Chapter 3 - The Rehearsal of Normalcy
For a masterclass in domestic espionage, the setting was remarkably mundane: an artisan bakery in Lincoln Park smelling of roasted hazelnut coffee and warm cinnamon.
It was our third "planning session" in eight days. Across the small zinc-topped table, James was wearing a tailored charcoal wool coat over a heather-gray cashmere sweater. Without the three-piece armor of his law office, he looked younger, more relaxed, and infinitely more dangerous. Women at neighboring tables kept stealing glances at him over their ceramic mugs, drawn by that effortless, commanding presence that some men carry like a second skin.
"Rule number four," James said, stirring a spoonful of raw sugar into his espresso with meticulous rhythm. "My favorite food isn't steak. It’s dry-aged duck breast with cherry reduction, but to your father, I am a medium-rare ribeye man who appreciates a cold craft IPA. Nothing French. Nothing that sounds pretentious. Your dad is a blue-collar union guy who spent forty years at the Ford assembly plant. If I walk in talking like a corporate litigator, his guard will be up before the appetizers hit the table."
I stared at him, my spoon hovering over my yogurt parfait. "How do you know my dad worked at Ford?"
James met my gaze, his gray eyes sparkling with quiet amusement. "Maya, I spent twenty-four hours doing a full background audit on your family before I agreed to this. I know your father retired four years ago with a pension that Britney has already managed to tap for twelve thousand dollars under the guise of 'restarting her life.' I know your mother runs the altar guild at St. Jude’s and has a soft spot for men who remember to complement her hydrangeas. And I know your sister currently has eight credit cards maxed out and owes her previous divorce attorney twenty-two thousand dollars in unpaid legal fees."
A chill ran down my arms. "You investigated them?"
"I don't walk into an ambush without knowing the terrain," he said simply. He reached across the table, took my left hand in his, and turned it over, tracing the lines of my palm with his thumb.
The touch was warm, casual, and completely natural. My heart did a sudden, traitorous flip in my chest.
"You're stiffening," James murmured, not breaking eye contact. "Your pulse just jumped. Why?"
"I'm... not used to men holding my hand like they mean it," I admitted, looking down at his long, elegant fingers intertwined with mine. "With Mark, it always felt like an audition. With my other exes, it felt like I was holding onto something that was already slipping through my fingers."
James tightened his grip slightly, his thumb resting over my knuckle. "Mark was an amateur who lacked basic discipline. And your previous boyfriends were weak men who mistook Britney’s desperation for desire. When a woman like your sister targets a man, she doesn't use brilliance or beauty. She uses vulnerability. She offers them an ego massage without consequences. Weak men fold under that every single time."
"And you?" I asked, looking up into his sharp gray eyes. "You're telling me you're immune?"
"I spend my life in courtrooms listening to people lie to me with their right hands on the Bible, Maya," he said softly. "I’ve seen billionaires cry over golf courses and sociopaths smile like angels. Britney’s playbook is written in large print with simple vocabulary. To me, she’s not a temptress. She’s an open file with a predictable conclusion."
He released my hand, pulled his phone from his coat, and slid it across the table toward me.
"Look at the screen," he said.
I looked down. It was an Instagram post from my own account, published twenty minutes earlier. It was a photograph James had taken of me laughing while holding an umbrella against the light drizzle outside the Art Institute. My hair was windblown, my cheeks flushed, and my eyes genuinely bright with laughter—an image of a woman who was carefree, happy, and thoroughly adored.
Tagged in the post was James’s private handle, showing only his forearm resting on the table beside my hand, his steel watch catching the light, and a simple caption: *“Rainy afternoons are better with you.”*
"Britney viewed your story six minutes after you posted it," James remarked, taking a sip of his coffee. "And your mother commented four minutes later asking if that was the 'new young man' she’d heard about."
"She’s salivating," I murmured, a mixture of dread and satisfaction curdling in my stomach. "Britney doesn't follow me on social media unless she thinks I have something she wants to measure herself against. By tonight, she’ll have searched your handle, found nothing because it’s private, and spent the entire evening imagining what kind of man drives a woman like me to look that happy."
"Good," James said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "Let her imagination do the heavy lifting. Narcissists always project their own desires onto blank canvases."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping into that low, magnetic register that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "Now, we have our public backstory down. But what about the private one? What do you do when you’re angry, Maya? When you’re truly furious?"
I blinked, taken aback. "I go quiet. I clean things."
"And when you’re sad?"
"I lock myself away. I make spreadsheets."
James let out a quiet, genuine chuckle that softened the harsh angles of his cheekbones. "A woman after my own heart. But starting Sunday, you don't retreat. When Britney makes her first move—and she will make it before the salad course is finished—you don't leave the room. You don't hide in the guest bathroom. You look at me, and you smile. You let her dig her trench, Maya. Because the deeper she digs, the harder the earth will fall when we collapse it on top of her."
He stood up, picked up his coat, and held out his hand to help me out of the booth. As I stood, my shoulder brushed his chest. He was solid, unyielding, like a fortress built out of slate and steel. For the first time in ten years, standing beside a man didn't make me feel exposed.
It made me feel armed.
"Are you ready for Sunday?" he asked, looking down at me as we walked out onto the bustling Chicago sidewalk.
"No," I answered honestly, the wind whipping a strand of dark hair across my mouth. "I'm terrified."
James reached out, caught the errant strand of hair between his fingers, and tucked it gently behind my ear. His fingers lingered for half a second against the warm skin of my jawline, a gesture so effortless, so tender, that for a moment I forgot we were rehearsing a war.
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"Fear is useful, Maya," he whispered, his gray eyes flashing with quiet fire. "It sharpens the edge. Let’s go show your sister what happens when you steal from someone who has finally stopped giving you permission."
***
