Dinner and Delusion

Stacy didn't sit, at least not right away. Her job for the evening, the role she had promised to play, required her to be on her feet more than Evan. Her place, her role's place, was one of domestic servitude, something that should have had her raging, but kept her busy enough that she was distracted from her plight.

Hands braced lightly against the kitchen counter, she stayed where she was for a few minutes longer than necessary, listening to the low hum of voices drifting in from the dining room. Laughter. The scrape of chairs. The easy rhythm of people settling in together. It sounded so normal. That, almost more than anything, made her uneasy.

Dinner had gone out smoothly. Plates filled. Compliments offered. Smiles returned. Every piece of the evening, at least on the surface, had fallen into place exactly the way she'd planned. Exactly the way she'd promised. Stacy was the perfect hostess, a beautiful and loving wife, happy to enjoy the company of her husband's companions.

Practical.

That was the word she'd chosen to justify her behaviour. The one she kept coming back to. Not emotional. Not reactive. Practical. Stacy needed this evening. It cemented her deal with Evan, securing his promise that he would take care of her, watch over her, keep her from getting too close to him. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't exciting. It was transactional.

Her fingers curled slightly against the counter as she exhaled.

Before any of Evan's friends had arrived, before the performance had even begun, David had walked through the door. The man who should have been her husband, who had been taken from her by Evan's potion, the man who'd spent the previous night away at a friend's house.

The memory hit sharp and sudden.

The way he'd smiled at her. Polite, friendly, distant.

"Hey," he'd said, like she was someone familiar but not intimate. Like she belonged in the room, but not with him.

She'd **** herself to respond in kind. Asked about his night. Kept her tone light. Manageable.

"Oh, it was great," he'd said easily, shrugging off his jacket. "I think you'd like her."

Her.

The word had landed like a dropped plate.

"Do you think it'd be okay if I brought her by sometime?" The question came out in a sheepish tone, not because he remembered the previous context of their relationship, but because the power dynamic in the house had placed him on the bottom of the pecking order. No longer the clever, commanding, attractive man that had won her heart. In his place was a man who looked the same, but seemed uncertain, easy to play second fiddle.

And Stacy had just stared. No anger. Not at first. Just a hollow, expanding space in her chest as the meaning settled in. As reality, this twisted, rewritten version of it, made itself known again in the worst possible way.

He'd moved on.

Or rather this version of him had never been hers to begin with.

The urge to break, to snap, to lash out, to say something sharp enough to cut through that calm, casual tone, had risen fast and hot. But Stacy didn't give in. Instead, she'd swallowed it. Ignored the question entirely.

"We have people coming over tonight," she'd said, voice cool enough to frost glass. "Get the table leaf. We'll need the space."

And David had just nodded. Her David, the man who she'd married, used to push back at any hint of being ordered around. This one, though, was easily compliant.

"Yeah, sure."

It surprised her how much that hurt. He was gone. Truly gone. Not just taken out of her life, but rewritten to no longer be the man that she loved. No longer able to be the man that she could love.

The memory lingered as she finally pushed herself away from the counter, grabbing a dishcloth and wiping at a spot that was already clean.

By the time Marcus and Liam had arrived, everything had been ready. Table extended. Place settings aligned. David quietly sent upstairs to change, after doing exactly what she'd asked of him.

And then the house had filled. Voices. Energy. Movement. Evan greeting them at the door.

"Caldwell here yet?"

"Nope. Maybe he'll cancel."

A laugh. "Don't count on it, man. Heard he's been talking you up in class. Called you exemplary."

Stacy had paused at the stove when she heard that.

Exemplary.

The word didn't fit the Evan she knew. The one she'd known. But maybe that didn't matter anymore. Maybe, just as David's place in the world was being rewritten, so was Evan's.

Then the doorbell again.

"Professor Caldwell! Thank you for coming!"

"Mr. Mercer... I must say, I've been looking forward to this."

A beat.

"And where is that charming wife of yours?"

That had been her cue. The memory of stepping into the foyer still sat sharply in her mind. The shift. The way something inside her had clicked into place the moment she saw him.

