Chapter 2 The Cold Stepson's Approach

# Chapter 2: The Cold Stepson's Approach

Two weeks after the wedding, I was still finding my place in the sprawling Ashford estate. The mansion had been in Thomas's family for generations, with its labyrinthine corridors, hidden alcoves, and rooms I hadn't yet discovered. Just like my marriage, the house held secrets I was only beginning to uncover.

I stood in the kitchen that morning, attempting to make my own breakfast despite Mrs. Reynolds's insistence that it was her job. The elderly housekeeper had been with the Ashfords for thirty years and viewed my independence as a personal affront.

"Mrs. Ashford, please," she sighed, watching me struggle with the espresso machine. "This is what I'm here for."

"I can manage coffee, Mrs. Reynolds," I assured her, though the Italian monstrosity before me suggested otherwise. "And please, call me Juliette."

"That wouldn't be proper," she replied primly. Her disapproval of me was thinly veiled; another young wife replacing her beloved late mistress.

I was about to concede defeat when a large hand reached around me, pressing the buttons in the correct sequence. The machine hummed to life.

"Italian engineering," Callum's voice came from directly behind me, close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck. "Beautiful but temperamental."

I turned, finding myself trapped between his body and the counter. He made no move to step back, forcing me to tilt my head to meet his eyes.

"Thank you," I said stiffly.

He studied me for a moment before his gaze flicked to Mrs. Reynolds. "I'll take my breakfast on the terrace today."

The housekeeper nodded and busied herself with preparations. Only when she was occupied did Callum lean closer, his mouth near my ear.

"You look tired," he murmured. "Is my father not letting you sleep?"

Heat rushed to my face. "That's inappropriate."

His smile was slow and knowing. "Merely expressing concern for your well-being... Mother."

The way he said that last word made it sound like a caress rather than the mockery it was intended to be. Before I could respond, he took his coffee and left, but not without letting his fingers brush against mine as he reached for the cup.

Later that day, I decided to use the indoor pool—one of the estate's more modern additions. Thomas was in London for meetings, and I thought swimming might help clear my mind of unwanted thoughts. Specifically, thoughts of Callum's proximity in the kitchen and the unsettling effect it had on me.

I changed into my swimsuit in the adjacent changing room, wrapped a towel around myself, and stepped into the pool area. The room was humid and silent, the water still and inviting. I dropped my towel on a lounger and dove in, relishing the cool embrace of the water.

After several laps, I surfaced at the shallow end, pushing wet hair from my face—and froze. Callum sat in one of the poolside chairs, watching me. He wore swim trunks and nothing else, his chest bare and defined in ways that made me immediately aware of my own scant coverage.

"How long have you been there?" I demanded, treading water.

"Long enough to admire your form," he replied, standing and walking to the edge of the pool. "You swim well."

I moved to the side, intending to exit, but he crouched down at the exact spot where I'd planned to climb out.

"What are you doing, Callum?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Swimming," he said innocently. "It is the family pool."

"There are six bathrooms in this house," I pointed out. "Each with its own shower. You don't need the pool."

He tilted his head, considering me with those penetrating eyes. "Perhaps I prefer company."

Without warning, he dove over me in a clean arc, barely missing me as he entered the water. When he surfaced, he was close—too close—water dripping from his eyelashes, his dark hair slicked back.

"My father returns tomorrow," he said casually, as though we were discussing the weather. "Business in London concluded earlier than expected."

"I know," I replied. "He called me."

Callum swam a slow circle around me, like a predator. "And did he mention that he's bringing Clara for dinner? My ex-fiancée," he added when I looked confused. "She handles some of the family's legal matters."

"He didn't mention it."

"You should wear the blue dress," he suggested, moving closer. "The one that shows your back. Clara appreciates beauty, even in her... competition."

"I'm not her competition," I said firmly, swimming toward the steps at the far end of the pool. "And I'm not playing whatever game you're playing."

I climbed out and reached for my towel, only to find Callum had somehow beaten me there. He held it open for me, forcing me to step into his space to retrieve it.

"No game," he said softly as he wrapped the towel around my shoulders, his hands lingering longer than necessary. "Just family dynamics."

That evening, I found myself in the estate's vast library, seeking solitude among the leather-bound volumes. I was curled in a window seat with a first edition of Keats when the door opened. I expected Mrs. Reynolds with tea, but instead, Clara Harrington entered, elegant in a tailored suit that spoke of old money and impeccable taste.

"So you're the new Mrs. Ashford," she said without preamble, assessing me with cool blue eyes. "Callum said you were stunning, but I thought he was exaggerating to get under my skin."

I marked my place in the book and stood. "Clara, I presume? Thomas mentioned you'd arrived. I'm Juliette."

"I know who you are." She circled me slowly. "The art expert who captured Thomas's heart in record time. Quite the achievement."

There was something in her tone that reminded me of Callum—that same evaluating quality, as though I were a specimen under glass.

"I understand you handle legal matters for the family," I said, changing the subject.

"Among other things." Her smile was thin. "Callum and I may no longer be engaged, but we remain... close. The Ashford family has always valued loyalty."

Before I could respond, the door opened again, and Callum himself appeared, looking between us with evident amusement.

"I see you two have met," he said, crossing to pour himself a drink from the library's bar cart. "Comparing notes?"

Clara laughed, a sound like crystal chimes. "I was just telling your new stepmother how much I admire her taste. In art and in men."

The emphasis she placed on "stepmother" echoed Callum's earlier mockery. I felt suddenly outnumbered, caught in a dynamic I didn't understand.

"Thomas is an exceptional man," I said firmly.

"Indeed," Clara agreed, accepting the drink Callum offered her. "Though I always thought he preferred women with more... experience."

I felt a flush creeping up my neck. "If you'll excuse me, I should change for dinner."

As I moved to leave, Callum stepped into my path. "Don't let Clara intimidate you," he said, loud enough for her to hear. "Her bark is worse than her bite."

"Unlike yours?" I countered quietly.

His eyes darkened. "You haven't experienced my bite. Yet."

I slipped past him and hurried down the hallway, my heart racing. I had nearly reached my room when the skies opened up, and rain began pelting the windows. I paused to watch the sudden downpour, trying to calm my nerves.

I didn't hear Callum approach until he spoke.

"You left your book," he said, holding out the Keats volume.

I reached for it, but a crash of thunder startled me. I jumped, and suddenly he was there, his hand on my waist to steady me.

"Afraid of storms?" he asked, not removing his hand.

"No," I said, stepping back. "Thank you for the book."

I turned to enter my room, but his next words stopped me.

"You were soaked to the skin that first day at the gallery," he said quietly. "When you met my father. April rain. Your white blouse turned transparent."

I whirled to face him. "You were there?"

"I'm always there, Juliette. Watching." He moved closer, backing me against my door. "I saw him fall for you before you even spoke."

The intensity in his eyes made it hard to breathe. He reached past me to open my door, his body brushing against mine.

"You should change," he said, his voice low and intimate as he pressed the book into my hands. "You're shivering."

As I stepped into my room, he held out a plush bath towel that had been warming on the radiator in the hallway.

"You shouldn't be wandering around the house like that," he whispered, his eyes traveling down my still-damp swimsuit visible beneath my thin cover-up. He leaned in, close enough that I could feel his breath on my cheek. "Are you trying to tempt me into a crime?"

The door closed between us before I could respond, leaving me clutching the warm towel and the book of poetry, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird seeking escape.