Chapter 4 - The Lion’s Den
The drive to my parents’ house in Oak Park was thirty-five minutes of suffocating silence.
The sky over the western suburbs had turned the color of wet concrete, a classic early spring afternoon where the trees were still bare and skeletal against the gray horizon. In the passenger seat of James’s dark gray Audi sedan, I watched the identical suburban ranch houses roll past, my knuckles white against the leather strap of my purse.
James drove with one hand casually resting on the bottom of the steering wheel. He had abandoned his lawyer’s armor: he was wearing dark denim jeans that fit him impeccably, a black crewneck sweater over a collared white shirt, and a worn brown leather bomber jacket that made him look like a bush pilot who just happened to hold an Ivy League degree.
"Breathe, Maya," he said without taking his eyes off the road.
"You don't know them," I muttered, my voice tight. "You’ve seen their financial records. You haven't sat through three hours of Eleanor Linwood systematically dismantling your self-esteem while offering you another scoop of green bean casserole."
"I spent five hours cross-examining a Russian oligarch who had threatened to have my brake lines cut," James said smoothly, turning onto my parents’ maple-lined street. "I think I can handle a suburban matriarch with a deviled egg fixation."
He pulled into the driveway, coming to a halt directly behind Dad’s prized 1978 Mustang.
My heart did a violent, sickening flip.
Standing on the front porch, pretending to water a hanging fern that had been dead since October, was Britney.
She was wearing a cream-colored knit sweater dress that clung to every curve, falling three inches above her knees. Her blonde hair had been blown out into soft, shimmering waves that cascaded over one shoulder. The moment the Audi’s engine cut off, she set down the plastic watering can, rested one hip against the porch railing, and tilted her head with that familiar, practiced innocence.
"Showtime," James murmured.
He stepped out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, and opened my door before I could touch the handle. As I stepped onto the concrete, he reached out, caught my waist with his right arm, and pulled me gently against his side. His touch was warm, firm, and completely natural.
"Chin up, Maya," he whispered against my temple. "You’re with me."
We walked up the front steps together. Britney didn't move away from the door. She stood there, her eyes widening slightly as she took in James—his height, the broad line of his shoulders, the easy confidence in his stride, the quiet, understated wealth radiating from his watch and boots.
For a fraction of a second, confusion flickered in her hazel eyes. She had heard the name *James Whitmore* during her divorce, but she had never seen Trevor's attorney without his thick horn-rimmed glasses, slicked-back court hair, and stiff courtroom robes. To her, this was simply an exceptionally gorgeous, wealthy man who belonged to her sister.
Which meant he was fair game.
"Well, well, well," Britney purred, her voice dripping with syrupy sweetness. "Look who finally decided to join the family. Hi, Maya."
"Britney," I said, keeping my voice steady. "This is James."
Britney stepped forward, bypassing any formal handshake. She extended both hands, catching James’s right forearm with an exaggerated, breathless warmth, her sweater stretching taut across her chest.
"It is *so* wonderful to finally meet you, James," she said, gazing up at him through her lashes, her lips parted in that signature, inviting curve. "Maya has kept you such a secret! But then again, Maya always keeps the best things to herself until she's sure they won't run away."
It was a backhanded jab wrapped in silk—a subtle reminder to the man that Maya was insecure, secretive, and expecting to be abandoned.
James didn't pull his arm away, but he didn't lean into her touch either. He looked down at her hands resting on his leather jacket with the polite, detached amusement of a man inspecting an overly friendly golden retriever at a dog park.
"A pleasure, Britney," James said, his voice smooth as aged bourbon. "Maya told me you lived here."
Britney’s smile faltered for a microsecond. *Maya told me you lived here.* It was a quiet, devastating reminder that at twenty-six, she was a divorced woman living back in her childhood bedroom.
