Page 91 of Jude

It hurt, but the truth was always cleaner than a lie.

She would feel the sting of rejection tonight, maybe for a week, but she would recover.

In my book, stringing a woman along because I was too much of a coward to voice my hesitation was the ultimate betrayal.

I did not owe Sofia a declaration of love out of mercy, and real devotion would not grow in the soil of obligation.

Yet, as I tossed and turned, my cold logic started to fracture.

The fact was that the rigid boundaries I had set for this marriage of convenience were slipping through my fingers.

I missed Sofia’s presence when the studio sessions ran until midnight.

I craved how her face lit up whenever I walked through the door, or the sound of her laughter when we binged a show on TV together.

I was drawn to her joy, to her resilience, and it terrified me because she was never supposed to own me like this.

I braced myself for a frosty reception from Sofia the next morning, expecting an arsenal of slammed doors, deep sighs, and passive-aggressive silence.

The kind I’d endured with every other woman in my past whenever they did not get their way.

Instead, Sofia stood by the stove, bathed in the early sunlight, singing a soft melody under her breath.

‘Morning, Jude,’ she said, sliding a plate of scrambled eggs and avocado slices onto the counter as I pulled out a stool.

Her expression was serene, her posture relaxed, and she offered a genuine, warm smile before pouring my black coffee.

‘Hey.’

My timbre was a rough growl as I searched her face.

Credit to her, she didn’t pout; neither did she throw me a sideways glare, nor demand an apology.

Her complete lack of malice only made the guilt twist tighter in my gut.

Her good nature did not absolve my hesitation; it highlighted it.

However, slipping that ring onto my finger meant forever.

A wedding band to me was not a piece of cheap jewelry or a prop to make a contract look legitimate; it was an eternal oath, a permanent mark of ownership and surrender.

Still, I needed to make this up to her.

She deserved to know she was not just a chore or an agreement to me.

She was more, even though I couldn’t articulate what she was or whether she had a place in my future life.

A few days later, the band locked in the final master tracks for our next album, Storm Born.

We spent the afternoon gathered at the mixing console, toasts of celebratory beer going around the room as Mason laid out the plans for our upcoming tour.

‘It’ll be an eight-to-twelve-week intensive, through Paris, Rome, Berlin, and then London, and perhaps even several Italian shows. You’ll be debuting songs from the new album, plus helping a handful of younger acts to drum up some press.’

As I left the studio, my phone rang.

Brian Waring, my attorney’s name, flashed up.

‘Boss, speak to me,’ I growled.