Chapter 73
Ellie's POV
Lunch or dinner with someone felt casual, social. But breakfast? Breakfast was different. Breakfast was what you did with family. With people you woke up to. With someone who knew how you looked before you'd fully assembled yourself for the day.
And here I was, hair still damp from the shower, minimal makeup, wearing yoga pants and an oversized CVU hoodie, while Jackson sat across from me looking perfectly put-together but somehow equally relaxed. Like this wasn't unusual at all.
This feels domestic, Thalia murmured, and I couldn't tell if she was warning me or approving.
"You okay?" Jackson asked, and I realized I'd been quiet for too long.
"Yeah, just..." I gestured vaguely at the table, the garden view, the casual intimacy of it all. "This is nice. Different."
"Different how?"
I hesitated, then decided honesty was fair after everything. "Breakfast feels more... personal than other meals. Like something you do with people you're close to."
Something shifted in Jackson's expression—a flicker of warmth, maybe hope. "Is that a bad thing?"
"No," I said quickly. Too quickly. "No, it's just... I'm noticing it, that's all."
His lips curved into a small smile. "I'm noticing it too."
The air between us felt charged suddenly, awareness humming beneath the surface. Not uncomfortable, but definitely there. I took a sip of orange juice just to have something to do with my hands.
"For the record," Jackson said softly, "I like having breakfast with you. It feels right."
My heart did something complicated in my chest. "It does," I admitted. "Which is probably something we should talk about. Eventually."
"Eventually," he agreed. "But not right now. Right now, eat your eggs before they get cold."
I laughed, and just like that, the tension eased. But the warmth remained—that domestic, intimate feeling that made this feel less like a professional trip and more like something I couldn't quite name yet.
We needed to find something appropriate for the appreciation lunch, which meant shopping. Nordstrom's women's section was all soft lighting and elegant displays. Jackson sat on the waiting area sofa outside the fitting rooms, scrolling through his phone while I tried on dresses.
I stepped out in a deep blue sheath dress—simple, elegant, hitting just above the knee. Jackson looked up, and something flickered across his face before he schooled it into a neutral smile.
"That works," he said. "Matches the semi-formal requirement for the lunch."
I was about to respond when a familiar voice cut through the air.
"Well, isn't this cozy."
Samantha stood near the designer handbag display, shopping bags dangling from one arm. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, makeup flawless. But her eyes—cold, calculating—fixed on me with laser focus.
"So this is your 'dance partnership,'" she continued, voice dripping false sweetness. "Weekend getaways, shopping trips?"
Jackson rose smoothly, positioning himself between Samantha and the fitting rooms. "Ms. Grey. This is private time. Please respect boundaries."
Samantha's laugh was sharp. "Boundaries? That's rich, coming from Ellie. She's the queen of crossing lines." Her gaze cut to me. "Lucas came back last night looking devastated. What did you say to him?"
I stepped fully out of the fitting room, meeting her stare. The dress suddenly felt like armor. "Samantha, Lucas came to me. Not the other way around. If you have questions about his behavior, maybe you should ask him instead of following us to shopping centers."
Her face flushed. For a second, she looked genuinely shocked—caught. Then rage replaced surprise.
"I wasn't—I didn't follow—" She fumbled for words. "I just happened to be shopping—"
"Shopping an hour away from campus?" Jackson's voice was ice. "When there are three department stores within five kilometers of school?"
Samantha's mouth opened. Closed. Her hands clenched around her shopping bags, knuckles white.
"You need to leave," Jackson said quietly. "Now."
She shot me one last look—pure venom—before spinning on her heel and stalking toward the escalators. But not before I caught her pulling out her phone, fingers flying across the screen.
She's going to make this worse, Thalia warned. Spread more poison.
Probably. But I couldn't control that.
Jackson turned to me, expression softening. "You okay?"
I nodded slowly, looking at my reflection in the three-way mirror. The blue brought out my amber eyes. The cut made me stand straighter. "I think I'll take this dress."
His lips curved. "Not because someone else would approve of it?"
"No." I met his gaze in the mirror. "Because I feel confident in it. Because when I look at myself, I see someone who knows what she wants."
Jackson's smile widened. "Then it's perfect."
The Cadillac hummed along the coastal highway on our way back to the hotel, ocean glittering to our left. Jackson's hands were relaxed on the steering wheel, but I could sense something on his mind.
"You should know," he said carefully, "today's lunch isn't just the Dance Society and project team. Isabelle will be there as the Martinez family representative overseeing the health center project."
My stomach flipped slightly. "Your cousin. The Alpha's daughter."
"Yeah." He glanced at me. "She's professional, but she'll probably want to talk to you. About the performance, about your background. Maybe about..." He paused. "About why I chose you as my dance partner for something this important."
I processed that. "You mean she'll want to assess whether I'm trustworthy. Whether I know what you are."
Jackson's jaw tightened. "She's protective. Of me, of the family. But I need you to understand something, Ellie." He pulled into the hotel parking lot but didn't immediately turn off the engine. "I chose to bring you into this. I chose to share my truth with you. If anyone—Isabelle included—makes you feel like you have to prove yourself or be something you're not, tell me. Immediately."
His amber eyes held mine—open, honest, fierce.
"This isn't another cage," he continued. "You can walk away from this lunch, from this project, from me, anytime you need to. No guilt. No manipulation. Just freedom to choose."
My throat felt tight. "You really mean that."
"I really mean that."
I sat there for a moment, feeling the pre-moon hum in my blood, the weight of the past twenty-four hours pressing on my shoulders. But Jackson's promise—you can walk away—felt like oxygen after being underwater.
"Okay," I said finally. "I'll go to the lunch. I'll meet Isabelle properly. But Jackson?"
"Yeah?"
"If I feel controlled—if anyone makes me feel like I'm being evaluated for something I didn't sign up for—I'm leaving."
His smile was small but genuine. "Deal."