Monday morning arrived with the metallic taste of dread in Elena’s mouth. She dressed in the crisp, plain uniform she had laid out for herself—a white blouse, a black pencil skirt that hit just below the knee, stockings, and low heels. In the mirror, her own green eyes looked back, wide and unsure, the memory of his lips a ghost she couldn’t blink away. She fastened the simple necklace at her throat, the cool gold a stark contrast to the heat that lived under her ribs now, a low, persistent ache that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the press of him against the billiard table.

After grabbing a bite to eat, she met him in his study at nine. The room had its usual smell of old paper, expensive leather, and she noticed the faint, clean scent of his cologne. He was behind his desk, a stack of files before him, his blue eyes lifting as she entered. “Sit,” he said, his voice the same controlled baritone. No mention of the kiss. No hint of the man who had taken her mouth like he was claiming territory. He slid a portfolio across the desk. “Tell me what you think of this painter’s use of negative space. The gallery is asking for a pre-emptive bid.”

She took the portfolio, her fingers delicately wrapping around the end of the folder. The artwork was bold, chaotic splashes of color defining emptiness. She talked. He listened, asking precise, intelligent questions. For the day, it was just work. Her opinion mattered. Her degree was being used. It was the most normal interaction they’d had since Lisa had arrived, and it felt like the most normal the two had been since. If this is what normal is supposed to be.

Tuesday was the same. A different artist. A discussion on market saturation for minimalist sculpture. He wore the same navy suit, his black hair perfectly in place, his five o’clock shadow a deliberate darkening along his jaw. She found herself watching his mouth as he spoke, the shape of it, remembering the shocking softness of his lips against the hard demand of the kiss. A flush crept up her neck. She did her best to hide away before he noticed. She was sure he probably always noticed. But he said nothing, just turned back to the contract specifications.

Wednesday, he was reviewing financials for a gallery acquisition. The numbers were a blur. Her body had developed a new awareness, a hum just beneath the surface. When he leaned over to point at a column on the spreadsheet, his shoulder brushed hers. The contact was fleeting, impersonal. It burned through the sleeve of her blouse. She jerked her arm back as if scalded. He didn’t look up. “Everything ok, Elena?”

“Yes,” she responded quickly. Her body was yelling at her mind for pulling away.

All week, he gave no commands. He didn’t touch her beyond those accidental, electric brushes from handing over documents and forms or his work tablet with details listed on it. He didn’t reference the wager, her victory, or the debt. It was all cold, detached professionalism. It felt like a new kind of torture. The silence where his control usually lived was somehow louder. It gave her mind room to wander, to replay the press of his body, the way his hand had cradled the back of her head, the faint taste of scotch and dominance. She’d lie awake at night, her own hands tracing her collarbone, her stomach, wondering what it would feel like if his touch was not a punishment, but a choice. The thought made a bitter burn at the back of her mouth even as it made her thighs press together.

Friday afternoon, the work was done. The late sun slanted through the office windows, gilding the dust motes in the air. She stood, gathering her notepad, muscles tense for the dismissal. He remained seated, watching her. The quiet stretched, filled with the echo of all the things he wasn’t saying.

“Have dinner with me tonight.” His voice cut through the silence.

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, flat and clear. Yet the phrasing—*have dinner with me*—held a grotesque parody of politeness. It shocked her more than a command would have. She stared at him, her grip tightening on the notepad. “What?”

His blue eyes held hers, giving nothing away. “You’ve worked hard all week and deserve a break. Do you accept?”

This felt like a game. The illusion of choice. She could say no. He would let her. Then what would the unspoken consequences do as they coil in the air between them, thicker than any chain? She swallowed, her throat tight. “Yes.”

“Good.” He looked back down at his desk, as if the matter was settled. “I command you to wear the black dress. We leave at six.”

Hearing the command felt like such a relief to hear. Something inside her has been missing, and felt better to hear again. A small connection she felt like had returned.

“Yes Sir.” She responded, then turned without another word and walked out, her heels clicking a rapid, frantic rhythm on the marble floor. Her skin felt too tight. Her mind was a riot of fear and a terrible, clawing curiosity. Tonight, the professional mask was coming off. She didn’t know what would be underneath. She only knew the ache inside her was about to be fed, or broken, or both. Then her mind turned to the thought of the black dress. The way she knew it would show off her body, and it created a new heat inside.

