analysis today was excellent."
It was the first time he'd mentioned work in front of his family.
Matilda's smile deepened. "Julian rarely compliments anyone." She paused. "But work isn't everything. You must take care of him, too. A man needs a gentle wife to help him relax."
I nearly died on the spot.
Before I could respond, I started coughing. Julian was on his feet instantly, one hand pressing against my back in soothing circles, the other offering his water glass.
He leaned down, his lips so close to my ear I could feel the warmth of his breath. "Wait for me tonight," he whispered.
My coughing stopped abruptly. I froze, staring up at him.
He straightened, his expression coolly composed as he returned to his seat. But the promise in his eyes remained, burning through me.
Around the table, family members exchanged knowing glances. Matilda's smile was triumphant.
When dinner ended, Matilda rose. "That's all for tonight. Julian, Chloe—head home and rest. Young people shouldn't work themselves to exhaustion."
Julian crossed to me, pulling me to my feet. Then, in front of everyone, he pressed a kiss to my forehead. Gentle, possessive, devastating.
His lips brushed my ear again. "Tonight, I won't hold back."
---
The car ride home was silent.
Julian sat beside me, his presence overwhelming in the confined space. I could feel the heat radiating from him, smell his cologne mixed with something darker, more primal.
My hands gripped my clutch until my knuckles ached. The memory of his words echoed—Tonight, I won't hold back.
When he took my hand, his palm was burning hot.
"Don't be afraid," he said quietly. "I'll be gentle."
God help me.
The Rolls-Royce glided through the Hollywood Hills, night wrapping around us like velvet.
Julian sat beside me, his hand resting on my knee through the fabric of my gown. His thumb traced slow circles that made my breath hitch.
I couldn't look at him. If I did, I'd lose what little composure I had left.
"You know what my grandmother meant tonight, don't you?" His voice was low, intimate, meant only for me.
My face burned. I stared out the window at the glittering lights of Los Angeles spread below. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."
His hand slid higher, fingers trailing up my thigh. "Don't lie to me, Chloe."
I pressed my palm over his, stopping the movement before I combusted entirely. "Wait... wait until we get home. The driver—"
"Doesn't care." Julian leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "But I'll wait. Because when I finally have you, I want to take my time."
My heart hammered so hard I was certain he could hear it.
This would be our first time—the first time I'd be fully present, fully aware. The first time I'd actually remember. That night a year ago was a blur of shame and drugged confusion, something that happened to me rather than something I chose.
But tonight... tonight I wanted this. Wanted him.
I forced myself to breathe, to think past the heat pooling low in my belly. I wanted this to be perfect. Not rushed in a car, not fumbled in the dark. I wanted to remember every moment, every touch, every whispered word.
But the nervousness coiled tight in my chest. What if I wasn't enough? What if he'd been with women who knew what they were doing, who were more experienced, more confident?
I stole a glance at Julian. His profile was sharp in the dim light, all angles and shadows, his jaw set with tension. Had he been with other women? Of course he had. A man like him—would he be patient with me? Would he really be gentle, like he'd promised?
And the scars on my body—would he notice them? Would he ask questions I wasn't ready to answer?
"Chloe."
I jumped. His gaze found mine in the darkness, searching, intense.
"Do you have any scars?"