"Home, sir?" my driver asks as I settle into the back seat.
"Yes," I answer, though the penthouse waiting for me feels oddly empty at the prospect.
As the Bentley pulls away from the curb, I allow myself one glance back at her building. Sophie stands in the doorway still, silhouetted against the light, watching my departure. Not inside yet. Not able to walk away.
Perfect.
Let her want. Let her wonder. Let her wrestle with the inevitable.
By the time I see her again, she'll be that much closer to surrendering completely.
And I'm a very patient man when the prize is worth the wait.
Chapter
Eight
SOPHIE
I wakeup reaching for someone who isn't there. My sheets are tangled around my legs, evidence of a restless night spent chasing sleep that refused to come. Christian's words followed me into my dreams, his voice a persistent echo that wouldn't fade even in unconsciousness. "You're mine now." Three words that should make me angry, should trigger every independent bone in my body. Instead, they've lodged beneath my skin, a splinter of possession I can't extract no matter how I try. What is wrong with me? One kiss—just one—and I'm lying awake at night, haunted by a man I barely know.
My alarm blares, an unnecessary intrusion since I've been staring at the ceiling for the past hour. I reach over to silence it, then fall back against my pillows, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. This is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman, not some teenager with a crush. Christian Hawthorne is just a man—an arrogant, controlling, impossibly magnetic man who looked at me like I was something precious, then walked away when he could have had me.
That's the part I can't make sense of. He wanted me—I felt it in his kiss, saw it in his eyes, heard it in the rough edge ofhis voice. I invited him in, practically offered myself on a silver platter. And he walked away. Left me standing in my doorway, trembling and confused, while he retreated to his waiting car like some conquering general making a strategic withdrawal.
"Damn him," I mutter, finally forcing myself out of bed.
The cold floor against my bare feet is a welcome shock, grounding me in the reality of morning. My apartment is chilly—the ancient heating system struggles against December's bite—but I barely notice as I shuffle toward the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror is a disaster: makeup smudged despite my half-hearted attempts to remove it last night, hair a tangled mess, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep.
I look like a woman who spent the night being thoroughly ravished, except I spent it alone, staring at my ceiling, replaying every moment of the gala in excruciating detail.
The shower helps, hot water washing away the physical remnants of last night if not the memories. I catch myself lingering on the places Christian touched—my hand, my waist, my face. The ghost of his fingers seems imprinted on my skin, a phantom touch I can't shake. I turn the water colder, hoping to shock some sense back into my system.
It doesn't work.
Wrapped in a towel, I return to my bedroom, where the emerald dress hangs on the outside of my closet door—a glittering reminder that last night wasn't a dream. I reach out to touch the velvet, soft and cool beneath my fingertips. A dress that cost more than I make in a week, maybe two. A dress he bought for me without blinking, as if such extravagance was nothing.
To him, it probably is nothing.
That thought should be sobering. The reminder of how different our worlds are, how mismatched we appear on paper. Christian Hawthorne, billionaire CEO, and Sophie Winters,small-town shopkeeper. It's absurd, the stuff of HallBen movies, not real life.
Except the heat in his eyes when he held my face and told me I was his—that was very real.
I force myself to turn away from the dress, to go through the motions of my normal morning routine. Comfortable jeans, a soft sweater in deep cranberry, practical boots. My shop-owner uniform, worlds away from last night's glamour. I pull my hair into a simple ponytail, apply minimal makeup, put on the snowflake earrings my grandmother gave me before she died. Normal. Ordinary. Me.
So why does it all feel like a costume now?
Downstairs, the shop is quiet and dark, waiting for the day to begin. I flip on lights, adjust displays that don't need adjusting, check the register even though I know it's ready. Muscle memory takes over while my mind remains stubbornly fixed on Christian. Will he call today, as he promised? What happens if he does? What happens if he doesn't?
The bell above the door jingles at precisely 9:00 AM, startling me from my reverie. Mrs. Henderson, right on time for her weekly browse. She's been coming every Saturday morning for years, usually purchases one small item, spends an hour chatting about town gossip.
"Sophie, dear!" She beams, unwinding a scarf from her neck. "I heard all about the gala last night. Marjorie's nephew works catering at the Grand Summit and said you were the talk of the event!"
I nearly drop the snow globe I'm holding. "I—what?"
"You and Christian Hawthorne!" She leans over the counter conspiratorially, eyes bright with excitement. "Marjorie's nephew said you two couldn't keep your hands off each other! Something about a mistletoe kiss that had the whole room buzzing?"
Heat floods my cheeks. So much for small-town privacy. "It was just a business event, Mrs. Henderson. Mr. Hawthorne featured my ornaments at his company gala."
