The dining room table, set with a dangerous normalcy, became the stage for the rest of the afternoon. Eleanor, the family's gentle conductor, quickly settled into the role of Jackson's biographer.
"Oh, he was a terror," she chuckled, her hands fluttering over the linen napkin, a charming counterpoint to the General's stillness. "We called him the 'Silent Assassin.' At four, he managed to dismantle the sprinkler system because he decided the garden needed a moat, and he did it so cleanly we blamed the plumber for a week!"
"You know, there was a time he was getting a hiding and wouldn't unclench his buttocks." She added.
Jackson, seated beside me, was the picture of relaxed humiliation. He laughed, a genuine, easy sound I hadn't often heard, and his arm never left the back of my chair, his fingers idly tracing the line of my shoulder. He was soft, warm, and constantly touching me…he transformed into the openly obsessed boyfriend. The sudden, easy access to this unguarded side of him was proving to be a potent distraction, unnerving the strategic core I thought was impervious.
Lyle chimed in with stories about Jackson's teenage escapades—all minor rebellions, nothing that hinted at the dark architecture of his true life.
Then, inevitably, the conversation turned.
"Belinda," Eleanor asked, her voice warm with polite curiosity. "You've told us how Jackson was, but what about your own childhood? You carry such grace…I imagine your home must have been very structured."
My blood ran cold. My parents, had ensured my childhood was a sterile environment of hyper-vigilance, emotional abuse, and the kind of "structure" that prepared a daughter to manage an empire built on bodies. The poisonous words he'd spat at me just two days ago were fresh scars.
I had to lie. And the lie had to be perfect.
I managed a serene smile. "My home was... very traditional. My mother was a classicist…she believed entirely in discipline and perfection. My father," I paused, letting a delicate fondness creep into my voice, "was the foundation. He taught me that control was the highest form of love. It wasn't always easy—there were high expectations—but it instilled a sense of duty. My upbringing was really quite idyllic in its ambition."
The words felt like glass in my mouth…a sickening inversion of the truth. I could feel Jackson's posture shift the moment I began the answer. His touch on my shoulder stilled. He knew I was performing. He knew the truth about the Knight dynamic, about the coldness, and about the brutal words Chester had aimed at me.
He didn't call me out. He didn't interrupt my narrative to his family. Instead, his fingers, which had stilled on my shoulder, suddenly flexed, delivering a small, silent squeeze of acknowledgment and concern.
"Speaking of control," Jackson interjected smoothly, diverting the conversation with a sudden, forceful charm, "we need to talk about Dad's upcoming golf tournament. I told Lyle he needs a handicap just to compete with you, sir."
The subject immediately shifted to pars, putts, and property disputes near the eighteenth hole, and the tension left my shoulders. Jackson, my devoted manager, had noticed my discomfort and chosen to protect the woman beneath the lie. The subtle intimacy of his gesture was more effective than any of the elaborate intimacy we'd shared.
The meal was concluded, the gifts exchanged, and the General retreated to his library with his unsettling cigar still untouched. As Eleanor and Lyle were clearing the last of the china, Eleanor turned to us.
"Jackson, the roads will be dark, and you know how early your father wakes up," she said kindly. "Stay the night. You both look exhausted."
Jackson looked at me, a silent, electric question in his eyes. I gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. An overnight stay gave me hours of surveillance time on the General's study and the chance to fully process the Thorne crest on that cigar.
"We'd love to, Mom," Jackson said, his voice easy.
By 21:00, we were officially retired to the guest suite. I was fully expecting Jackson to pull out his secure satellite phone and frantically compile the report on the Dolomites I'd demanded. Instead, he simply looked at me, his eyes alight with a focus I hadn't seen since the theater.
"Get changed," he commanded, his voice low and firm, echoing the tone he'd use on a raid. "Put on something warm. Something that moves."
"Jackson, the report—"
"The report is on your tablet, encrypted. You can read it when we get back," he interrupted, already pulling a set of keys from his pocket. "You gave me the perfect date. Now I'm going to deliver it. Ten times better."
Thirty minutes later, the Mustang purred silently along a remote stretch of highway. We weren't heading toward the city's neon… we were heading toward absolute blackness.
He drove us to the top of a private mountain road overlooking the vast, glittering grid of the metropolis below. He parked, not in front of a building, but at the edge of a custom-built, open-air viewing platform.
He got out, opened my door, and led me to the center of the platform.
It wasn't an ancient, tiny telescope; it was a massive, modern celestial reflector telescope housed under a dome that silently slid open to reveal the ink-black sky. He hadn't just rented the space…he had secured access to a university-grade research observatory.
"6 of your favourite wine bottles are chilling in the box," he said, nodding toward a sleek silver crate. "And I don't need three hours to point out constellations. I bought you the whole universe, Bel."
He walked to the control panel, his profile illuminated by the faint glow of the monitor. "I'm not relying on mythology," he said, turning back to me. "I'm relying on data."
The powerful telescope swung to life with a quiet hum, its massive lens locking onto a distant point of light.
"That night you described? The one I supposedly planned?" he asked, walking up behind me, his hands resting lightly on my hips. "It was perfect because it was designed to make you forget the world."
"Tonight," he whispered into my ear, his breath warm and intoxicating, "I want to show you exactly how small the world is, so you can remember what you truly own."
He pressed a button, and the monitor behind him flashed an image… the Carina Nebula, a pillar of cosmic dust and creation, vibrant and terrifying in its scale.
"That pillar of creation is 7,500 light-years away," Jackson murmured, his lips brushing my ear. "Everything we're dealing with…Chester, Rosline's wedding, the company, the General's politics—it's all happening in this tiny, fragile bubble of blue light. It's insignificant. You are not."
He turned me around to face him, his eyes fierce with a commitment that transcended lies and war.
"You gave me a kindness I didn't earn today," he said, his voice husky. "And you made me realise that my greatest risk isn't crossing Chester…it's losing you. I will build you a future that is worthy of that view."
He didn't wait for a response. He kissed me then—not with the punishing hunger of the theater floor, but with the measured, devoted intensity of a man who had finally found his source of calmness.
The General, the cigar, the Dolomites—it all vanished, reduced to a speck of cosmic dust under the terrifying, beautiful weight of the stars aligned above us.