The hot water hit her back like a punishment she’d been craving. Elena stood under the stream, head bowed, letting it scald the tension from her shoulders. The steam wrapped around her, thick and cloying. She pressed her forehead to the cold tile, a gasp escaping as the memory hit, unbidden and vicious: his body, the hard line of him against the billiard table, the heat of his mouth. Not just the kiss. The imagined weight. The width of his shoulders blocking the light. The phantom feel of his hands, those firm hands with their latent strength, gripping her hips.

Her own hands slid down her stomach, a traitorous pilgrimage. The water sliced over her fingers, a cold contrast to the feverish burn of her skin. She thought of his mouth on her neck, the sharp threat of his teeth. A low, broken sound echoed in the shower stall, guttural and desperate. Hers.

Her palm pressed flat between her legs, a jolt of pure, stupid need spearing through her, making her knees buckle. She braced against the wall, the tile slick under her forehead. This was insanity. This was her body revolting, a vicious, single-minded hunger that hollowed her out from the inside.

She started touching herself. First slow and gentle, then quick and rough, a frantic attempt to blunt the ache. It wasn’t helping. It just made the emptiness sharper, more specific. She imagined what it would feel like, being filled by him—something slipping and filling the hollow spot inside, the shocking completion, the end of this relentless wanting.

Unable to stand it anymore, she turned the water to cold. The shock was a slap. She endured it, teeth chattering, her skin starting to go numb and her thoughts were forced back into a brittle, manageable order. When she couldn’t bear the cold any longer, and she felt her mind clear, she stepped out, dripping, and caught her reflection in the fogged mirror. The reflection of a stranger.

Hopping out of the shower, she toweled off with brisk, angry motions. The soft cotton felt abrasive. Her skin was hypersensitive, every nerve ending raw and shouting. She went to the wardrobe, her movements forced by the distractions.

The black dress hung alone to one side, a slash of darkness in the wardrobe. She laid it on the bed. Then she opened her underwear drawer. Sitting inside were her two choices; silk or lace. Unthinking she pulled out a lace pair. The lace was flimsy, a web against her fingertips. They would make her feel better. Make her feel more empowered at dinner.

Stepping into them, she felt the lace cool against her sensitive skin. Pulling it up, it hugged her hips, the narrow band a stark contrast to the pale curve of her stomach. She didn't look in the mirror. She didn't need to. She could feel the difference. It was a declaration her mind hadn't approved, written on her skin.

She picked up the dress. The silk was cold and heavy. She shimmied into it, the fabric whispering over her thighs, her hips, her waist. She pulled it up, working her arms into the slender straps. The corset top felt secure, wrapping perfectly around and under her breasts, lifting them. The open back was a constant reminder of her skin revealed behind her. She zipped the little part of the back with a sharp, Zzzzpp noise.

Pushing away the persisting thoughts, she walked into the bathroom, the vanity light unforgiving, washing her skin to a stark, pale look. From a drawer, she pulled out the hair dryer and plugged it in. She worked at her hair, letting the hot hair blow through all the strands till she was ready to brush it and regain its normal light curl.

She opened the small, lacquered jewelry box provided by the manor. Inside, her few personal pieces lay beside more expensive, unfamiliar ones—Thorn’s silent offerings. She went through the diamonds and gold. Finally, finding a small golden hoop with loose hanging diamonds. Something about them caught her eye, and she felt they would go best with the dress. With the metal cold, she pushed them through her lobes, feeling the sharp, familiar pinch on her ear.

Next, the makeup. Standing before the mirror, she selected only a few things: foundation, light mascara, and a ladybug red lipstick. Leaning into the mirror, her breath re-fogging the glass, barely clearing from the steamy shower. The pencil dragged across her lash line, a stark, defining stroke. She did the other eye, her hand steady. The mascara coated her lashes, making her green eyes look sharper, older. The lipstick was the final strike. She painted her mouth carefully, the waxy texture leaving a faint taste of roses and chemicals.

Then she reached into the very back of the jewelry box. Her graduation gift. A delicate silver chain with a single, teardrop-shaped moonstone. It was cool and smooth in her palm, a tiny, solid piece of a life that felt like someone else’s dream. She unclasped it, the fine chain catching the light.

