"Said the former special forces soldier built like a brick wall." I attempt a smile. "Easy for you to be calm."
"I'm not calm. I'm controlled." He holds my gaze. "There's a difference."
I know this, have seen the difference play out in his bedroom, in his workshop, in every deliberate move he makes. Dario's control doesn't come from insecurity or power hunger like Marc's. It comes from discipline and purpose.
"What time will he arrive?" I finish the toast, more out of obligation than hunger.
"Micah called an hour ago. Marc's staying at the Crimson Lodge. He checked in late last night." Dario's expression darkens slightly. "He's requested a meeting at The Velvet Antler at noon."
"Neutral ground." I nod. "Smart."
"We don't have to meet him at all." Dario reminds me. "The land transfer is complete. Your prenup is void. He has no leverage."
"He'd just show up here." I shake my head. "Better to confront him on our terms."
Our terms.The phrase feels right, despite the tension still lingering between us after yesterday's courthouse revelation.
"I'm coming with you." Not a request.
"Okay." I finally meet his eyes directly. "I want you there. But I need to handle this myself."
Something shifts in his expression—pride, maybe? Respect? "Your show. I'm just backup."
"Extremely intimidating backup." This time my smile feels more genuine.
"That's the plan." He rises, collecting our dishes. "We should leave by eleven thirty. Roads are clear, but traffic might be slow with the holiday shoppers."
I nod, returning my gaze to the window. What will Marc see when he looks at me now? The polished marketing executive he thought he controlled? Or the woman who's discovered her own strength on this mountain, in this cabin, with this man?
By eleven, I'm dressed in what Sierra calls my "corporate warrior" outfit. Black tailored pants, crimson silk blouse, black ankle boots with just enough heel to add confidence without sacrificing mobility. My hair falls in defined curls rather than the wild mass I've grown accustomed to sporting around the cabin. Subtle makeup enhances my features without looking overdone.
When I descend the stairs, Dario waits by the door. He's traded his usual flannel and jeans for dark wash denim and a charcoal button-down that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders and the intensity of his eyes. Murder weapons indeed.
"You look beautiful," he says simply.
"I look professional." I correct him, though warmth spreads through me at the compliment. "This is a business meeting."
"If you say so." His lips quirk slightly. "Ready?"
The drive to town passes too quickly. Neither of us speaks much, each lost in preparation for what's coming. The Velvet Antler appears ahead, strings of Christmas lights adorning its rustic exterior despite the daylight hour.
"He's already here." Dario nods toward a sleek black Audi in the parking lot. Exactly Marc's style—expensive, flashy, impractical for mountain roads.
"Of course he is. He always arranges to arrive first. Power play." I unbuckle my seatbelt, drawing a steadying breath. "Remember, let me handle this."
He nods. "Unless he threatens you." Dario's voice drops, that dangerous edge I've come to recognize slipping in. "Then all bets are off."
We enter The Velvet Antler together, my eyes adjusting to the dimmer interior. The lunch crowd is sparse, just a few locals at the bar and a handful of tables occupied with holidaymakers.
I spot him immediately. Marc Alexander sits at a corner table, back to the wall, face toward the door. Always strategic, always watching. He rises as we approach, a practiced smile spreading across his handsome face.
"Judith." He steps forward as if to embrace me, then stops when Dario shifts slightly closer to my side. "You're looking well. Mountain life agrees with you."
"Marc." I keep my voice neutral. "This is my husband, Dario Wallace."
The two men size each other up like predators in disputed territory. The contrast is striking—Marc in his tailored suit, every dark hair perfectly in place, the very picture of urban sophistication. Dario with his rugged build, watchful eyes, and quiet, lethal confidence.
"A pleasure." Marc extends his hand, the picture of corporate courtesy. "I've heard so much about you."
