My Father’s Wife Chapter 06

My Father’s Wife Chapter 06

Clara’s POV

I followed Arthur to the front door to see him off.

He kissed my cheek, muttered another apology about the ruined weekend, and hurried out to his car.

When the sound of his engine finally faded down the gravel driveway, the house plunged into a heavy, echoing silence.

I walked back into the kitchen.

Julian was already gone. His empty juice glass was the only proof he’d been there at all.

Silently, I set about clearing the table, focusing entirely on the routine of wiping down the granite counters and loading the dishwasher. I needed something—anything—to keep my hands from shaking.

Once the kitchen was spotless, I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee and stepped into the sunroom.

For the next two hours, I just sat there. I watched the fog slowly roll in over the trees, listening to the quiet hum of the refrigerator and enjoying a rare, uninterrupted pocket of personal time.

Without Arthur’s schedule or Julian’s suffocating gaze, I could finally breathe.

But the peace didn’t last.

The heavy wooden door to the basement office clicked open.

Julian came up the stairs, rubbing a hand contractually over his neck.

Arthur had kept him down there for three hours sorting old tax receipts.

He had tossed his shirt somewhere. His bare torso was shiny with cellar sweat, smelling of damp concrete and skin.

He didn’t look at me, but he didn’t go around me either. He passed so close his wet shoulder dragged a line of moisture across my bare arm.

Ring.

My phone rattled against the granite counter.

It was Arthur. I hit speaker.

“Clara? The security company just flagged a sensor fault on the lower deck. Is the door shut?”

“It’s shut, Arthur,” I said.

Julian stopped at the fridge. He didn’t open it. He just turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine over his bare shoulder.

“The main system needs to be armed before the fog rolls in,” Arthur’s voice was flat, perfectly routine. “Did Julian finish those logs?”

Julian walked over. He didn’t make a sound.

He stepped directly into my space, his heavy thigh crowding mine against the lower cabinets.

He reached out, his large, calloused hand wrapping firmly around the back of my neck. His palm was scorching hot.

“Tell him I finished,” Julian whispered, his lips practically touching the microphone of the phone.

I choked on my breath. His thumb pressed into the soft skin right under my jaw, forcing my head back.

“Clara? Did you hear me?” Arthur asked through the speaker.

Julian’s eyes were pitch-black, dilated, staring down into mine with a wicked, heavy intensity. He deliberately leaned his weight forward, his bare, damp chest crushing against my chest.

“He’s… he’s done, Arthur,” I forced out, my pulse slamming against Julian’s thumb. “Everything is locked.”

“Good. I’ll check in tomorrow.”

The line clicked dead.

Julian didn’t let go. His fingers tightened in my hair, pulling just enough to make my lips part.

“Good girl,” he murmured against my mouth.

My breath came in ragged, sharp gasps. “Don’t. Get away from me.”

Julian stumbled back a step. He didn’t look angry.

He just wiped his lower lip with the back of his hand, a slow, mocking smirk spreading across his face.

“Suit yourself, stepmom,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that gravelly, unbothered register.

He picked up his water glass, turned his back, and walked down the hall without looking behind him.

For the next twenty-four hours, the house was a vacuum.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t touch.

When we passed each other in the narrow kitchen or the sunroom, we looked straight ahead, acting like ghosts sharing a mausoleum.

But every time the fabric of my dress brushed my own leg, my skin remembered the friction of his dark hair.

The next evening, Arthur’s Lincoln Navigator pulled into the gravel driveway.

Arthur came inside, smelling of the city and expensive cigars, complaining about the Q3 projection numbers.

He didn’t notice the static electricity vibrating between his son and his wife.

The summer gear was packed back into the trunk, the chassis groaning exactly the same way under the weight.

We drove back to Greenwich in total silence, the hum of the highway swallowing the sound of our breathing.

The vacation was over. The routine was back.