Lifting her hair, she piled it atop her head. The dress's open back awaited. She brought the ends of the chain around her throat. The clasp was tiny, her fingers clumsy with a faint, adrenaline-driven tremor. It took three tries before she heard the minute, definitive click. The stone settled in the hollow of her throat, a cold, persistent weight.

She let her hair fall. It cascaded over the silver chain, hiding and revealing it with every shift. She looked at the completed picture.

She faced the mirror.

The woman who looked back was a stranger. Just like before, when Liam— Mr. Thorn had her dress in a blue dress, she had looked amazing. Now, she wore a jet black dress that felt powerful and unforgiving. It showcased every dip and curve, the narrow waist, the swell of her breasts against the neckline. The lace of her panties pressed against her hips as a faint reminder of the dress’s skirt at her hips. A secret displayed. Her long, wavy brown hair was a damp cascade down her bare back, the ends curling where they met the open V. Her green eyes were too bright, too aware.

She looked Sexy. The thought frightened her, as her body warmed to the sudden thought.

Then she thought of how she must look like something he had ordered. Something he had purchased and was now awaiting delivery. The thought should have filled her with ice. Instead, a treacherous heat pooled low in her belly. She was dressed for his appraisal. And a part of her, a deep, shameful part, wanted to meet his standards.

Steeling herself, she slipped her feet into black heels. The click on the hardwood floor was a sound of finality. She was ready. Or she was as ready as she would ever be.

She stood in the center of her room, listening to the silent manor. Somewhere, he was waiting. He was putting on a jacket, checking his watch, his mind a chessboard of cold calculation. He had planned this. Had this whole week of professional distance been just a setup? She knew the game board had been set. Now, to see how the game would be played.

And she had put on the lace for him.

The realization was a hollow pit in her stomach. Her defiance had been whittled down to this: a choice of underwear. It was nothing. It was everything. It was her body whispering *yes* before her mind could form the word *no*.

She walked to the door. Her hand on the cool brass knob was the last point of contact with the fragile illusion of safety. She turned it. The hallway beyond was dim, lit by sconces that cast long, grasping shadows on the marble. It smelled of lemon and stone and impending rain.

She stepped out. The door clicked shut behind her, a sound like a trap springing. Her heels tapped a slow, measured rhythm as she walked toward the grand staircase. Each step was a surrender. Each breath was a countdown.

At the top of the stairs, she paused. The entrance hall stretched below, vast and cold. And there he was. Liam Thorn stood by the front doors, his back to her, a silhouette of tailored wool and controlled power. He was looking out at the gathering dusk.

He turned.

His blue eyes tracked her descent. They took in the dress, the bare back, the fall of her hair. They missed nothing. His poker face held, but something shifted in the air. A current, like the moment before lightning strikes. He didn’t smile. He simply watched her, a man looking at something that was, finally, aligning with his design.

Elena reached the bottom step. The marble was cold through her thin soles. She stopped, waiting. The space between them vibrated with everything unspoken, every command and every silent, lace-clad acquiescence.

“Elena,” he said. Her name in that low baritone was a command all by itself.

She lifted her chin to him. “Sir.”

***************************

Liam Thorn watched her descend, and the calculation in his mind stuttered into static. The dress was the one he’d chosen, but he hadn’t prepared for it to be so… perfect. The black fabric was a shadow against her skin, a contrast that made her look carved from moonlight. It hugged every curve he’d mapped in his imagination, the corset lifting her breasts into two perfect swells his hands ached to test the weight of. The open back was a provocation, a canvas of bare skin he wanted to mar with his teeth. Her hair, a damp cascade, hid and revealed the line of her spine with every step. She was a living theorem of his own design, and the proof was making his blood pound through him.

“Elena,” he said. Her name was grit in his throat. Her responding “Sir” was a spark on tinder. The professional mask he wore was iron, but beneath it, his body was a riot. He could smell her from three feet away—clean soap, the faint floral of her shampoo, and underneath, the warm, unmistakable scent of her skin. It was a scent that bypassed thought and went straight to the primal core of him. He wanted to press his face to her throat and breathe it in until he was drunk.

