"This is beautiful," I say, moving to the stone balustrade that overlooks a small reflecting pool. "And wonderfully quiet."
Alex loosens his bow tie with one hand, the simple action sending an unexpected flutter through my stomach. There's something intimate about watching a man like him—so controlled, so precise—begin to unravel, even in this small way.
"You've been remarkable tonight," he says, joining me at the balustrade. "Everyone is impressed."
I laugh softly. "Impressed that I haven't used the wrong fork or tripped over this dress? Low bar."
"Impressed by your intelligence. Your passion when discussing the hospital's pediatric programs. Your refusal to be intimidated by people who spend their lives trying to intimidate others." He turns to face me fully. "You don't belong in their world, Clara. You're too real for it."
"I definitely don't belong," I agree, running my fingers along the cool stone. "But you do. You move through it like you were born to it."
"I was born with nothing," he says, surprising me. "I taught myself how to navigate these waters out of necessity, not nature."
This glimpse of his past—something he rarely mentions—feels significant, like being handed a key to a locked door. "Is that why you approached me that first day? Because you saw someone else who didn't fit the mold?"
He considers this, his expression thoughtful in the gentle light. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I saw someone who made her own mold instead of trying to squeeze into someone else's. That kind of authenticity is…magnetic."
The compliment warms me more than it should. "Says the man who collects beautiful, sophisticated women like trading cards."
"Past mistakes," he says, repeating what he told me earlier. "Distractions that never distracted enough."
"From what?"
His expression shifts, something vulnerable flashing in his eyes before he masters it. "From the emptiness. From the realization that none of it—the money, the power, the endless acquisition—fills the void created by having nothing, being nothing, for too long."
The raw honesty catches me off guard. This isn't the calculated charm of a man trying to seduce; this is something real, exposed like a nerve. Before I can respond, he shakes his head slightly, as if clearing away thoughts he hadn't meant to voice.
"You're different from them," he continues, moving a step closer. "You create rather than consume. You build rather than acquire. You nourish rather than extract. It's…compelling."
The space between us shrinks to nothing as he takes another step. I should back away. I should maintain distance, remember the warnings, protect myself from becoming another discarded distraction. Instead, I find myself swaying toward him like a flower seeking the sun.
"Alex," I whisper, his name half warning, half plea.
His hand rises to cup my cheek, his touch feather-light, as if I might break—or run—if he presses too hard. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his breath warm against my face. "Tell me you don't feel this, and I'll walk away. Right now."
The power he's offering me—the choice—is unexpected and strangely moving. This man who commands rooms with his presence, who cuts in on dances without asking, who declares his intentions with unapologetic certainty—he's giving me control. The realization makes my heart pound harder.
"I can't tell you that," I admit, my voice barely audible even to my own ears.
His eyes darken, the gray turning stormy with desire. His thumb traces my lower lip with aching gentleness. "What can you tell me, Clara?"
"That I'm terrified," I whisper truthfully. "Of you. Of this. Of how much I want something I know could destroy me."
Something flickers in his expression—pain or hunger or both. "I would never hurt you."
"Not intentionally," I agree. "But men like you…women like me…the endings are always the same."
"Not this time," he says with that unwavering confidence that simultaneously frightens and attracts me. "Not with us."
I should argue, should list all the reasons he's wrong, all the warnings my friends gave, all the evidence of his past. Instead, I find myself leaning into his touch, my eyes closing briefly as his fingers slide into my hair.
When I open them again, his face is inches from mine, his gaze dropping to my mouth with naked hunger. The string lights twinkle above us, the distant sounds of the gala fade to nothing, and all I can hear is the thundering of my own heart, matched by his—I can feel it where his wrist presses against my neck, racing as wildly as mine.
We stand suspended in this perfect, terrifying moment—both of us breathing too fast, wanting too much, knowing that whatever happens next will change everything.
And God help me, I want it to change.
Alex moves with deliberate slowness, giving me every chance to pull away. I don't. His lips brush against mine with unexpected gentleness, a question rather than a demand. The contrast to his usual commanding presence makes something in my chest fracture, a hairline crack in the defensive wall I've built against him. His restraint undoes me more than any forceful passion could. This isn't the practiced seduction I feared;it's something far more dangerous—a man usually certain of everything, suddenly careful, almost reverent.
