"He was flirting," she acknowledges. "People flirt. It doesn't mean anything."
"It means everything." My control slips further, voice dropping to a dangerous register. "You're mine, Sophie. I don't share what's mine."
Her eyes flash, a spark of defiance that both infuriates and enthralls me. "I'm not yours, Christian. We kissed once. We haven't even had a proper date yet."
"That changes nothing." I reach for her before I can stop myself, hands gripping her upper arms, not painfully but firmly enough to make my point. "You felt it the moment we met. This connection. This inevitability. Don't pretend otherwise."
She doesn't pull away, which I take as tacit agreement. Her breath comes quicker, pupils dilating despite her obvious attempt to maintain composure.
"You can't tell me who to talk to," she says, voice steady despite her physical reaction to my proximity. "Or how to smile. Or who to touch. That's not how relationships work."
"Is that what we have? A relationship?" I challenge, my thumbs tracing small circles against her arms. "A moment ago I was your 'friend.'"
Her cheeks flush deeper. "What was I supposed to say? 'This is from the billionaire who kissed me at his gala and then told me I belong to him'?"
The description, though simplified, isn't inaccurate. I feel my anger receding slightly, replaced by something more complex. Something that feels dangerously close to vulnerability.
"I don't like seeing other men touch you," I admit, the honesty costing me something I can't name. "It makes me…irrational."
"I noticed," she says dryly, but there's a softening in her expression. "Christian, you can't drag me into back rooms every time a man speaks to me. I run a business. Half my customers are men."
"I'm aware." My hands slide from her arms to her waist, a more intimate hold. "But there's a difference between professional interaction and what was happening out there."
She doesn't deny it. Another small victory.
"Are you always this possessive?" she asks, watching me carefully.
"No." The answer comes immediately, surprising us both with its honesty. "Never. Not before you."
The admission hangs between us, revealing more than I intended. Sophie studies my face, searching for something—sincerity perhaps, or explanation for my unprecedented behavior.
"Why me?" she whispers, echoing the question from the gala. "What makes me different?"
I wish I knew. Wish I could explain the visceral reaction she provokes, the way she's disrupted my carefully controlled existence. All I know is the fierce certainty that she belongs with me, to me. A certainty that grows stronger with each moment in her presence.
"I don't know," I tell her, the rare admission of ignorance foreign on my tongue. "But it changes nothing. When I see another man touching you, looking at you the way that one did—" I shake my head, jaw tight with renewed tension. "Don't smile at them like that, Sophie. Not when you're mine."
"I'm not yours yet," she challenges, though the "yet" speaks volumes.
I lower my head until our foreheads nearly touch, my voice dropping to an intimate murmur. "You've been mine since the charity auction. The sooner you accept that reality, the easier this will be for both of us."
Her breath catches, a small, involuntary sound that sends heat coursing through me. For a moment, I think she might kiss me—her gaze drops to my mouth, her body sways incrementally closer.
The workroom door opens, shattering the moment.
"Sophie? Sorry to interrupt, but—" Lily freezes, taking in our intimate posture. "Oh. Um. Sorry. Really sorry. But there's a line of customers and Ben is still asking questions and—I'll just handle it. Take your time. All the time you need. Sorry."
The door closes quickly, but the interruption has broken the spell. Sophie steps back, putting space between us, though I note her reluctance with satisfaction.
"I need to get back to work," she says, smoothing her sweater with hands that aren't quite steady.
"I'll leave you to it." I make no move to touch her again, having made my point. "For now."
"Christian—" she begins, then stops, seemingly unsure what to say.
"Seven o'clock," I remind her. "I'll send a car."
Her eyes hold mine, a complex mix of emotions playing across her expressive face—irritation, confusion, and beneath it all, a desire that mirrors my own.