“You look adequate,” he said, the lie smooth and cold. Adequate was a horrible choice of words. Adequate was just the choke of want tightening his throat. Watching her hesitate, he offered his arm, a gesture of old-world courtesy that felt like a pretext for contact. When her fingers settled in the crook of his elbow, the heat of her touch seared through the wool of his suit jacket. He led her to the front doors, each step measured, while inside him, a beast snarled to turn, to pin her against the cold marble, and take the delicate prey before him.

The car, a silent black sedan, waited at the base of the stairs. Rain misted the air, catching in her hair like diamonds. He opened the rear door for her. She slid in, a whisper of silk and the glimpse of a bare thigh. The sight was a punch to his gut. He shut the door, the solid thunk a barrier between her and the world. For a moment, he stood in the damp chill, dragging the cold air into his lungs, forcing control back into his limbs. He had a plan. Seduction as strategy. Warfare. He recited it like a mantra. It was ash in his mouth.

He got in the other side. The interior’s normal leather scent being overtaken by the scent of her. The driver pulled away smoothly. Liam stared straight ahead, trying to distract himself from the beautiful woman he wanted to take, sitting only a small gap from him.

He was excruciatingly aware of her. The soft rustle of her dress when she shifted. The slow, controlled rhythm of her breathing. He could see the swell of her breasts in his peripheral vision, the shadowed cleft above the neckline. The dress he’d chosen to unsettle her was now his personal torment. Every bump in the road threatened to jostle her closer. His fingers curled against his thigh, nails digging into his palm. The pain was a grounding wire. It was insufficient.

The silence stretched, thick and electric. He could feel her confusion, her fear, that terrible curiosity. It radiated from her like heat. He wanted to shatter the silence with a command. *Look at me. Touch me. Unravel for me.* He kept his mouth shut. The game required patience. The predator in him screamed for the pounce.

“The restaurant has a view of the river,” he said, his voice too deep, too rough. He cleared it. “The chef is exceptional.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” she replied, her voice quiet, aimed at the window.

Fine. The word was a mockery. Nothing about this was fine. The car turned onto the bridge into the city, lights streaking the windows. In the flashes, he stole glances. The line of her jaw. The vulnerable column of her throat. The moonstone resting there was one he didn’t recognize.

Arriving, the restaurant was all dark wood and low light, a private booth in the back, a grand view overlooking part of Las Lona. The gold and silver lights of the city giving a grand view. He guided her with a hand on the small of her back. The touch was a need. A way to try to connect to her. The jolt that went through him was unexpected. He felt the heat of her skin through the silk, the delicate architecture of her spine. She didn’t flinch. She sank into the chair, and he took the seat opposite, putting the width of the table between them. A quick tactical retreat for him to catch his breath.

First, the wine came. The deep red liquid swirled in the glass, catching the low light. He felt the cool, smooth stem between his fingers. Then the food followed, the scent of herbs and seared meat rising between them.

To start the conversation, he asked about art, about business theory, about the market for emerging artists. He listened, truly listened, as she spoke. The measured precision of her sentences began to loosen, the words coming a fraction faster.

A spark lit in her green eyes when she talked about color theory, about the tragedy of good art languishing in storage. He could hear the shift in her voice, a new warmth layered over its usual cool clarity. Her intelligence was sharp, clean, and wonderful for him. It was a physical presence at the table.

He found himself leaning in, not to intimidate, but to catch every word. The discovery was more intoxicating than the wine. He could see the faint movement at her temple as she thought, the deliberate gesture of her hand as she made a point. Her mind and how powerful it was continued to draw him in, a silent, relentless pull.

The silence after her last point about market saturation was a live wire. Liam watched her take a sip of wine, her throat working as she swallowed. The intellectual chase had been a revelation, but it was a prelude. The plan demanded a deeper incision. He set his glass down, the click a deliberate punctuation.

“And what about you, Elena?” His voice was quieter now, stripped of its boardroom timbre. “The curator, the businesswoman. What does she want? Not for the artists. For herself.”

The question landed in the space between them like a stone in still water. She froze, the wine glass halfway to the table. Her green eyes flicked up, searching his face for a trap. He kept his expression open, a mask of genuine inquiry. It was the most dangerous face he could wear.

“I… want my business to succeed,” she said, the answer automatic, rehearsed.

“That’s a professional want.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, closing the distance. “I’m asking about the woman. The one who reads theory and sees color in algorithms.”

