I stood. Paced to the window. Watched guards change shifts in the courtyard below. Counted to four. Didn't help. Counted again.
The tea was probably cold by now. I should have waited, should have made it fresh right before she arrived. But I'd needed something to do with my hands and making tea had been the only productive option besides pacing a trench in the Persian rug.
Footsteps again at 8:57 AM. Lighter this time. Feminine. The particular rhythm of Sophie's gait with that slight hesitation on her right side where her knee didn't quite work the way it should.
My whole body went on high alert. Every nerve ending firing. The footsteps came closer, passed the first door, the second, approaching the study.
Stopped outside.
Silence. She was gathering courage. Preparing herself. I could picture her on the other side of the door—hand raised to knock, breathing carefully, making herself brave enough to walk into this negotiation that would change everything between us.
The knock came at exactly 9 AM. Two sharp raps. Precise. Punctual.
I stood. Crossed to the door. My hand on the handle was steady even though nothing else was.
I opened it.
Sophie stood in the hallway wearing a soft pink cashmere sweater I'd provided last week. It was probably too expensive—I'd been ordering her clothes without thinking about price, just choosing things that looked soft and comfortable and rightfor her. The pink made her look younger. Softer. Like she was already halfway to Little space just from the choice.
Her honey-colored hair was loose around her shoulders, slightly damp like she'd showered recently. Grey-green eyes met mine, pupils already dilated. Her lips were parted slightly. The bottom lip fuller than the top, slightly swollen like maybe she'd been biting it.
I wanted to kiss her again. Wanted to pull her inside and press her against the closed door and pick up where we'd left off last night in that hallway.
Instead I stepped back. Gave her room to enter.
"Good morning, devotchka," I said.
The endearment landed. I watched her pupils dilate further, watched the way her breathing changed, watched color flood her cheeks.
She stepped inside. The study suddenly felt smaller with her in it. More intimate. The burgundy walls seemed to close around us, creating a world that was just the two of us and the negotiation waiting in those leather chairs.
I closed the door. The soft click felt final. Significant. We were alone now. No interruptions. No escape routes.
Just her and me and the truth of what we both wanted.
"The tea is probably cold," I said, gesturing to the service. "I can make fresh—"
"It's fine." Her voice was quiet but steady. She moved toward the chairs, noticed how I'd positioned them. The contract portfolio on the side table. The careful staging of everything.
"You've been planning this," she said.
"Since 5 AM," I admitted. "Couldn't sleep."
Something in her expression softened. "Me either."
We stood there for a moment. Two people who'd been awake all night thinking about each other, about this, about what we were about to do.
"Sit," I said. Not quite a command. Not quite a request. Somewhere in between.
She sat in the chair I'd intended for her. I took the other. Our knees were close. Not touching. But close enough I could feel the heat of her body. Close enough I could smell whatever soap she'd used—something clean and simple, maybe lavender.
The contract portfolio sat between us. Waiting. Full of clauses and provisions and the formal structure of what we were negotiating.
But first—before any of that—we needed honesty.
I leaned forward. Elbows on my knees. Met her eyes and held them.
"Before we start," I said quietly, "I need you to understand something. This only works if you're completely honest with me. Not compliant. Not telling me what you think I want to hear. Honest about what you need, what you're afraid of, what your limits are."
