Chapter 5 What is he hiding

Jack was late.

It wasn't like him. He was the kind of man who showed up five minutes early to everything, exuding control and precision in every aspect of his life. Tonight, though, I sat alone at the small café table, my coffee growing cold, the minutes ticking by.

I looked at my phone again- message, no missed call.

Maybe something had come up. Jack was a busy man, after all. But as much as I tried to convince myself, a sliver of unease wormed its way into my chest.

Just as I was about to give up and leave, he appeared in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the warm glow of the café lights.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, his voice smooth but rushed as he slid into the seat across from me. His suit was dashing as always, but his tie was slightly askew, and there was a tightness around his eyes that I hadn't seen before.

"Everything okay?" I asked, trying to read his expression.

"Yeah, just a crazy day at work," he said, flashing me a quick smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

I wanted to believe him, but something felt...off.

"You didn't text," I said, keeping my tone light but pointed.

"I know. I'm sorry," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Things got hectic, and I lost track of time."

"It's fine," I said, even though it wasn't entirely fine.

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze looking to the window as if he was checking for something-or someone.

"What's going on, Jack?" I asked, my unease growing.

"Nothing," he said quickly, too quickly. "Why do you ask?"

"You're acting strange," I said, watching him closely. "Did something happen?"

He hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the table. "It's just work," he said finally, his tone dismissive. "A deal I'm working on. It's complicated."

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked trying to bridge the gap between us.

"No Stella", he answered firmly. "I don't want to bother you with my stuff, I will fix it"

He held my hand and kissed me passionately. I wanted to forget about the expression on his face and focus on the dinner but I couldn't. I just faked a smile.

The rest of the evening felt awkward. Jacked tried to carry on as if nothing was wrong but his usual charm felt forced.

We talked and laughed for a while. When we were done, he paid the bills.

"I'll walk you home", he said.

We stepped out into the cool night air, and I wrapped my coat tightly around me. Jack walked beside me, his hand hovering near my lower back but never quite touching.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I asked again as we reached the corner near my apartment.

He stopped, turning to face me, his expression softening. "I'm fine, Stella. Really."

I wasn't convinced, but I nodded anyway.

His hand lingered on my cheek, and for a moment, the tension between us melted away. But then his phone buzzed, shattering the moment.

He glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening.

"Do you need to take that?" I asked, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.

"No," he said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "It can wait."

But I saw the way his fingers twitched, the way his eyes darted toward his pocket as if the call was burning a hole there.

The next day, Jack was even more distant.

He'd promised to meet me for lunch, but when I arrived at the restaurant, he was nowhere to be found. After waiting for twenty minutes, I called him, but it went straight to voicemail.

I tried not to jump to conclusions. Maybe he was stuck in a meeting or dealing with another work crisis. But as the hours dragged on without a word from him, my patience wore thin.

By the time he finally called that evening, I was sitting on my couch, my nerves frayed.

"Hey," he said, his voice calm, almost too calm. "Sorry about lunch. Something came up."

"That's starting to become a pattern," I said, unable to hide the edge in my tone.

"I know, and I'm sorry," he said, sounding genuinely remorseful. "Can I make it up to you?"

"How?"

"Dinner. My place. Tomorrow night."

I hesitated, torn between wanting answers and wanting to push him away. But curiosity won out.

"Okay," I said finally.

I went to Jack's house that evening, hoping to get an explanation for his strange behavior.

"You didn't have to go all out," I said as he led me to the dining area, where an elegant table was set with candles and a bottle of wine.

"I wanted to," he said, his voice softer now, less guarded.

For a while, things felt normal again. We talked, laughed, and shared stories, the tension from the past few days melting away. But as the night wore on, I couldn't shake the feeling that Jack was holding something back.

After dinner, we moved to the couch, where he poured us another glass of wine.

"Can I ask you something?" I said, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Of course."

"What's going on with you?"

He froze, the glass halfway to his lips. "What do you mean?"

"You've been acting strange," I said, my voice gentle but firm. "Distracted, secretive. It's not like you."

He set the glass down, his gaze fixed on the floor. "I didn't want to worry you."

"Worry me about what?"

He hesitated, and for a moment, I thought he might open up. But then he shook his head. "It's nothing. Just work."

"Jack-"

"Stella, please," he said, cutting me off. "I don't want to talk about it."

When I left his apartment that night, I couldn't shake the feeling that Jack was hiding something. His charm, his warmth-it was all still there, but it felt like a mask, a carefully constructed facade.

And as much as I wanted to believe in him, a small voice in the back of my mind whispered that Beatrice might have been right all along.

Jack Ashford was dangerous. Not because of his wealth or his power, but because he was a mystery-a puzzle I couldn't quite solve.

And if I wasn't careful, I might lose myself trying to uncover the truth.