I didn't answer, instead guiding her to my office door.
"Perhaps you'll find this more revealing."
I opened the door, watching her face as she took in the room—the bookshelves, the antique furniture, the subtle signs of actual living that were absent from the rest of the penthouse.
Her expression shifted from surprise to genuine interest as she moved to the bookshelves, fingers trailing along the spines.
"Neruda," she said, pulling out a worn volume of poetry. "In Spanish, no less. I wouldn't have pegged the great Lucas Turner as a romantic."
"There's quite a lot you don't know about me," I echoed my words from the gallery, watching as she leafed through the book.
"'No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio...'" she read, her pronunciation flawless. My surprise must have shown, because she smiled.
"Six years of Spanish and a semester abroad in Barcelona. Another thing you don't know about me."
The realization that she could read one of my favorite poems in its original language, that she contained layers I'd only begun to glimpse, sent unexpected heat through me.
She wasn't just physically desirable—she was intellectually stimulating, constantly surprising, impossible to categorize or predict.
She replaced the book, moving deeper into the office, studying each detail with the same focus she'd given the gallery photographs.
"This room feels lived in. Real." Her eyes met mine over her shoulder. "Unlike the rest of your fortress."
"The public gets the image they expect," I said, following her. "Few get to see beyond it."
"And what am I seeing?"
She stopped before my desk, hand resting on the polished wood.
"The real Lucas Turner? Or just another carefully curated version?"
I moved behind her, close enough to feel her warmth but not touching her.
"What do you think?"
She turned to face me, perched on the edge of my desk.
"I think this room belongs to a man who values substance over appearance. Who appreciates history, craftsmanship." Her eyes held mine. "A man who might actually be worth the risk I'm taking."
The admission hung between us, weighted with everything it acknowledged—that this wasn't merely physical, that we were both stepping into dangerous territory with eyes wide open.
"And what risk is that, exactly?" I asked, stepping between her knees, hands coming to rest on the desk on either side of her, caging without touching.
"You know exactly what I'm risking," she said, her fingers finding the buttons of my shirt again. " Me falling back into my old habits. My independence. My heart, possibly."
She tilted her head, challenge in her eyes.
"The question is, what are you risking, Lucas?"
It was a fair question—one I'd been avoiding since that night at the wedding.
What was I truly putting on the line? My relationship with Miles, already strained but still important? My company's reputation for ethical dealing? My carefully constructed life of control and order?
"More than I have for anyone in a very long time," I admitted, the honesty surprising even me.
Something softened in her expression.
"Then I think I can agree to your terms. For now."
