As we step back from the bustle, Cecilia tucks a stray curl behind her ear and says, just above the dock’s roar,
“Will you be here for Sunday dinner, Mr. Stavros—I mean, Atlas? There are a few clauses I want to review and a few questions you seem determined not to answer on the record. That is, if you’re still in the city.”
Her voice is businesslike—but when it hits me?
Well, this time it sounds like more than a luncheon invitation.
“Sunday dinner? Is this a family event?”
“Weekly. We’ve got a very large extended family, and this Sunday my parents are hosting. I know they’d love for you to come.”
Disappointment slithers up my spine. I had hoped for a more personal invitation.
But this will do.
I pretend to consider it. And I can feel them, Sammy and Nico both, watching my face as if trying to read my next move. I bow my head in the smallest of acknowledgments.
“Thank you, Miss Batiste?—”
“Cecilia, please.”
“Thank you, Cecilia,” I reply, savoring her name on my tongue. “I’ll be there.”
And as the ship’s gangway retracts and the container yard resumes its grinding rhythm, I let a tiny, private smile slip.
The sample passed its tests.
The deal is intact.
And the most dangerous line item on my agenda—Cecilia Batiste—has not yet realized she’s part of my strategy.
There’s work to be done.
Seduction is a tool.
So is patience.
And I plan to wield both.
Chapter Two-Cecilia
A week of meetings on the dock.
A week.
Of watching crates get unloaded, scanned, reloaded, reshuffled, reweighed.
Of container numbers, inspection logs, and God-awful union coffee that tastes like burnt cardboard and regret.
And I swear—if I never see another metal shipping container again, it’ll be too damn soon.
But this deal?
This is mine.
My shot.
My moment.