A flush bloomed across her chest, visible above the black neckline. He watched the pink skin rise and fall with her quickened breath. The shift was immediate, the air thickening from cerebral to visceral.

“I want to be able to help others around me,” she said, but her voice was cracking and losing its earlier conviction. A reference she failed to deny. It was a whisper against the low hum of the restaurant.

“A practical answer. Not truth.” He reached across the table. Not to touch her, but to tilt her chin up with the tip of his finger. The contact was electric. Her skin was impossibly soft. “Try again.”

Her lips parted. He saw the war in her eyes: the sharp mind calculating risk, and beneath it, the raw, unformed thing he was hunting. The thing that had put on the lace.

“I wanted… to build something beautiful,” she said, the words escaping like a confession. “Something that was mine. Not grades, not a degree. Something real. A place where creation mattered more than profit.” Her gaze drifted past him, to the city lights. “It was naive.”

“Naivety is a luxury,” he murmured, his finger still under her chin. “But the desire isn’t. The desire for something real.” He paused, letting the words hang. Is that why you’re so afraid of what’s happening between us? Because it feels real?

She jerked her head back, breaking the contact.

He leaned back, a slow, predatory relaxation.

Her hand trembled as she lifted her wine glass. She took a gulp, not a sip. The deep red liquid stained her lips. Oh, how he wanted to lick it off.

“You’re confusing me,” she whispered.

“I’m trying to see you.” The truth of it rattled him. The plan was to seduce, to own. But the compulsion to *understand* was a rogue variable. “The woman, not the businesswoman.”

She laughed at a dry remark he made about corporate collectors. The sound was low, real. It unstitched something in his chest. For an hour, the contract faded. The debt. The plan. There was just a beautiful, clever woman across from him, and the simmering, undeniable current between them. He watched her mouth as she spoke, the red stain of her lipstick slightly smudged on the rim of her glass. He imagined smudging it further.

This was no longer about winning. She was leaning forward, her gaze holding his, a flush on her cheeks that wasn’t from the wine.

The victory should have tasted sweet, to feel wonderful, but it didn’t. It was now tasting like fear. His own. He was letting her in. A crack in the structure he formed. His mind needed to seal it shut.

An interruption to his thoughts as his phone buzzed in his inner pocket. He ignored it. The buzz came again, persistent. A text. He didn’t look.

“Everything okay?” Elena asked, noticing his shift.

“Perfectly,” he said, his smile not reaching his eyes. The mask was back. The moment of connection snapped. He saw the confusion cloud her face, the hurt she quickly hid.

The phone buzzed a third time. A specific pattern. Urgent. Finally pulling out his phone, he saw a message.

Victor’s text glowed on the screen: We have an update. You need to call me now.

Liam stared at the words. The update was not one he could ignore. The stolen Eros. The real world, cold and violent, crashed back in. He looked at his reflection in the window. His blue eyes were hard, his poker face firmly in place. But beneath it, a fury boiled. Not at Victor. Not at his rivals. At himself. For the hour of forgetting. For the dangerous, beautiful distraction sitting in the booth, waiting for him to return and finish what he’d started.

He excused himself with a murmured apology, sliding from the booth. The annoyance of the pause to the wonderful evening. The air in the restaurant felt cold after the heat of their booth. He walked to the men’s lounge, a sterile, silent space, and pulled out the phone. Leaving Elena alone at her seat.

He thumbed the screen, putting the phone to his ear.

“Talk.”

*******************

Elena watched Liam's back retreat toward the lounge, the tailored wool of his suit absorbing the low light. The warmth of the booth, the ghost of his laughter, the genuine spark in his eyes—it all cooled into a hollow ache. She traced the rim of her wine glass, the crystal slick under her thumb. For an hour, she’d forgotten about the contract. Her body still hummed with the memory of his gaze, the way it had felt like being seen, not assessed.

“Elena Rossi.”

The voice came from behind her left shoulder, smooth and unfamiliar. It wasn’t Liam’s controlled baritone. This was higher, laced with a mocking melody.

She turned. A man stood beside the booth, blond hair swept back, a smile that didn’t touch his ice-blue eyes. He was taller than Liam, his suit just as expensive, but it hung on him with a careless elegance. He looked like a magazine ad for cologne she couldn’t afford.

