But that wasn’t our agreement. And it wasn’t the truth.
“Because I wanted to,” I said, the words sharp and unflinching. “Not because of you, or what you made me feel, but because I needed it to be mine. I needed to claim the moment before it claimed me. I wanted to know what it felt like to choose, not…submit. If it was real or just some Stockholm syndrome response to captivity.”
A flicker crossed his face—approval, maybe, or something darker, more satisfied. “And what did you discover?”
I narrowed my eyes. “That’s a second question, Rafe.”
His smirk was the only answer I needed. “Touché.”
The second course arrived—something decadent and warm, pasta in a truffle cream sauce that smelled almost sinful. We ate in silence, but not comfortably this time. The weight of whatwe’d confessed—and what we hadn’t—settled between us like a third presence. Watching. Waiting.
"This is delicious," I said eventually, more to break the tension than anything else.
"I'll pass your compliments to the chef," he replied, gaze steady. “He’s particularly proud of this one.”
"You have a full-time chef?" I asked, though it didn’t surprise me. Nothing here surprised me anymore. Not the extravagance. Not the precision. Not even the way I found myself drawn to the man across the table.
“Several. The estate requires a significant staff to maintain.” He sipped his wine. “Does that surprise you?”
I shrugged. “I grew up with household staff. Not on this scale, but enough to understand how quickly people disappear into the machinery of privilege.”
He tilted his head. “The O’Sullivan estate is impressive in its own right. Though I imagine your Cambridge apartment was considerably more modest.”
The unexpected mention of my real life—the life before him—was like pressure against a healing bruise. Not grief. Not homesickness. Something else. Something more fractured.
“I liked my apartment,” I said carefully. “It was small. But it was mine. Paid for with my mother’s money, not my father’s.”
“An important distinction for you,” Rafe observed.
“Yes.” I met his eyes head-on. “Independence matters to me. Being my own person. Making my own choices. Which makes this situation... uniquely challenging.”
He nodded once, slow and deliberate. “And yet here we are. Sharing dinner. Conversing like civilized people. Coexisting.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” I asked, allowing just a trace of bitterness to seep through. “Coexisting?”
“For now,” he said. “The future remains to be determined. By both of us.”
The implication—that I had any real say in what happened next—was both a balm and an insult. Like offering a wolf a leash and calling it a choice.
The main course arrived: beef, vegetables, wine reduced to velvet. I focused on cutting each bite, but I could feel his gaze on me again. Heavy. Curious. Wanting.
"You're staring," he said, not bothering to pretend otherwise.
"I'm thinking," I replied, setting down my fork. “About you.”
A flicker of interest. “Dangerous territory.”
“Maybe.” I tilted my head. “I’m wondering what makes a man like you tick. About the gap between what you do and who you are.”
That got his attention. He looked up fully then, eyes meeting mine with that still, unsettling calm. “And what conclusions have you reached?”
I leaned forward slightly, deliberately drawing his attention to the neckline of my dress, to the skin exposed there. "That you're a man of contradictions. Ruthless in business, but careful with me. Capable of violence, but controlled in your interactions. Demanding obedience, but respecting choice."
His gaze dropped briefly to my décolletage before returning to my face, his expression giving nothing away. "Perceptive."
"I'm a good observer," I said, taking a sip of wine, letting the glass linger against my lower lip a moment longer than necessary. "And you're an interesting subject."
Something flickered in his eyes—awareness, perhaps, of the shift in my approach, of the deliberate provocation in my words, my posture, my gaze.
