Chapter 3: The Dinner Standoff
Clara's Pov
"Go change."
Julian said it the way someone might say "It's going to rain" or "It's getting dark."
Calm.
Matter-of-fact.
Leaving absolutely no impression that this was up for discussion.
By the time my brain finally rebooted, the last sliver of his gray sleeve had already disappeared around the curve of the spiral staircase.
I sat there.
One.
Two.
Three.
I counted all the way to ten.
He didn't come back.
He didn't add a "Of course, only if you want to."
Wonderful.
So he'd actually made the decision.
And left me zero room to escape.
I started rifling through excuses in my head, flipping through them like flashcards crammed before an exam, one after another.
First—I didn't know a single person there.
Second—nothing in my wardrobe looked remotely appropriate for what a man who'd been alive for centuries would call a "gathering."
Third…
There was another reason. Quieter. Colder.
One I didn't have the courage to say out loud.
His friends were very likely not human.
The moment that thought surfaced, my stomach gave a small, tight clench.
It wasn't as if I'd never encountered a vampire.
Technically, I'd married one.
But Julian was different.
Julian was at least familiar.
He was a professor at Saint Jude University. The man who graded papers, gave lectures, and labeled everything in the kitchen with reheating instructions. I knew his voice, knew his footsteps, had even begun to tell the difference between when he was genuinely displeased and when he'd merely furrowed his brow.
But his friends?
People who had been alive for centuries, who had known him for centuries?
How would they see me?
An ordinary human.
A twenty-two-year-old undergraduate.
Someone who had become Julian Mason's wife overnight because of a family pact.
The more I thought about it, the harder it became to breathe.
In the end, I stood up anyway.
I decided to go upstairs.
Not to change.
To say no.
Before I talked myself out of it.
Upstairs in my room, I pulled open the wardrobe.
The gesture felt absurdly solemn—like cracking open a safe I already knew was empty.
Three hoodies.
Two pairs of jeans.
One cardigan that had never seen an iron.
And the white button-down I'd worn to my last thesis defense, still creased at the elbows.
I stared at them for a few seconds.
Silence.
Down the other end of the hall was Julian's dressing room. Row upon row of bespoke suits, organized by color, fabric, and season with immaculate precision.
Everything I owned probably wouldn't fill the drawer where he kept his cufflinks.
But the real issue wasn't clothes.
I knew that perfectly well.
Someone who could demolish three bags of chips in a single afternoon, who piled colorful sticky notes all over a black marble island, who wore mismatched socks—that person had no business being in a room full of people who remembered the last century.
I didn't belong in that world.
That was the real problem.
And yet—
Julian had smiled twice today.
Twice.
It was absurdly small.
But it kept me standing in front of that wardrobe for a long time.
Because in those two brief moments, for the first time, the barrier that had always stood firmly between us seemed to thin—just slightly.
Thin enough, maybe, that it looked like it could be crossed.
And that was the most dangerous part.
Because I realized that some small part of me actually wanted to cross it.
I slammed the wardrobe shut.
No.
I needed to go say no.
Now.
Immediately.
Before I actually started changing.
Julian's study was on the third floor.
The door wasn't fully closed. Warm golden light spilled through the gap and laid a narrow stripe across the hallway carpet.
I walked over.
Raised my hand.
Knocked twice.
So softly I barely heard it myself.
"Come in."
His voice came before the second knock had even finished landing.
My hand froze in midair.
…
Wonderful. So he'd probably heard me from the moment I came upstairs.
Vampire hearing was, at times, an absolute invasion of privacy.
I pushed the door open.
Julian was seated behind his desk. He'd already changed out of what he'd been wearing earlier—dark gray turtleneck, sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing pale wrists with clean, defined lines. A silver-capped fountain pen rested between his fingers.
His gaze traveled slowly from my face downward.
Took in the paint-stained hoodie.
The pajama pants.
Then returned to my face.
He didn't say a word.
