Deceptive Ties

The heavy thermos felt warm against Cordelia's palm as she stepped off the elevator onto the executive floor of Drexel Enterprises.

She moved toward the corner office with the calm, practiced poise expected of Gideon’s wife. Inside, her husband sat behind the wide expanse of polished mahogany, shuffling through a stack of paperwork. Dark smudges shadowed the skin under his lower lids, but what stood out most was his charcoal suit—the exact tailored jacket and slate trousers he had worn when leaving home yesterday morning.

A faint, bloodless smile touched Cordelia's lips. A man who went to such lengths to stage an all-nighter at his desk was a man terrified of disrupting the status quo. Gideon had no intention of ending their marriage, not when having a spotless, accommodating wife served his reputation so well.

"Did you manage any rest at all?" Cordelia asked, keeping her tone light and attentive. She crossed the room, setting the insulated container on the corner of the mahogany surface. "You're running yourself ragged."

She reached out, her fingers catching the knot of his silk tie to straighten it against his collar.

Gideon leaned back slightly, his expression tightening as he forced a hollow, dismissive chuckle. "Someone has to keep the lights on and provide for our family."

Her fingers stilled against the fabric of his shirt.

*Our family?* The words tasted like ash. Her mind flashed straight to the hotel bedroom Mallory had displayed online just hours before.

Before the silence could stretch, the door swung open without a knock.

"Gideon, the quarterly figures are finalized," Mallory said, strolling across the threshold with a leather folder pressed against her ribs. Her hips swayed with deliberate rhythm, her chin tilted up just enough to let Cordelia catch the brazen gleam in her eyes.

Gideon’s forehead creased at once. A flicker of raw panic broke through his tired features, instantly replaced by sharp authority. "Get out. Submit it to the secretary."

Mallory paused just long enough to throw Cordelia a mocking, sidelong glance before she turned on her heel and slipped out into the corridor.

Cordelia never blinked. She withdrew her hands from Gideon's collar and let them rest at her sides, her voice entirely steady. "I received word this morning that I'll need to head to Valerius. There's a major museum exhibition coming up."

Gideon set his pen down against the desk with an audible snap. "We agreed you'd keep travel to an absolute minimum. Am I failing to support you financially?"

His sudden flare of irritation was an old, familiar reflex—patriarchal control summoned to bury guilt.

"Mr. Beaumont personally extended the invitation," Cordelia explained softly, coming around the side of his chair. "It wouldn't be proper for me to turn him down. Besides, it's a three-month assignment. Couldn't you take just today off to keep me company? You stayed at the office all night. Surely the firm can spare you for an afternoon."

She leaned down from behind, looping her arms over his shoulders. Her fingertips deliberately slipped past the top button of his shirt, brushing the bare skin of his neck in an unmistakable invitation.

Ever since their wedding, Gideon had claimed to suffer from severe mysophobia—an overwhelming psychological repulsion toward physical closeness that he used as a shield to keep her at arm's length. Yet she now knew that immaculate aversion vanished the moment he crossed the threshold into Mallory's room.

As she expected, Gideon stiffened instantly.

He drew a sharp breath, his fingers reaching up to catch her wrists and pull them away from his collar. "It's the end of the fiscal year, Cora. The firm has far too much pending. You know I can't take time off."

Cordelia allowed a small, dry smile to pass unnoticed behind his head. The lie was as smooth as ever.

"I understand," she said, stepping back with a slight sigh, letting a note of wounded melancholy color her words. "It just reminded me of Enid Finch. Have you heard what happened with her marriage?"

Gideon glanced over his shoulder, vaguely distracted. "Who?"

"Enid. Mr. Finch's wife from Vanguard Group," Cordelia said smoothly. "We shared a table with them at the charity dinner last spring. She's so vibrant, and he's so much older. I remember thinking back then what a mismatch it seemed."

"What about them?" Gideon asked, picking up his fountain pen again.

"They're getting a divorce," Cordelia murmured, shaking her head. "Enid confessed that her husband simply couldn't satisfy her anymore in bed. The flame went cold. She ended up finding a young, virile lover to take care of her needs, but her husband caught them red-handed. It's tragic, really. I always assumed they were solid."

The tip of Gideon's fountain pen stalled directly against the paper, leaving an ink dot on the clean sheet.

A dark, heavy shadow crossed his face. The casual mention of a neglected wife seeking physical fulfillment elsewhere struck his masculine vanity with surgical precision.

Before Cordelia could take another step back, Gideon turned abruptly in his swivel chair. His arm shot out, catching her around the waist and hauling her firmly against his side, trapping her against his body.

"I'm coming home tonight," he muttered, his voice rough and possessive. "I'll be there with you."

Cordelia let out a quiet, amused laugh, resting a hand against his shoulder to keep a sliver of space between them. "Don't be ridiculous. You're nothing like Enid's husband. He was practically decrepit and useless."

She slipped out of his hold just enough to reach the insulated container, unscrewing the lid. The rich, savory aroma of herbal broth rose into the air.

"Drink this before it gets cold," Cordelia added, her eyes meeting his with practiced sweetness. "I woke up at six to simmer this chicken soup for you. It's meant to replenish your stamina."

Gideon missed the barbed edge tucked beneath the compliment entirely. Satisfied by her submissive domesticity, he reached out with one hand to take the bowl while keeping his other arm clamped possessively around her hip.

The door flew open with a violent shudder.

An assistant stumbled into the room, pale and gasping for breath. "Mr. Drexel! Mallory skipped breakfast this morning and completely collapsed in the hall—her blood sugar crashed!"