I gripped the shirt in my hands, my nails digging into the fabric.
I turned slowly, my expression carefully neutral.
Malcom stood in the doorway, looking every bit the man the world adored. His suit was crisp, his blonde hair slightly tousled—effortlessly perfect. He loosened his tie as he stepped inside, his sharp brown eyes scanning me with the casual confidence of a man who believed he owned the world.
Who believed he owned me.
"You're still up?" His voice was smooth and controlled. "I thought James took too long picking you up. I was going to reprimand him."
Ah. The caring husband act.
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head as I folded his shirt neatly and placed it back in the closet. If he noticed, he didn't react.
"I couldn't sleep," I said.
Malcom stepped closer, his fingers brushing my cheek. "You look exhausted, Eve. Did something happen?"
I met his gaze, searching for even a flicker of guilt. A crack. Anything.
But Malcom Delacroix was a master at deception.