“Do I know you?” Her voice was measured, the quiet precision a shield.

“Alexander Stern.” He said it like she should recognize the name. He slid into Liam’s seat and gave her a small, theatrical nod. “Don’t mind me. I hate standing during uncomfortable conversations.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His cologne was aggressive, citrus and spice, meant to overwhelm. “The question isn’t if you know me. It’s if you know what kind of man you’re having dinner with.”

Elena’s spine straightened. “I’m not interested in conversation. Please leave.”

“Oh, I think you are.” Alexander’s smile widened. “I saw the way you looked at him. Like he hung the moon. It’s almost sweet. Tragic, but sweet. Do you know what he’s done?”

“Why are you bothering me?” The words came out flat, but her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs.

“Because someone should.” He picked up Liam’s abandoned wine glass, swirled the dregs, and set it down.

“You have a brother, don’t you?”

He watched her expression sharpen.

“Marco.” His smile widened. “Sweet boy. Very enthusiastic gambler. Actually has some good skills too!” Alexander watched her like someone enjoying a particularly good play. “You ever wonder how a college kid gets access to that kind of high-stakes action? The kind where the vig alone would crush him?” The debt that miraculously landed him in Thorn’s exclusive, inescapable ledger.

Elena’s mouth went dry. She saw Marco’s panicked, tear-streaked face the night he’d confessed. The impossible number. The shadowy “they” he was terrified of.

“Funny thing about Thorn’s games. The players always think they found the table themselves.” Alexander said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Invited the boy to play. Made sure the deck was stacked. Fed him just enough wins to get him hooked, then pulled the floor out. The best part—It was never about your brother’s debt.”

The realization didn’t dawn. It dropped, a cold stone in her gut. Her breath hitched. The beautiful meal turned to lead inside her.

“It was to get to me,” she whispered, the thought crumbling in her mind.

“There’s the upcoming famous Rossi intellect!” Alexander exclaimed with a smile crossing his face. He leaned back, spreading his hands. “All that work. That scholarship. That little art business you built from nothing. He didn’t just want to own your debt, Elena. He wanted to own the architect. The whole, pristine, promising package.” He stood up, adjusting his cufflinks.

“Anyway,” he said lightly, pushing himself up. He glanced at the door Liam had disappeared through. “Food for thought. Enjoy your dinner.”

He gave her a final, pitying look with the half smile on his face, then turned and walked toward the restaurant’s main entrance. She watched his blond head move through the dim room, a shark gliding through darker water, until he pushed through the door and vanished into the night.

The noise of the restaurant rushed back in—the clink of silverware, the murmur of voices—but it was muffled, distant. Her palms were cold and damp where they pressed against the marble tabletop. She stared at the space where Alexander had been, then at Liam’s empty glass. The proof. Her mind replayed every interaction with Liam from the beginning. The cold offer. The specificity of the contract. His focus on her mind, her reactions, her will.

It wasn’t random. It was a design.

She flinched as a shadow fell across the table.

Liam stood there, slipping his phone back into his inner pocket. His face back in its perfect and undisturbed look, but his eyes were sharp, scanning her. He took in her pallor, the too-wide set of her green eyes, the way her hands were clamped together in her lap.

“My apologies,” he said, his voice back to that controlled baritone. He slid into the booth, his presence immediately filling the space Alexander had poisoned. “Important business, I had to answer.” His gaze held hers. After a moment of his eyes scanning her, “You look unsettled.”

Elena forced her lungs to expand. She made herself meet his blue eyes. The eyes of the man who had orchestrated her ruin to possess the pieces. “I’m fine,” she said. The lie was brittle. “The wine, maybe.”

Liam didn’t blink. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing the back of her trembling hand. The contact was hot, searing almost as his hands touched hers. “You’re cold.”

She didn’t pull away. She let his warmth seep into her skin, she couldn’t let him know anything was wrong. Inside, a new fire was lit. Not the banked embers of defiance. The cold, clear flame of understanding. He had built a trap, and she wasnt going to let herself be the prey any longer. The only way out was to learn the design better than the architect.

“Just tired,” she murmured, her eyes dropping from his. She focused on the moonstone at her throat, the one he hadn’t given her. A tiny, secret part of herself he didn’t own. The clarity returning to her mind and body. “It was a lovely dinner, sir. Thank you.”