But I knew he understood.
I hadn't changed.
"I think…"
I drew a breath.
Decided to get it all out at once.
"I'd rather not go."
Julian didn't move.
I pressed on immediately.
"I don't know any of your friends, and I don't have anything suitable to wear."
A beat.
"Besides, I still have a paper to revise tonight."
Even I could hear the guilt in that last line.
After all, I'd spent at least three hours that afternoon watching variety shows.
Julian set down the pen.
Very gently. The nib touched the desk pad with almost no sound.
Then he leaned back into his chair.
One hand resting on the armrest.
Looking at me.
I knew that look well.
It was the same one he used in class when confronted with an argument whose conclusion didn't hold up.
No immediate rebuttal.
Just quiet patience.
Waiting for you to find the flaw yourself.
I was prepared. I'd even anticipated what he might say.
"We leave at seven."
Or: "It's just a casual gathering."
Or: "Clothes aren't the issue."
I had at least three counterarguments lined up.
Then Julian said:
"Alright."
I froze.
One word.
Soft.
Almost gentle, even.
No follow-up questions. No persuasion. No coercion whatsoever.
I stood in the doorway, all three of my carefully prepared defenses jammed in my throat.
For a moment I had no idea what to do.
This was not the outcome I'd envisioned.
It was too clean.
So clean I couldn't tell whether he was respecting my choice—
Or whether he simply didn't care if I went or not.
The moment that thought appeared, something inside me dipped—just slightly.
I immediately hated the feeling.
What I hated even more was that I didn't know which answer I actually preferred.
I turned to leave.
"What about dinner, then?"
Julian's voice came from behind me.
I stopped.
It wasn't an invitation. It didn't quite sound like a question, either.
More like he'd already assumed that if left to my own devices, I most likely wouldn't eat a proper meal tonight.
My back was to him. My shoulders tensed almost reflexively.
Then I turned around.
"I'll figure it out myself."
I tried to arrange my expression into that of a functioning adult with basic life skills.
Julian didn't move.
He only tilted his head—slightly.
Waiting.
The motion was barely perceptible.
But I knew instantly—
He didn't believe me.
"I can order delivery," I said.
His expression didn't change.
So I added: "Or cook something myself."
Those last few words came out noticeably quieter than the rest.
Because they were a lie.
And we both knew it.
The truth was, in the past two weeks, we had never once eaten at the same table.
Julian usually left before dawn and came back late. I'd always thought this was perfectly normal. Wasn't that exactly how a contract marriage was supposed to work? Two people living under the same roof. Leading separate lives. Crossing paths occasionally. Not bothering each other.
And yet—the fridge was always restocked.
Meal after meal, portioned into individual containers.
Labels affixed with meticulous precision.
Reheating time. Wattage. Special instructions.
Written like laboratory protocols.
Once, there had even been a cup of chocolate pudding.
The exact brand I liked most.
I had never told anyone here about that.
I'd stood in front of the fridge staring at it for a long time.
In the end, I didn't ask.
I ate it anyway.
I even waited until the middle of the night to take it out, as if that might make the whole thing seem more casual.
Because the moment I admitted Julian was taking care of me—
I'd have to ask the next question.
Why.
And then this marriage would suddenly become a lot harder to explain away.
Julian stood up.
Walked toward the door.
Stopped in front of me.
He was so much taller. At this distance, I had no choice but to look up.
He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms folded.
Close.
Close enough that I caught that scent he always carried—clean, cool, faintly sharp.
Like the air after rain in late autumn.
Then he said:
"The last time you cooked."
A pause.
He looked at me.
"You set your mother's kitchen on fire."
My entire body went rigid.
My brain felt like someone had hit the pause button.
A full second passed before I finally found my voice.
"How do you know that?"
Julian didn't answer.
The corner of his mouth moved—barely.
Not quite a smile.
More like a reminder:
He knew more than I thought.
A name immediately came to mind.
