While the household stirred quietly around him, Michael made preparations of his own.
He did not dress for ceremony. Instead, he chose light, casual clothing—soft trousers, an open-collared shirt—clothes meant for comfort rather than display.
The decision was deliberate. Formality would come later, whether he wished it or not.
His mother's invitation troubled him more than he cared to admit. Five years had passed since she had last arranged anything resembling a birthday celebration.
In that time, their relationship had settled into a careful distance, maintained through silence rather than reconciliation. The sudden return of pageantry felt calculated. She was never impulsive.
Whatever this dinner was meant to accomplish, it would not be benign.
A faint sense of foreboding followed him as he crossed into his study. Still, he allowed himself a measure of guarded hope. She knew him better now—or should have. He was no longer the boy who mistook charm for affection.
Michael seated himself at the desk and turned his attention to work.
Documents lay neatly arranged, reports and correspondence outlining recent movements within his company. He read with focus, making notes in the margins, his mind slipping easily into structure and analysis. Numbers, projections, strategy—these were languages that did not betray him.
He did not pause until Mr. James entered quietly, carrying a silver tray.
Breakfast was substantial, unmistakably English in its indulgence: eggs softly scrambled with cream, thick slices of grilled beef in place of bacon, sautéed mushrooms, blistered tomatoes, buttered toast still warm to the touch. A pot of strong tea steamed gently beside the plate.
Michael acknowledged him with a nod and ate without ceremony, finishing within half an hour before returning immediately to his work.
Fifteen minutes later, a sharp knock broke the rhythm.
Before he could respond, the door opened.
Rosa Sheridan entered with force enough to announce her mood before she spoke. Her eyes were bright with agitation, her movements quick, uncontained.
"So," she said, closing the door behind her, "it's true."
Michael did not look up. "If you're referring to the guest list, then yes."
She approached him, her voice lowering as she moved closer. "You're taking Lila."
He finally raised his gaze, expression unreadable. "That is correct."
Rosa laughed, short and incredulous, and stepped nearer still. "I've known you longer than she has."
She leaned in until there was barely any space left between them, her body angled with deliberate precision. Her hand slid against his chest, not merely resting there but moving—slow, possessive—her fingers pressing as though she were reminding him of the solidity beneath his clothes. Her knee nudged firmly between his strong thighs, unapologetic, settling there with a confidence that assumed welcome rather than permission.
The heat of her proximity was unmistakable. The faint brush of her breath against his throat, the scent of her perfume—sweet, heavy, clinging—filled his senses, intrusive and difficult to ignore. Rosa smiled as she felt his body respond despite him, a subtle tightening, a betrayal of instinct that only emboldened her.
"You could have chosen me," she murmured, her voice low, intimate, almost lazy with certainty, as if his resistance were merely a formality yet to be corrected.
Michael registered the reaction with detached clarity—the involuntary pull of desire, sharp and physical, entirely uninvited. It meant nothing. His body had always been capable of responding without his consent. He did not move toward her. He did not soften.
Michael's reaction was immediate and absolute. He caught her wrist firmly and pushed it away.
"Step back," he said coldly. "Now."
The command stopped her. She recoiled slightly, surprise flashing across her face before she smoothed it into something more wounded, more strategic.
"I just don't understand," she said softly, tilting her head. "Is this how you treat a woman who cares about you? Or is Lila offering you something I can't?"
Michael stood, forcing distance between them. His voice dropped further, stripped of any warmth.
"I'm shocked," he said as he took a short turn about the room and turned to face her arms crossed from the opposite side of the desk. "I had imagined you were more sensible than this.Instead you're behaving foolishly."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You've been seeing her behind my back."
He let out a short, humorless breath. "Stop taking liberties. We were never in a relationship that entitled you to concern yourself with my choices. You were a mistress. Nothing more."
The word landed hard.
"I've just finished eating," he continued, each word precise. "And not three weeks ago, I buried my daughter. Why you would imagine I'd be in the mood for this"—he gestured dismissively—"is beyond me."
Rosa's face flushed, anger replacing hurt. "You think you're better than me."
"No," Michael replied evenly. "I think I'm finished."
He reached for the bell and rang once. Anna appeared moments later.
"Show Miss Sheridan out," Michael said. "And inform her that our association has ended."
Rosa stared at him, contempt etched into her expression, then turned and left without another word.
When the door closed, silence returned to the study.
Michael remained standing for a moment, tension settling deep in his shoulders. He was exhausted—not physically, but by repetition. By the same hollow encounters dressed up as intimacy. By women who mistook access for meaning.
Perhaps, he thought, it was time to change his approach.
He returned to his desk, but the documents blurred slightly now. Somewhere beyond the walls of his study, something in him had shifted—quietly, irrevocably.