The house looks back at me. It’s not a face, not really, but the rows of tall windows read like eyes. Not hostile. Not welcoming. Just… aware. Is he there? Watching me hesitate in the driveway?
What would he do if I just backed away and took off? Would he open the gates for me?
A breeze runs through the trees and lifts the little hairs at my nape. I check the mirror one more time for something else to do.
Finally, I turn off the car, gather my bag, and step out into the weird, unnatural quiet. The air even tastes different here, cleaner. My heels sink a millimeter into the gravel and make a small sound that’s louder than it was when I left my apartment.
I square my shoulders and start toward the door.
The door opens before I reach the top stair.
“I was wondering if you were going to get out at some point,” he says, leaning a shoulder to the jamb like he’s been there a while.
I stop. The wind lifts a curl at my temple and sticks it there. He looks… wrong for the house and somehow exactly right. Open collar, sleeves pushed to his forearms, no tie.
“Had to decide whether the gates were to keep people in or out,” I say.
His mouth tilts. “Depends who you ask.” He steps back. “Come in, Panini.”
The nickname slides over my skin; I don’t acknowledge it. Cool air hits me as I cross the threshold—stone underfoot, late afternoon light spearing through skylights, the light smell of roses, and something darker I’ve started to associate with him. He doesn’t touch me as I pass.
We walk past a table with a bowl of pale peonies and into a living room that opens to more green and water. The water in the pool laps gently with the soft breeze. Everything here is quiet and expensive and carefully chosen. I am none of those things.
He gestures to a sofa. I choose the chair instead, because armrests feel safer somehow. He takes the other chair, angled toward me, not across from me, which might feel too formal.
“Something to drink?” he asks. “I would offer you espresso—I’ve finally mastered the machine—but alas…” His eyes dip, making my stomach tighten. Reflex makes my hand twitch toward my blouse. I force it to stay. I’ve done nothing wrong. I sit on my own hand and keep my chin up.
“Water,” I say. “Cold.”
“Sparkling or still?”
“Still.”
He disappears and returns with a glass sweating in his hand. He sets it on a coaster in front of me. I take a sip, and the cool feels like relief moving through me.
“I’m glad you called,” he says.
I set the glass down very carefully. “I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”
His frown is instant and unhidden. “You’re not being forced, Elena,” he says, voice low. “I don’t want that for you. Ever. I asked you here because I have the right to my say before you make any decisions.”
“Big of you,” I say, too sharp, then rein it in. I smooth a wrinkle out of my trousers that doesn’t exist. “You’re still having me followed.”
“For protection,” he answers, no pause.
“From whom?” I ask. “Because I don’t need protection from anyone except you.”
He doesn’t flinch. The muscle in his cheek ticks once, then smooths. “Not from me,” he says quietly. “You’ve never needed it from me. Even when we were only prosecutor and…” He smiles. “Who I am.”
I tip my head and let the silence speak for me.
He sits back, forearms to the chair arms. “Say what you want to say,” he tells me. “Then I’ll say my piece.”
“Negotiating tactic?” I say dryly.
“This is not a negotiation,” he says gently. “You have a certain idea of me, and I understand why that is, but circumstances are not the same, and that deserves transparency.”
The corner of my mouth lifts against my will. “Fine. Transparency.” I take another drink to stall and because my mouth has gone dry. “You don’t get to turn my life into a chessboard.”
