The Invitation
1259 Words
Chapter 8
Ethel's POV
I stared at my phone, reading the message for the third time.
Lyke: Dinner tonight at my place. Don't say no.
My thumb hovered over the screen. We'd been married for three days. Three days of distance, separate bedrooms, barely speaking except when necessary. And now he wanted dinner?
The phone buzzed again.
Lyke: I know what you're thinking but the tabloids are watching. Newlyweds who avoid each other look suspicious. We need to sell this. Plus, you haven't eaten a proper meal since you moved in.
He wasn't wrong. I'd been living on coffee and whatever I could find in his mostly empty kitchen. Takeout containers and protein bars.
I typed back: Why your place? Why not a restaurant?
His response came immediately: Because I don't trust restaurants right now. Too many reporters looking for a story. My place is private and safe.
I typed: Fine. I would see you by 7PM.
Good. Wear something comfortable. He said.
I set the phone down and immediately regretted agreeing. What was I thinking? Dinner alone with Lyke felt dangerous in a way I couldn't say. Not physically dangerous, he'd been nothing but professional but something else. Something that made my pulse quicken when he was near.
Stop it, I told myself firmly. This is a business arrangement. Nothing more.
But as I opened my closet, I couldn't help the nervous flutter in my stomach.
The closet was a disaster.
I'd brought almost nothing from the house I'd shared with Morris just the clothes I'd packed the night of my arrest. Jeans, sweaters, a few basic tops. Nothing appropriate for dinner with my fake husband.
Nothing that said I'm a woman who definitely isn't falling for the man she's contractually bound to.
I pulled out a simple black dress which was the only nice thing I owned. It was fitted, hitting just above my knees, with long sleeves. I was still debating whether it was too much or not enough when the doorbell rang.
My heart jumped. I took a quick peek at my phone and saw it was only 5:30. Lyke wasn't supposed to be here.
I grabbed a robe and rushed to the door, pulling it closed around me.
A delivery man stood there, holding a large box. "Ethel Ashford?"
The name still sounded foreign. "Yes."
"Delivery for you. Sign here, please."
I scrawled my signature, my new still unfamiliar signature and took the box. It was surprisingly light.
Inside my room, I opened it carefully to see tissue paper. Lots of it and underneath was a dress.
It was a deep red silk, with a neckline that was lower than I usually wore, but not scandalous. The fabric looked expensive, the kind that would drape perfectly.
My phone buzzed again.
Lyke: Do you like it? I had to guess your size. If it doesn't fit, there's a backup in the smaller box.
I found the second box, sure enough, there was another dress. This was navy blue, and slightly more conservative.
I texted back: You didn't have to do this.
I know, but you've been wearing the same three sweaters for days. I figured you might want options.
The observation made me flush. He'd noticed.
How did you know my size? I texted back.
It's my bad habit.
Despite myself, I smiled because the red dress fit perfectly.
I stood in front of the mirror, hardly recognizing myself. The woman looking back was elegant and well put-together. Not the terrified girl who'd been arrested. Not the widow still processing her husband's death.
Someone new. Someone I didn't quite know yet.
I was attempting to do something with my hair when the doorbell rang again.
This time, I knew who it was.
I opened the door to find Lyke standing there, and I gasped.
He wore dark slacks and a black button-down, the sleeves rolled to his elbows with no tie. His hair was slightly less perfect than usual, like he'd run his hands through it. He looked... different. Less like the polished attorney, more like a man.
His eyes widened when he saw me. "You wore the red one!!"
"The blue one seemed too safe." The words came out before I could stop them.
Something flickered in his expression. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you." I felt heat creep up my neck. "You look... nice."
Nice? I sounded like an i***t.
But he smiled. "Nice. I'll take it." He pulled something from his pocket. "I have something else for you. Close your eyes."
"What? Why?"
"Just trust me. Close your eyes."
I hesitated, then did as he asked. I felt him step closer, felt the warmth of his body near mine. Then something cool settled against my throat—delicate and light.
"Okay. Open."
I opened my eyes and caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. A necklace. Simple silver chain with a small pendant that was a compass.
"So you always find your way home," Lyke said quietly.
The gesture was so unexpectedly thoughtful that I couldn't speak for a moment.
"It's beautiful," I managed.
"It matches the dress." He stepped back, creating distance again. "Ready to go?"
I grabbed my purse, suddenly nervous. "Where exactly is 'your place'? I thought this was your place."
"This is the penthouse I use for work. I have another place which is more private and where I actually live." He held out his hand. "Come on. I promise I'm not a serial killer."
"That's exactly what a serial killer would say."
He laughed—a real laugh that transformed his face. "Fair point but you're already legally bound to me, so you might as well risk it."
I took his hand and he led me to the car.
The car ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Lyke drove through the city with music blasting through the speakers before eventually pulling up to a building I didn't recognize. It was smaller than the penthouse.
"This is where you live?" I asked as we rode the elevator up.
"When I'm not working, yes. The penthouse is convenient for the office, but this is... home." He unlocked a door on the eighth floor. "It's not much."
He was lying. The apartment was beautiful with warm hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, with velvet drapes furnitures. He had books everywhere and art on the walls that looked original.
"Not much?" I turned to him. "This is gorgeous."
"It's comfortable." He shrugged and moved to the kitchen, which was open to the living area. "Make yourself at home. Wine?"
"Please."
He poured two glasses and handed me one. Our fingers brushed, and I felt that spark again.
"So," I said, trying to sound casual. "You're really cooking?"
"I really am." He opened the refrigerator, pulling out ingredients. "My grandmother taught me. She said a man who can't feed himself is useless."
"Wise woman."
"She was." Something sad crossed his face. "She died two years ago of heart attack."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too." He set salmon fillets on the counter, fresh ginger, green onions. "She would have liked you."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're stubborn. She appreciated people who didn't back down." He pulled out a cutting board.
I settled onto a stool at the kitchen island, watching him work. He moved like a real chef would.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Anything."
"Why did you really help me? I need the truth. Not the inheritance story."
Lyke was quiet for a moment, mincing ginger. "You want the real answer?"
"Yes please."
- Writer