Evan.

Standing there, slightly tense, trying to manage coats and greetings and expectations all at once. And without thinking...

"Evan, sweetheart, dinner will be ready in just a few minutes."

Her hand had found his arm. Her lips had brushed his cheek. The reaction had been immediate. Heat. In her stomach. In her groin. Her heart pounding.

It was too much. Even now, just remembering it, her stomach tightened. Because in that moment it hadn't felt like an act. It had felt real.

For a fleeting moment, Stacy loved Evan. With all her heart.

A quiet clatter pulled her back to the present as she set another glass in the sink, rinsing it under warm water.

Dinner had gone well. Laughter had come easily. Conversation had flowed. Caldwell had been sharper than expected, but not unkind. Marcus and Liam had been exactly what she'd anticipated: loud, amused, occasionally ridiculous.

And Evan...

Her grip tightened slightly on the glass, fighting off the shot of arousal she felt at even thinking his name.

Evan had been...

She didn't have the right word for it. Charming, maybe. Engaged. Quick with responses. Relaxed in a way she hadn't seen before. More than once, she'd caught herself laughing; real laughter, the kind that slipped out before she could stop it.

It was bad enough that she couldn't even think of Evan without feeling aroused, but now to find her mind being manipulated into finding him charming? The thought of it made her feel queasy.

That alone had been unsettling.

But worse, her hand had kept finding him. Fingers brushing his. Resting lightly against his arm. Once, briefly, his leg. Every time, subtle but deliberate, he'd moved her away.

Not harsh. Not obvious. But firm.

A reminder.

The deal.

"I told you to keep an eye on that," she'd whispered once, pulling her hand back.

"I thought it was part of your act," he'd murmured in return.

It hadn't been. Or at least it hadn't started that way.

Stacy shut off the tap, setting the glass aside with a little more **** than necessary. Even now, standing alone in the kitchen, she could feel it. That pull. That quiet, persistent craving to be near him again. To touch him. To close that small, unbearable gap. It no longer faded when he left the room.

That was a new development. New and terrifying.

Voices carried through the wall again, clearer this time.

"You're telling me she just pulled this together?" Marcus said, incredulous. "Dinner, Caldwell, all of it?"

"I didn't..."

"Oh, come on," Liam cut in. "Admit it. You won the lottery with her."

A pause. Then, quieter, teasing.

"Guy's got to be the luckiest bastard alive. I get what you see in her, but what she sees in a charity case like you is beyond me."

Stacy froze. Heat flared in her chest, sharp, immediate. Not embarrassment. Not even anger. Something else. Something protective. Something indignant.

Her Evan wasn't a charity case.

The thought came fast and fierce, startling in its intensity.

I ought to march in there and tell them how much I...

She stopped.

The words hung there.

...love him.

A pulse of heat followed it, low and insistent.

"Ugh," she muttered aloud, scrubbing at the counter harder than necessary.

It was happening again. Even without him in the room. The glass of wine in her hand suddenly felt like a bad idea. Without hesitation, she crossed to the sink and dumped it, watching the red swirl down the drain. Magic was already doing enough damage. Adding **** to the mix felt like asking for a complete loss of control.

Silence settled again once the water stopped running. Upstairs, a faint creak. David, likely retreating for the night.

He'd barely engaged during dinner. Phone in hand. Attention elsewhere. That absence had stung more than she wanted to admit. A slow breath filled her lungs, then left just as slowly.

So this was it.

Kitchen clean. Guests occupied. House quiet again, in that strange, in-between way.

And her alone. Back pressed lightly against the wall separating her from the dining room, Stacy closed her eyes for a moment. On the other side, voices continued. Pages turning. Caldwell's measured tone cutting through as he explained something.

Normal.

Productive.

Exactly what the night was supposed to be. And all she could think about was crossing that room. Sliding into his lap. Resting her head against his shoulder.

The image came unbidden. Vivid. Immediate. Causing yet another shot of arousal to wash over her. Causing her to crave it even more.

No. Absolutely not. That would be wrong.

Her eyes opened slowly, staring at nothing.

Right?