The next week was a slow-motion exercise in torture. Beatrix and Julian existed in a state of hyper-awareness, their skin humming whenever they entered the same room. They didn't speak of their encounter in front of Arthur, but their eyes told a different story. Every glance was a promise; every accidental brush of a shoulder was a spark.
They began to play a game of "proximity."
It started in the kitchen on a Tuesday afternoon. Arthur was in his study, the door shut, the muffled sound of a conference call leaking into the hallway. Beatrix was pouring a glass of chilled white wine, wearing a sheer white robe that left nothing to the imagination.
Julian walked in, leaning against the marble island. He didn't say a word. He just watched her.
"You're staring, Julian," Beatrix whispered, h