"Temporarily!" Britney laughed quickly, stepping back and smoothing her dress. "Just while I transition between... ventures. Come on inside! Mom has been hovering over the roast since noon, and Dad is dying to meet the man who finally got Maya to post a picture on social media that wasn't of her cat."
She turned and led the way into the house, her hips swaying with exaggerated rhythm.
As soon as her back was turned, James caught my hand, brought my knuckles to his lips, and pressed a lingering kiss against my skin. His gray eyes met mine, brimming with silent, wicked triumph.
*Round one,* his eyes seemed to say. *Advantage: us.*
The living room smelled of pot roast, vanilla candles, and Dad’s pipe tobacco. My father, Arthur, was sitting in his worn leather recliner, a bottle of Miller High Life resting on the armrest. My mother fluttered out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a floral apron, her eyes immediately zeroing in on James with predatory maternal curiosity.
"Oh! You must be James!" Eleanor gushed, stepping forward with her arms wide.
James stepped into the embrace with practiced suburban grace, offering a warm, respectful hug that instantly disarmed her. "Mrs. Linwood. Thank you for having me into your home. The house smells incredible."
"Oh, call me Eleanor! Isn't he lovely, Arthur?" she called toward the recliner.
Dad grunted, setting his beer down and pushing himself up from the chair. He was a broad-shouldered man with thick, calloused hands and graying hair cut into a strict military crew. He sized James up with the traditional suspicious squint reserved for daughters' boyfriends.
"James," Dad said, extending a hand like a catcher's mitt. "What do you do?"
"Corporate consulting and risk management, Arthur," James replied without missing a beat, taking Dad’s hand in a grip that didn't yield an inch. "Mostly cleaning up messes when people enter agreements they don't fully understand."
I nearly choked on my own breath.
"Risk management, huh?" Dad muttered, nodding approvingly as he felt James's grip. "Sounds like paperwork. But at least you look like you know how to change a tire. That last fellow Maya brought around—what was his name, Mark?—looked like he’d cry if he chipped a fingernail."
From the kitchen doorway, Britney froze, her wine glass halfway to her mouth. Her eyes darted toward me, a sharp spike of venom flashing behind her innocent mask.
"Mark was very sweet, Dad," Britney chimed in, her voice pitched with defensive protectiveness. "He was sensitive! Some women just don't know how to appreciate a man who shows his feelings."
"Mark was a coward who couldn't keep his hands to himself," I said clearly across the living room.
The room went instantly, violently still.
My mother’s smile vanished like chalk washed away by rain. Dad shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. Britney’s eyes welled with instant, practiced tears, her chin trembling with operatic precision.
"Maya..." Eleanor warningly hissed, her hands balling into the fabric of her apron. "We agreed we were not going to bring that nonsense up today. Your sister was devastated by what happened. Mark was entirely to blame, and you know how fragile Britney has been since—"
"Eleanor," James’s voice cut through the room.
It wasn't loud. He didn't shout. But the tone was so absolute, so loaded with an authority that belonged to high-stakes boardrooms and federal appellate courts, that my mother’s mouth snapped shut mid-sentence.
James smiled—a polite, disarming, guest-of-honor smile that completely belied the steel underneath.
"I’m sure Maya didn't mean to sour the mood," James said smoothly, stepping beside me and draping an arm casually over my shoulders, pulling me tight against his side. "She merely has exceptionally high standards for the men in her life. Which, I have to admit, made winning her over quite an exhausting campaign. Isn't that right, darling?"
He looked down at me, his eyes warm and completely convincing.
I looked up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs, and for the first time in my life, I felt the ground beneath my feet hold firm.
"Exhausting," I agreed softly, leaning into his chest. "But worth it."
Across the room, Britney watched us. Her tearful expression had vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating hunger. I could see the gears turning in her head: *He's richer than Mark. He's bolder than Mark. He defended Maya in front of our parents.*
She took a slow sip of her chardonnay, her eyes locked onto James’s mouth.
May you like
The hunt had officially begun.
***
