Chapter 1 Shadows of the Wedding
# Chapter 1: Shadows of the Wedding
I never planned to marry a man thirty years my senior. But there I was, standing in the meticulously manicured garden of the Ashford estate, wearing a Vera Wang wedding gown that cost more than my old apartment. The cool autumn breeze carried the scent of roses and whispered promises I wasn't sure could be kept.
Thomas Ashford stood beside me, his silver hair catching the late afternoon sunlight. His hand rested gently on my lower back as photographers captured what the society pages would call a "May-December romance." I preferred to think of it as pragmatism meeting opportunity.
"Are you happy, my dear?" Thomas asked, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine affection.
I smiled up at him. "Of course."
It wasn't entirely a lie. I respected Thomas. He was brilliant, cultured, and treated me with more consideration than any man I'd dated in my twenties. When we met at the gallery where I worked, he'd been drawn to my knowledge of Renaissance art, not just my appearance. That alone made him different.
"Mrs. Ashford," he said, testing the name on his tongue. "It suits you."
I laughed softly. "I'm not sure I feel like an Ashford yet."
"You will," he assured me.
Over his shoulder, I caught sight of him again—the man who'd been watching me all day with eyes like cold steel. Callum Ashford, Thomas's son and, at thirty-five, closer to my age than my husband was. He stood apart from the other guests, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, his expression unreadable.
Throughout the entire ceremony and reception, he hadn't approached me once. No congratulations, no welcome to the family. Just that penetrating stare that made me feel stripped bare.
"Your son doesn't seem pleased," I murmured to Thomas.
Thomas followed my gaze and sighed. "Callum takes time to warm up to people. He's protective of me, that's all."
Protective wasn't the word I would have chosen. There was something almost predatory in the way he watched me, something that made my skin prickle with awareness.
"Give him time," Thomas said, squeezing my hand reassuringly. "He'll come around."
The party continued as twilight descended, transforming the garden into a fairyland of twinkling lights. I smiled and thanked guests, accepted congratulations, and played the part of the radiant bride. But I couldn't shake the feeling of Callum's eyes following me, evaluating, judging.
By eleven, most guests had departed. Thomas was engaged in conversation with some business associates who had flown in from Tokyo specifically for the wedding. He caught my eye across the room and mouthed, "One hour."
I nodded and slipped away to the balcony overlooking the gardens, eager for a moment of solitude. The night air was cool against my flushed skin. I kicked off my heels and sank into one of the cushioned chairs, reaching for the bottle of red wine someone had left on the small table.
"The blushing bride, all alone on her wedding night."
I startled at the voice, nearly spilling the wine I'd just poured. Callum Ashford emerged from the shadows, his tall frame silhouetted against the night sky. Up close, his resemblance to Thomas was striking—same aristocratic nose, same strong jawline—but where Thomas's features were softened by warmth, Callum's were all sharp edges.
"Your father is busy with his guests," I replied, keeping my voice steady. "I needed some air."
Callum moved closer, and I caught the scent of expensive cologne mingled with whiskey. He didn't sit, preferring instead to loom over me like some dark sentinel.
"You're younger than my last girlfriend," he remarked casually, though there was nothing casual about the intensity of his gaze.
"I'm twenty-eight," I countered, "hardly a child."
His mouth curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And my father is fifty-eight. Quite the arithmetic problem."
"Is there something you want to say to me, Callum?" I asked directly, tired of the circling. "You've been watching me all day."
He took my glass from my hand, his fingers brushing mine deliberately. Taking a slow sip from where my lips had been, he held my gaze over the rim.
"I'm simply trying to understand what kind of woman marries a man old enough to be her father," he said, handing the glass back to me. "Gold digger seems too obvious for someone like you."
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know more than you think, Juliette." The way he said my name sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. "I did my research when my father announced his... infatuation."
"And what did your research tell you?" I challenged.
"Art history major. Moderately successful gallery assistant. No serious relationships in the past five years. Parents deceased. No siblings." He recited the facts of my life with clinical detachment. "Nothing that explains why my father was so quick to put a ring on your finger."
I stood, unwilling to remain in a position of disadvantage. Even in my bare feet, I was still a head shorter than him. "Perhaps he saw something in me that you missed in your investigation."
Callum stepped closer, erasing the distance I'd tried to create. "Oh, I see plenty," he murmured, his eyes dropping briefly to my lips before returning to meet mine. "That's what concerns me."
We stood there, too close for propriety, the air between us charged with something I refused to name. My heart hammered in my chest, and I told myself it was anger, not the dangerous thrill of standing on a precipice.
"Juliette?" Thomas's voice called from inside, breaking the moment. "Are you out here, my dear?"
Callum stepped back, but his eyes never left mine. As Thomas's footsteps approached, he leaned in one last time, his breath warm against my ear.
"Welcome to our 'imperfect' family," he whispered, the provocative words delivered with such heat that I felt them like a physical touch. "I look forward to getting to know my new stepmother."
He straightened just as Thomas appeared in the doorway. The smile Callum offered his father was perfect—respectful, warm, utterly false.
"Father," he said cordially. "I was just congratulating Juliette. She's a remarkable woman."
Thomas beamed, oblivious to the undercurrent between us. "That she is. I'm a lucky man."
Callum's eyes met mine over Thomas's shoulder, and there was nothing filial in them. "Indeed you are. We both have much to be grateful for."
As he walked away, I felt as though I'd just survived some kind of test—or perhaps failed one. Either way, as I took Thomas's arm and allowed him to lead me back inside, I couldn't shake the feeling that my marriage had already been complicated in ways I couldn't have anticipated.
And despite everything rational within me, some small, traitorous part of me wondered what it would be like to have those cold eyes warm with genuine desire—and whether I would have the strength to resist if they did.
