His To Ruin

Chapter 4 - The Morning After

She woke to the smell of coffee and the weight of being watched.

Jaime didn't open her eyes immediately. She listened first. The distant hum of central air. The soft click of a ceramic mug against wood. And breathing — slow, measured, male.

Leo's breathing.

Last night came back in fragments. His voice low against her throat. The bargain sealed not with a handshake but with her surrender. The way he'd said good girl like it was a brand.

She opened her eyes.

Leo sat in an armchair across the room, fully dressed — dark trousers, a navy sweater, hair still damp from a shower. A cup of coffee rested on his knee. His gray eyes were fixed on her like she was a contract he was still reviewing.

"You sleep like the dead," he said.

Jaime pushed herself up. The sheet fell to her waist. She didn't cover herself. Not out of boldness — out of exhaustion. Last night had taken everything.

"What time is it?"

"Seven. The house wakes at eight. You need to be in the guest house before then."

No good morning. No how do you feel.

She should have expected that.

Jaime swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her body ached in places that felt like souvenirs. She found her underwear tangled in the sheets, her dress draped over a lamp.

"You could have woken me," she said.

"I'm waking you now."

She pulled the dress over her head. No bra. No time. Leo watched every movement without apology. His coffee never touched his lips.

At the door, she paused.

"Is that it?"

He tilted his head. "Is what it?"

"The morning after." She gestured between them. "No conversation? No this doesn't mean anything speech? Just... leave before the staff sees?"

Leo set his mug down. Stood. Walked toward her with that slow, predatory ease that made her thighs press together even when she hated him for it.

He stopped inches away. Didn't touch her.

"Do you need a speech, Jaime?"

"No."

"Do you need me to pretend this is romantic?"

"No."

"Then go." His voice dropped. "And tonight, same time. Don't knock."

She should have walked out. Should have slammed the door and spent the day convincing herself she could still say no.

Instead: "What if I want to knock?"

Something flickered in his eyes. Not annoyance. Interest.

"Then you're not paying attention."

He opened the door for her. A clear dismissal.

Jaime stepped into the hallway. Barefoot, dress wrinkled, lipstick long gone. She made it three steps before he spoke again.

"Jaime."

She turned.

Leo leaned against the doorframe. Casual. Devastating.

"You looked good on your knees."

He closed the door.

She stood there for ten seconds. Twenty. Then she walked to the guest house, heart pounding, already counting hours until midnight.

The guest house was cold.

Jaime showered. Changed into jeans and a sweater that wasn't her mother's idea of presentable. Stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

You looked good on your knees.

She should be offended. Humiliated. Instead, she replayed his voice like a song she couldn't stop humming.

At 8:15, a knock.

She opened the door to a silver tray left on the step. Fresh coffee. Pastries. A single white orchid in a glass vial. No note.

The Ashfords didn't do notes. They did messages.

We know you're here. We're watching.

Jaime ate the pastry anyway. Drank the coffee. Left the orchid on the windowsill like a warning.

By noon, the estate was fully awake.

Jaime wandered into the main house, still learning its geography. Hallways that led to other hallways. Rooms no one used. Paintings that probably cost more than her mother's wedding dress.

She found the library by accident.

And found Leo's sister inside.

Camilla Ashford was twenty-four, blonde, and sharp in a way that suggested she'd been biting since birth. She sat on a leather chaise, phone in hand, legs crossed. When Jaime entered, Camilla didn't look up.

"The guest house not comfortable enough?" Camilla asked.

"It's fine."

"Fine isn't the Ashford standard." She finally glanced up. "But you wouldn't know that yet."

Jaime held her ground. "Is there something you need?"

Camilla smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.

"I'm just curious. My brother doesn't bring people home. Ever. And yet here you are — the bride's sad-eyed daughter — sleeping in his wing of the house."

"I'm sleeping in the guest house."

"Are you?"

The question hung there. Jaime felt it like a wire across her throat.

"I don't know what you're implying," Jaime said carefully.

Camilla stood. Walked past her, close enough that her perfume — something floral and expensive — lingered.

"I'm not implying anything," Camilla said at the door. "I'm observing. Like you do."

She left.

Jaime stood alone in the library, heart hammering. Camilla didn't know. Couldn't know. But she suspected. And suspicion in a house like this was just evidence waiting to happen.

That evening, family dinner.

Richard at the head of the table. Clara beside him, glowing, pretending she'd always belonged here. Leo at Richard's right hand. Camilla across from him. And Jaime at the far end — a visitor in her own mother's new life.

The conversation was all business. Richard talked about a zoning deal. Leo responded in monosyllables. Clara nodded at everything.

Under the table, Jaime felt a hand on her knee.

She didn't flinch.

Leo's fingers rested there — not moving, just present. A reminder. I'm here. You're mine.

She kept her face neutral. Fork to mouth. Chew. Swallow. Across the table, Camilla watched everything.

Richard turned to Jaime. "How are you finding the estate?"

"Overwhelming," she said honestly.

Richard laughed. Clara smiled tightly. Leo's fingers pressed slightly harder into her knee.

"We'll find you a hobby," Richard said. "Golf. Tennis. Something to keep you busy."

"I wait tables," Jaime said. "Back home. I'll probably find a restaurant here."

The table went quiet.

Clara's smile froze. Richard blinked. Camilla's eyes glittered with amusement.

Leo's hand didn't move.

"Well," Richard said finally, "we'll discuss that later."

No one said welcome to the family. But everyone thought it.

After dinner, Jaime walked back to the guest house.

Her phone buzzed.

Leo: Midnight. My room. Don't be late.

She typed back: What if I am?

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then:

Leo: Then I'll come find you.

She set the phone down. Changed into what he'd requested last night — black lace, nothing else. Sat on the edge of her bed and waited for the hours to pass.

At 11:55, she walked to the main house.

She didn't knock.