By the time dessert was served, I was exhausted from the constant performance—remembering names, family connections, appropriate responses. I'd never realized how draining it could be to be "on" for hours at a time, every word and gesture calculated for maximum effect.

"Almost done," Caleb whispered, noticing my fatigue. His thumb traced gentle circles on the back of my hand, a surprisingly comforting gesture. "You've been perfect."


"I feel like I've run a marathon," I admitted quietly.

"Social marathons are the worst kind," he agreed, a hint of humor in his voice. "No medals at the finish line, just more small talk."

His unexpected joke startled a laugh out of me, drawing curious glances from nearby diners. Caleb smiled—a real smile that transformed his usually serious face and made my heart do a strange little flip in my chest.


"You should do that more often," I said without thinking.

"What?"


"Smile. Like you mean it."

Something vulnerable flashed in his eyes before he could mask it. "I don't have much reason to, usually."

Before I could respond, Richard Silverton stood, tapping his glass for attention. "Before we conclude our evening, I'd like to propose a toast," he announced. "To new beginnings and old alliances. To the future of our families, stronger together than apart."

Everyone raised their glasses, but I noticed the significant looks exchanged between Richard and Marcus. There was subtext here I wasn't grasping.

"And to Caleb and his charming Eve," Richard continued, his gaze settling on us. "May your union bring the strength and renewal our community needs in these challenging times."

Union? That seemed like a loaded word for a relationship that was supposedly still new. I glanced at Caleb, finding his expression carefully neutral as he raised his glass in acknowledgment.

As the dinner finally wound down and guests began to depart, Caleb kept me close, his hand rarely leaving some part of me—my back, my arm, occasionally my hand. To anyone watching, we would have appeared completely in sync, a couple comfortable in each other's space.

"Ready to leave?" he asked as the crowd thinned.

I nodded, stifling a yawn. "More than ready."

As we said our goodbyes, James Silverton intercepted us near the door. "Leaving so soon?" he asked, his eyes on me rather than Caleb. "The night is still young."

"Eve has early classes tomorrow," Caleb said before I could respond. "Another time, perhaps."

"I'll hold you to that." James took my hand again, bringing it to his lips in an old-fashioned gesture that seemed designed to provoke Caleb. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Eve. I hope we'll see more of each other."

"Thank you for your hospitality," I said neutrally, extracting my hand once more.

Outside, the night air was cool and refreshing after the stuffiness of the house. I took a deep breath, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders as Caleb guided me toward his car—a sleek black Audi that probably cost more than four years of my tuition.

"You were magnificent," he said as we drove away from the estate. "Every person in that room believed we're together."

"Even Marcus?"

"He's suspicious by nature, but yes, I think even he was convinced by your performance." Caleb's hands were relaxed on the steering wheel, his profile strong in the dim light from the dashboard. "You have a natural grace in social situations that I wouldn't have expected from someone who claims to prefer books to people."

"Years of practice," I explained. "After my mom died, I had to step up at my dad's faculty events. Smile, make small talk, be the perfect daughter while he networked." I stared out the window at the passing trees. "You learn to wear the mask people expect."

Caleb was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry about your mother," he finally said. "How did she die?"

"Car accident," I said, the familiar pain a dull ache now rather than the sharp agony it had once been. "She was driving home from a conference. The official report said she swerved to avoid an animal on the road and hit a tree instead."

"You don't sound convinced."

I glanced at him, surprised by his perception. "There were... inconsistencies. Things that never made sense to me. But I was twelve, and everyone said I was just looking for someone to blame because I couldn't accept it was just a tragic accident."

"What kind of inconsistencies?" His tone was carefully neutral, but I sensed an underlying tension.

"Her car was found miles from where she should have been driving. Some of her things were missing—her favorite necklace, her research notes. And..." I hesitated, never having shared this part with anyone. "There were scratches on the car that the police said came from tree branches, but they looked more like... claw marks to me."

Caleb's hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. "What was your mother's name?" he asked, his voice strangely intense.

"Eleanor," I said, confused by his reaction. "Eleanor Mitchell, though she published her academic work under her maiden name, Eleanor Gray."

The car swerved slightly before Caleb corrected course, his expression suddenly rigid. "Gray," he repeated. "From the northern Gray family?"

"I... I don't know. Her family was from Minnesota originally, I think. We didn't have much contact with them after she died." I studied his profile, alarmed by the change in his demeanor. "Caleb, what's wrong? Did you know her?"

He was silent for so long I thought he might not answer. Finally, he said, "I knew of her. Her work was... respected in certain circles."

"Her work on folklore and cultural mythology?" I asked, still confused. "I didn't think that was widely known outside academic circles."

"It had... broader applications than you might think." He glanced at me, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Did she ever talk to you about her research? Specifically about shapeshifter legends?"

The question was so unexpected it took me a moment to respond. "She specialized in transformation myths across cultures. Shapeshifters were part of that, yes." I frowned, trying to understand the connection. "Why?"

Caleb's jaw tightened. "Just curious about your academic influences."

He was lying. I could feel it, though I couldn't understand why my mother's research would matter to him. Before I could press further, he smoothly changed the subject.

"You should get some rest tonight. Tomorrow will be another performance—introducing me to your friends."

The reminder of our coffee date with Harper momentarily distracted me from the mystery of Caleb's reaction. "Right. Though that might be more challenging than the Silverton dinner. Harper has known me since we were four. She'll spot any inconsistencies in our story."

"Then we'll need to make sure there aren't any." He pulled into the driveway of the Blackwood estate, where I'd left my car earlier. "We should align on how we met, how long we've been seeing each other."

"Three months," I suggested. "Long enough to be serious but not so long that Harper would be offended I kept it secret."

He nodded. "We met at the university library. I was researching family archives, you were working. I asked for your help finding materials, and we started talking about books."

"Simple, plausible, and close enough to the truth to be believable," I agreed. "And it explains why I've been spending time here—helping with the family archives."

"Exactly." He parked beside my Honda, the contrast between our vehicles almost comical. "You're good at this, you know. Creating believable fictions."

"I'm an English major," I reminded him with a small smile. "Stories are my specialty."

He turned to face me, his expression serious again. "Thank you for tonight. You exceeded all expectations."

"Just doing my job," I said lightly, though something in me wanted more than his professional appreciation.

"It's more than that," he said quietly. "You fit into my world in a way I didn't anticipate. People respond to you—not just because you're with me, but because of who you are."

The compliment warmed me more than it should have. "Well, don't get too used to it. In three months, I go back to being just Eve Mitchell, bookworm extraordinaire."

Something flickered in his eyes—regret? Doubt? "Of course," he said, his voice neutral once more. "Three months."

As I drove home that night, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between us. The pretense was becoming more convincing, the boundaries blurring. And Caleb's reaction to my mother's name and research nagged at me, a puzzle piece that didn't fit anywhere in the picture I was trying to assemble.

What I didn't know then was that the mystery of my mother's death and the secret world of the Blackwoods were more closely intertwined than I could have imagined—and that discovering the truth would change everything I thought I knew about myself.