"That's not the point," I insist, refusing to be derailed. "The point is that you don't own me. You can't stake some territorial claim and expect me to just…comply."
"Yet here you are," he observes, gesturing to our surroundings. "At dinner with me, despite my apparent overstepping."
"Because I want to be," I admit, the honesty costing me something. "And that's the difference, Christian. I'm choosing to be here. Not being commanded, not being claimed. Choosing."
He's silent for a moment, studying me with unnerving focus. I force myself to hold his gaze, not to look away or soften my stance. This matters. My independence matters, even as my heart races under his scrutiny.
"You wore blue instead of red," he says finally, surprising me with the apparent non sequitur.
"Yes."
"A deliberate choice. To establish independence."
I blink, unsettled by how accurately he's read my small rebellion. "Yes."
A hint of a smile touches his lips. "I admire your spirit, Sophie. I always have."
"But?" I prompt, sensing the unspoken qualifier.
"No but." He reaches across the table, not taking my hand but placing his palm up in invitation. "I'm not accustomed to being challenged. It's…refreshing."
I stare at his outstretched hand, caught off guard by this shift. "So you understand why your behavior today was unacceptable?"
"I understand that it concerned you," he says carefully. "And that's enough for me to reconsider my approach."
Not quite an apology, but perhaps as close as a man like Christian Hawthorne comes to one. I hesitate, then place my hand in his, feeling the now-familiar warmth of his palm against mine.
"I'm drawn to you, Christian," I admit, my voice quieter now. "More than I should be, considering we barely know each other. But I won't sacrifice my autonomy, not even for…whatever this is between us."
His fingers close around mine, gentle but secure. "I don't want your sacrifice, Sophie. I want your surrender. There's a difference."
The distinction sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear. "And what exactly would I be surrendering to?"
His thumb traces small circles on my wrist, a hypnotic touch that makes it hard to focus. "To this connection. To the possibility that some things are inevitable. To me."
His voice drops on those last two words, dark and intimate in a way that makes heat pool low in my stomach. I force myself to stay on track.
"I can't surrender to someone who treats me like a possession," I tell him, though my body betrays me with its reaction to his touch. "I need to be a partner, not an acquisition."
Christian studies me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression—a recognition, perhaps, that I won't be so easily claimed as he expected.
"Then we'll negotiate terms," he says finally, the businessman in him finding familiar ground. "You tell me whatyou need from me. I'll tell you what I need from you. We'll find…compromise."
The word sounds foreign on his tongue, as if he rarely uses it. I suspect he doesn't, not in business, not in life. The fact that he's willing to even consider it now, with me, feels like a significant concession.
"Starting with?" I prompt.
"Starting with dinner," he says, releasing my hand to pick up his menu. "And a conversation that doesn't involve ultimatums from either of us."
It's a reasonable suggestion, a step back from the intensity that's defined our interactions so far. I find myself relaxing slightly, the knot of tension between my shoulders loosening.
"I'd like that," I agree, reaching for my champagne at last.
Christian raises his glass again, his eyes never leaving mine. "To negotiation, then."
I clink my glass against his, a tentative smile forming. "To negotiation."
As I sip the expensive champagne, I realize I've won a small victory. Not a complete surrender on his part—Christian Hawthorne doesn't seem the type to surrender anything completely—but an acknowledgment, at least, that I won't be simply claimed like a prize.
