Sophie pauses at the top of the stairs, looking up at the snow, then out at the illuminated winter garden stretching into darkness. Her profile in this light—snow catching in her hair, cheeks flushed, the emerald dress rich against her pale skin—makes something tighten in my chest. Something unfamiliar, almost painful in its intensity.
"It's beautiful," she says softly.
"Yes," I agree, not looking at the snow.
She turns, catches me watching her, and the blush deepens. I offer my arm to escort her down the stairs, hyperaware of the slick marble beneath the light dusting of snow. She places her hand in the crook of my elbow, trusting me to keep her steady.
"Where are we going?" she asks as we approach the car.
A reasonable question. One with too many possible answers, all of which lead to the same inevitable conclusion: wherever we go, she's mine tonight. And if I have my way—which I always do—for much longer than that.
"Home," I say simply, as my driver opens the door for us.
I don't specify whose home. That decision can wait. For now, all that matters is that we're leaving the crowded gala behind, that I'm taking Sophie somewhere private, somewhere I don't have to share her with curious eyes and speculative whispers.
Somewhere I can explore exactly what that kiss promised—and everything that comes after.
The Bentley pulls away from the Grand Summit, leaving behind the glittering chaos of the gala for the cocoon-like silence of the car's interior. Sophie sits beside me, close enough to touch but with a careful few inches between us—a space charged with everything unsaid. Snow falls harder now, creating a hypnoticpattern in the headlights as we navigate the winding drive away from the hotel. I haven't told my driver where to go yet. That decision feels weighted, consequential in ways that billion-dollar acquisitions never have.
The privacy partition is raised, sealing us in our own world. The only illumination comes from the soft ambient lighting recessed in the car's ceiling and the occasional passing streetlamp that washes Sophie's profile in gold before returning her to shadow. In this shifting light, she looks otherworldly—the emerald dress transformed to black in the darkness, then flaring to life with each sweep of light. Her hands rest in her lap, fingers twisting together in a gesture I've come to recognize as nervousness.
She's beautiful in her uncertainty. In her awareness of what's happening between us.
"Where are we going?" she asks finally, breaking the silence.
"Where would you like to go?" I counter, giving her the illusion of choice while knowing I've already narrowed the possibilities to ones I find acceptable.
She hesitates. "I should probably go home. It's late, and I open the shop tomorrow."
Should. Not want. The distinction is small but significant.
"Is that what you want?" I press, turning slightly to face her. "To go home? Alone?"
Her eyes meet mine in the dimness, wide and conflicted. "What I want and what I should do aren't necessarily the same thing."
"They can be." I let the words hang between us, an offering and a challenge.
The car turns onto the main road leading back to town, snow-covered trees lining both sides like sentinels. Sophie stares out the window, but I doubt she's seeing the scenery. Her reflectionin the glass shows her biting her lower lip, a habit I've noticed when she's wrestling with a decision.
I could push. Could tell the driver to take us to my penthouse without consulting her further. She might protest, but not convincingly. Not after that kiss. Not after the way she melted against me on the dance floor. But forced capitulation isn't what I want from her. I want surrender—willing, conscious surrender.
I reach across the space between us, my hand covering hers where it rests on the seat. She startles slightly at the contact, but doesn't pull away. Her skin is cool, soft beneath my fingers. I trace the delicate bones of her wrist, feeling her pulse leap at my touch.
"Sophie," I say her name like a claim, low and deliberate.
She turns from the window, her face half-illuminated by passing light, half in shadow. Perfect metaphor for the crossroads she stands at—between the safe, predictable life she's known and the unknown territories I'm offering.
"This thing between us," I continue, my thumb drawing small circles on her wrist, "it's not going to fade when the night ends."
"You can't know that," she whispers, but there's no conviction in her voice.
"I do know it." My fingers slide between hers, interlocking our hands in a more intimate hold. "I recognized it the moment I saw you on that auction stage. You felt it too."
She doesn't deny it. Another small victory.
The tension in the car thickens, becoming almost tangible—a living thing breathing between us. I can smell her perfume, the subtle vanilla note that's uniquely her. Can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest as her breathing quickens. Can feel the slight tremor in her fingers where they're tangled with mine.
"You should know," I say, my voice dropping lower, "that you've awakened something in me. Something I didn't know existed until you."