My mother.
It had to be her.
The two families had met several times during the prenuptial negotiations. And once my mother started talking, the line between secrets and casual conversation essentially ceased to exist.
I made a decision on the spot: the moment Julian left tonight, I was calling her.
"That was a long time ago," I said, trying to salvage my dignity. "I can cook noodles now."
Julian looked at me.
"Where are the noodles?"
"…"
My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Because in two weeks of living here, I had in fact never seen a single packet of pasta in the kitchen.
Or any noodles at all.
Come to think of it, I still wasn't sure this kitchen—which looked like a showroom in a luxury hotel—even had pots.
As it turned out, it did.
A full set of top-of-the-line cookware, in fact.
Gleaming like display pieces.
Untouched.
Julian read the answer straight off my face.
He didn't laugh at me.
He didn't press further, either.
He simply exhaled—very softly.
That sigh was startlingly clear in the quiet hallway.
Like a deeply patient man confronting something he knew was never going to change.
"There's food in the fridge."
His tone settled back to level.
"Time and wattage are on the label."
A beat.
"If you don't want any of that, I'll have something sent over."
I knew what he meant by "sent over."
Not a delivery app.
Once, I'd gotten up in the middle of the night and found all the containers in the fridge empty.
I hadn't mentioned it.
The next day, the portions had doubled.
To this day, I had no idea how he'd noticed.
I still didn't say thank you.
Because in the context of a contract, "thank you" suddenly felt too heavy.
But saying nothing at all made me feel like I was taking everything for granted.
I didn't want to keep standing there agonizing over this.
"Okay," I said quietly.
Then I turned and walked toward the stairs.
Two steps in, Julian's voice came from behind me.
"Don't stay up too late tonight."
Not loud.
But just loud enough for me to hear.
My foot caught the edge of a step.
I nearly missed it entirely.
I didn't turn around.
If anything, I walked faster.
Back on the first floor, I could still hear faint sounds of movement from the dressing room upstairs.
I sat down at the island.
Opened the fridge.
Took out a container.
The label read:
Microwave, 3 min, 350W.
The handwriting was almost excessively neat. The pen had been pressed down hard.
I stared at it for two seconds.
Then I followed the instructions.
Heated it up.
Ate.
Seven o'clock.
Julian came downstairs right on time.
I glanced up.
One glance, then quickly looked down again.
He was already dressed to go out.
All dark.
The man who had leaned against the doorframe and sighed over my cooking abilities had vanished.
In his place stood the Julian Mason I knew—the familiar one.
As though he'd stepped out of a Renaissance portrait.
Composed.
Impeccable.
Remote.
My fingers tightened around the fork for no reason I could name.
He walked to the entryway and put on his shoes.
He didn't look toward the kitchen.
He didn't ask how dinner was.
Just as his hand reached for the door—
He paused.
"Remember to lock up."
That was all he said.
Then he was gone.
The door closed softly.
The whole house went quiet again.
I sat there.
Fork still suspended in midair.
A few seconds passed before I realized—
In two weeks of living here, this was the first time he'd spoken to me before leaving.
If "remember to lock up" counted as a goodbye.
Before today, he always left while I was still asleep. Or while I was hiding in my room. We simply never crossed paths.
But today—
We'd exchanged more words than in the entire two weeks combined.
The moment that thought formed, the house suddenly felt emptier than before.
Too quiet.
I crushed the thought immediately.
It was just that we'd talked too much today. That was why the silence felt unfamiliar.
That was all.
It had to be.
I looked down.
Took another bite.
Then my fork stopped.
This flavor…
I chewed slowly. Took another bite.
It was a dish I'd loved as a child.
And it was made exactly the way my mother made it.
Not approximately.
Exactly.
I had never told anyone here.
The fork hovered above the plate.
Two full seconds.
I looked at the label.
Then at the fridge.
I didn't say anything.
In the end, I finished everything on the plate.
