The admission hangs between us, revealing more than a lengthy explanation could. Christian Hawthorne, a man who controls everything in his domain with calculated precision, is experiencing emotions he can't fully manage. Because of me.
"I don't apologize often, Sophie," he continues, his voice low. "Primarily because I rarely regret my actions. But I regret making you uncomfortable in your own space. That wasn't my intention."
The sincerity in his voice touches something in me, softening my lingering resentment. "Thank you. That means a lot."
"I can't promise I won't feel possessive of you," he adds with characteristic honesty. "But I can promise to be more…measured in my response to those feelings."
"That's all I ask," I tell him, reaching across the table to touch his hand briefly. "That you recognize I'm a person, not a possession. That you respect my boundaries, even when your instinct is to control."
He turns his hand to capture mine, his thumb tracing my knuckles in a way that sends warmth spreading up my arm. "I'm trying to find balance, Sophie. Between who I've always been and who I am with you. It's…unfamiliar territory."
The vulnerability in his admission—the tacit acknowledgment that I affect him deeply, perhaps even change him—reveals a depth to Christian I hadn't fully recognized before. Beneath the commanding exterior, the possessive behavior, is a man shaped by loss and isolation, a man who built walls to protect himself from ever being vulnerable again.
And yet here he is, showing me glimpses behind those walls. Trusting me with pieces of himself he keeps carefully guarded from the world.
"Maybe we can find that balance together," I suggest, my voice softer than intended. "I'm in unfamiliar territory too, you know."
His expression lightens fractionally. "What territory is that?"
"Being pursued by a man who sends enough flowers to open a second business," I say with a small smile. "Who looks at me like I'm something precious and terrifying simultaneously."
"You are," he admits, his grip on my hand tightening slightly. "Precious because of how rarely I find myself genuinely drawn to anyone. Terrifying because of how completely you've disrupted my carefully ordered world."
The honesty of his response steals my breath. This is the Christian few people see, I realize—the man beneath the CEO, beneath the calculated control and commanding presence. A man capable of vulnerability, of self-awareness, of genuine connection.
"Eat your dinner before it gets cold," I tell him, needing a moment to process this new understanding of him. "Chef Michel will be devastated if you don't appreciate his Wellington."
He smiles—a real smile, not the controlled curve of lips he usually offers—and releases my hand. "Always practical. Another quality I admire about you."
As we return to our meal, something has shifted between us—a deepening, a new layer of understanding. I still see the red flags in Christian's possessive nature, his need for control. But now I also see the context, the history that shaped him, the man trying to navigate unfamiliar emotional territory with the only tools he knows.
It doesn't excuse his behavior at the shop. But it helps me understand it. And understanding, I'm discovering, is the first step toward something that feels dangerously like forgiveness.
Or something even more dangerous—acceptance.
Dessert arrives—a delicate chocolate soufflé for me, some kind of deconstructed tiramisu for Christian. The conversation has shifted to safer ground again, but something has fundamentally changed between us. His earlier vulnerability, the glimpses behind his carefully constructed walls, have transformed how I see him. I watch him as he speaks about a recent business acquisition, noting how his hands move when he's explaining something he's passionate about. Noting how his eyes keepreturning to my face, as if checking that I'm still there, still engaged, still with him. It's the same vigilance I've seen before—at the gala, in my shop—but now I'm seeing it differently. Not as possession, but as…fear. Fear disguised as control.
"What?" Christian asks, catching me studying him.
"Nothing," I say, then correct myself. "Actually, I was just thinking about how differently I'm seeing you tonight."
A wariness enters his expression. "In what way?"
I taste my soufflé, buying time to formulate my thoughts. "You present yourself as so certain. So in control. But there's more beneath that, isn't there?"
He sets down his fork, giving me his full attention. "Most people don't look beyond the surface."
"I'm not most people," I remind him gently.
"No," he agrees, something softening in his gaze. "You're not."
He reaches for his wine, taking a measured sip before speaking again. "After my parents died, I learned quickly that people leave. Either by choice or circumstance, they leave. The only certainty is what you can control directly."
The statement, delivered with such matter-of-fact acceptance, breaks my heart a little. Seventeen years old, alone in the world, learning that the only safety lies in controlling every variable, every outcome, every relationship.
"So you built an empire," I say, understanding blooming. "Where you make all the rules."
A hint of his usual confidence returns. "I built security. Independence. A world where I'm never at anyone's mercy."
