Chapter 2
Julian turned fully toward Eleanor, his expression hardening into a serious, uncompromising mask that brooked no argument. He kept his voice low, pitched precisely to carry over the ambient room noise without attracting the wandering eyes of the nearby catering staff or distant relatives. For tonight, why don't you sit over there? he asked, tilting his head slightly toward a secluded corner table far away from the bridal party's line of sight. Eleanor froze, the polite smile instantly draining from her face as her brown eyes widened in sudden disbelief. She looked down at the table, then back up at Julian, processing the sheer audacity of his request. The intimacy of their forty-year marriage usually meant they operated as a single, unified front at public functions, but tonight, Julian was deliberately breaking ranks. The tuxedo felt suddenly suffocating against his skin, trapping the heat of his rising anxiety. Eleanor did not move a muscle, her hands resting calmly yet tightly against the rich fabric of her formal evening gown. She refused to acknowledge the pointed suggestion, treating it as some sort of temporary lapse in judgment rather than a genuine directive. Julian maintained his steady gaze, refusing to blink or soften his features. He knew the history tethering Eleanor to that specific seat at the head table, but he also knew the psychological collateral damage of letting her sit there tonight. The surrounding guests drifted past them in a blur of silk and wool, entirely oblivious to the silent battle lines being drawn beside the floral centerpieces. Julian watched the microscopic twitch near the corner of Eleanor’s left eye, a physical tell she only exhibited when she was fighting down pure, unadulterated rage. He realized then that his quiet intervention would not prevent a scene; it would only accelerate the timeline of an inevitable explosion.
