Chapter 3: Silk Sheets and Threats
The Antarctic slideshow felt like it lasted for geological epochs. Jess sat through endless images of blinding ice and oddly charming penguins, her smile a fixed, fragile thing. Every laugh from Dylan, every proud interjection from Uncle Ben, was a note in a symphony she couldn’t hear. Her mind was back in the study, echoing with Eleanor’s options: Blissful prison. Coward’s freedom.
Finally, mercifully, the party unraveled. Goodbyes were a haze of cheek kisses and well-wishes. Dylan’s father, Robert, clapped him on the back. “She’s a keeper, son. Don’t mess it up.”
Eleander offered Jess a hug. It was a brief, fragrant compression, her lips brushing Jess’s cheek. “Do think on our conversation, dear,” she murmured, the words for Jess alone. Then, louder, “You’ll stay the night, of course. The guest suite is made up. It’s far too late for you to travel.”
It wasn’t a question. The penthouse had four spare bedrooms.
“Of course, Mrs. Abernathy. Thank you,” Jess said, the formality ash in her mouth.
“Eleanor, please. We’re practically family.” Her smile was a perfectly calibrated weapon.
The guest suite was, like everything else, impeccable. A sprawling space in creams and pale blues, smelling of linen and dried lavender. It felt like a very beautiful cell.
“My parents love you,” Dylan said, pulling her into his arms the moment the door closed. He smelled of crisp cotton and the single whisky he’d nursed. “I knew they would. I mean, how could they not?” He leaned back, searching her face. “You’re quiet. Was it the penguins? I told Ben it was overkill.”
She forced a laugh, burying her face in his chest to avoid his eyes. “Just a lot. A lot of new people. I’m not used to all this.” She gestured vaguely at the opulent room.
“I know. But this is us, now. This is our life.” He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll go grab us something to drink. There’s champagne chilling. We should toast. To our future.”
He was out the door before she could protest, his enthusiasm a bounding, uncomplicated force.
Jess sank onto the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. The silence in the room was absolute, and in it, her thoughts screamed. She felt like a glass object that had been tapped, hairline fractures spreading beneath the surface. One more tap and she’d shatter.
The door clicked open. Jess looked up, expecting Dylan.
Eleanor stood in the doorway, holding two flutes by their stems. She was backlit by the hallway’s soft glow, her silhouette sharp and familiar.
“He’s debating vintages with the housekeeper,” she said, stepping inside and letting the door sigh shut. “A boy in a candy store. So earnest.” She placed the glasses on a side table. “This room suits you. It has a certain… bridal quality. Virginal, almost.” Her eyes met Jess’s. “The irony is rather rich, don’t you think?”
“What do you want, Eleanor?” The weariness in Jess’s voice was real.
“To talk. Without an audience.” Eleanor strolled toward the walk-in closet, its door ajar, revealing a curated space of built-in cedar and soft lighting. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
It was a command, not a request. Every instinct told Jess to stay rooted to the bed. But her body moved, obeying some deeper, older pull. She followed Eleanor into the spacious closet.
It was empty, save for a few fluffy robes on padded hangers. The smell of cedar was overwhelming.
Eleanor turned. In the confined, intimate space, her presence was suffocating. “You’ve been thinking,” she stated.
“You gave me a lot to think about.”
“And?”
“And I love him.” Jess’s voice cracked. “That’s my answer.”
Eleanor’s smile was thin, pitying. She reached out, not for Jess’s face this time, but for the hem of her silk blouse. Her fingers deftly undid the first button. Then the second. Jess stood frozen, a statue of dread and a terrible, unwelcome longing.
“Do you?” Eleanor mused, her hands sliding inside the parted fabric, skimming over the lace of Jess’s bra, her touch cool and assessing. “Or do you love the idea of him? The safety. The simplicity. The blank slate he offers.” Her other hand came up, cupping Jess’s jaw, forcing her to maintain eye contact. “You moaned my name into silk sheets in Capri. You begged. You were a creature of pure want. You think domestic bliss with my earnest, sweet son will satisfy what I woke in you?”
Jess shuddered. The memory was a physical invasion—the salt on their skin, the hotel sheets tangled around their legs, the absolute surrender. It warred violently with the image of Dylan’s trusting face.
“That wasn’t me,” Jess whispered, but the protest was hollow.
“It was the most you you’ve ever been.” Eleanor leaned in, her lips grazing the shell of Jess’s ear. Her hand left Jess’s jaw and trailed down her side, settling on her hip with a possessive grip. “And he will never, ever see it. He’ll get the curated version. The placid wife. And you’ll slowly suffocate in all this… niceness.”
Jess’s eyes burned. She couldn’t breathe. The cedar smell was in her throat.
“Or,” Eleanor continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her hand tightening on Jess’s hip, “I could walk out right now, find him pondering the ’98 versus the ’02, and show him. Not with words. A demonstration.” Her free hand slipped lower, fingertips pressing hard against the inside of Jess’s thigh through the delicate wool of her trousers. “I could show him exactly how his fiancée comes apart. Where she’s most sensitive. The sounds she makes when she’s not performing.”
A hot, traitorous wave of arousal crashed through Jess, followed immediately by a nausea so profound her knees buckled. She swayed, and Eleanor held her up, pressed her back against the cool cedar panels.
“See?” Eleanor whispered, her breath mingling with Jess’s. “Your body remembers. It votes for the truth, even when your mind is clinging to the pretty lie.”
From a distance, down the hall, came the sound of Dylan’s voice, cheerful and indistinct. He was coming back.
The sound was a bucket of ice water. Jess shoved against Eleanor’s shoulders, a surge of panicked strength breaking the spell.
Eleanor stepped back smoothly, as if choreographed. She didn’t look ruffled. She looked satisfied. She had her answer.
Jess fumbled with her buttons, her fingers clumsy and shaking.
“The choice is still yours, Jessica,” Eleanor said, calmly straightening the cuff of her own sleeve. “But the performance starts now. And it never, ever ends.”
The bedroom door opened. Dylan stood there, holding a bottle and three glasses by the stems, his face falling. “Oh. Mom. I brought you a glass too.”
“How thoughtful,” Eleanor said, gliding past Jess as if nothing had happened. She took a flute from Dylan. “I was just admiring the closet space with Jess. Excellent storage. Very important for a future together.” She took a sip, her eyes locked on Jess over the rim of the glass. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your toast. Sweet dreams.”
She left, the scent of jasmine lingering in her wake.
Dylan looked at Jess, her blouse still slightly misbuttoned, her face pale. “Everything okay? You look…”
“I’m just tired,” Jess interrupted, moving toward him. She took the bottle from his hands, her own remarkably steady now. “And I really need that drink.”
She poured, the golden liquid fizzing violently. She handed him a glass, took one for herself, and clinked them together. The sound was too sharp.
“To our future,” she said, echoing his words from earlier.
“To our future,” he beamed, completely blind.
She drank, the champagne acidic and burning on the way down. She watched his trusting, happy face and felt the walls of the closet, of the penthouse, of the life she’d chosen, close in around her. The performance had begun. And Eleanor was right. It was going to be forever.