I shower anyway and towel off, trying to force my head into some kind of readiness. But when I eye the dress again, I leave it hanging and step into my jeans.Screw him. He doesn’t get to control everything.
When I step into the hallway, practicing my brave face and organizing every ounce of courage I can muster, he’s there.
Leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place.
All-black suit, sharp lines, and that face that looks like it’s been carved to piss me off and turn me on at the same time. His eyes drop to my outfit, and I can practically feel the disapproval radiating off him.
“This is what you’re wearing?” Benedikt’s voice is low, threaded with annoyance, like he’s trying not to cause a scene in the upscale restaurant’s side corridor where we’ve just crossed paths.
His eyes rake over me once. He’s in an all-black suit, crisp and tailored to the exact breadth of his shoulders, his dark tie perfectly knotted. He looks like sin in a funeral suit, dangerous, rich, and absolutely out of my league in every sense.
“This is what I own,” I shoot back, brushing past him. The scent of him is deep, woodsy, threaded with something faintly smoky. It snags at my lungs and makes me want to pause, but I keep moving.
He’s quick to grab my bicep, his fingers warm and unyielding, pulling me into his side like he’s reeling in a fish that just tried to dart away. He leans down, his breath grazing my ear.
“What did my note say, princess?” he mutters, his voice velvet with a sharp edge. “I thought you knew how to read.”
The tip of his nose slips into my hair, close enough that his breath warms the back of my neck. My body reacts before I can help it, muscles tightening, and pulse kicking, but I force my chin higher.
“I’m not?—”
He tugs harder on my arm, enough to make me stumble a fraction closer, but there’s nowhere else to go.
Benedikt fills every inch of my personal space, his chest brushing my shoulder. His cologne is intoxicating, the kind of scent that clings long after the man leaves.
“Repeating is one of my pet peeves, Sienna. In fact, my number one, if we’re being technical.” His tone dips lower, enough that I feel it in my spine. “I told you to wear the dress. You’re going to wear the dress, aren’t you, princess?”
My pulse hammers, but I still force my next words from my throat. “You don’t get to tell me what to wear, Benedikt. I’m not your doll.”
He gives me a slow smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You underestimate yourself, princess. But I do get to tell you what todo. In fact, I get to tell you quite a lot of things now.” His thumb brushes the inside of my arm in a way that feels deliberate, almost like he’s testing just how far my pulse will spike. “This isn’t a date. This is business. And I expect my business partner to dress accordingly.”
“I’m not your partner.”
That smirk sharpens. “You’re about to be my wife. And the mother of my heir. That makes you my partner in the only way that matters to me.”
The words hit me like cold water.
There’s no romance here.
No soft build-up, no chance to be wooed. He’s laying it out plainly: what he wants, what I am to him.
And yet, some deeply stupid part of me can’t ignore how close he is. How his hand on my arm makes it hard to think straight. How the weight of his gaze strips me down to nerve endings.
“Come on,” he murmurs, steering me toward the door. “Let’s go over this arrangement so you can hate me for the next five years.”
—
The restaurant is one of those penthouse places with dim lights, heavy velvet chairs, and floor-to-ceiling views of the skyline. I walk in and immediately feel like I’m being watched.
Everyone’s in suits and cocktail dresses, talking in low murmurs like they’re all carrying secrets at ten in the morning.
And here I am. In jeans.
This is all insanity and stupid. Who does this?
Rich people.
Waiters in white shirts and black vests move silently between tables. He doesn’t wait for a hostess, leading me straight to a corner booth with a view of the whole room, like a man who owns the place or is paranoid he’s going to get assassinated from behind.
