"And relationships?" I ask, treading carefully. "Do they fit into that controlled world?"
"Relationships involve surrender," he says, as if explaining a basic business principle. "Vulnerability. Risk."
"All things you avoid."
"All things I've never found worth the potential cost," he corrects. "Until now."
The implication hangs between us, charged with meaning. I take another bite of soufflé, using the moment to gather my thoughts.
"When you dragged me into the workroom today," I begin, watching his expression carefully, "when you told me not to smile at other men, was that about possession or fear?"
His eyes widen fractionally, surprised by my directness or perhaps by my insight. For a moment, I think he might deflect or retreat behind his usual controlled facade. Instead, he offers another piece of rare honesty.
"Both," he admits. "I don't share what matters to me. I can't. Not when experience has taught me how easily things are taken away."
And there it is—the connection I suspected. Christian's possessiveness, his need to claim me, isn't simply about control or domination. It's about fear. Fear of loss. Fear of abandonment. Fear disguised as strength, as certainty, as command.
"I'm not going to disappear, Christian," I say softly.
His expression turns wry. "You've known me less than a week, Sophie. You can't possibly make that promise."
"No," I agree. "But I can promise to be honest with you. To not just vanish without explanation. To give whatever this is between us a fair chance."
He studies me, searching for deception or uncertainty. Finding none, he reaches across the table to take my hand, his thumb tracing patterns on my palm that send shivers up my arm.
"That's more than most offer," he says finally.
The sadness underlying his words makes me wonder how many people have walked away from Christian Hawthorne overthe years. How many have been intimidated by his intensity, his demands, his unwillingness to compromise? How many saw only the controlling exterior without recognizing the fear driving it?
"I'm sorry you lost your parents," I tell him, turning my hand to grasp his properly. "I'm sorry you had to learn so young that people leave."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps, at being seen so clearly. "It was a long time ago."
"But it shaped you," I persist gently. "It's still shaping how you approach relationships. How you approach me."
He doesn't deny it, which is answer enough.
"I'm not asking you to change who you are, Christian," I continue. "Just to recognize that controlling everything—everyone—around you isn't the only way to prevent loss."
"What's the alternative?" he asks, and I'm struck by how genuinely he seems to want to know.
"Trust," I say simply. "Giving people the space to choose you, rather than trying to remove all other options."
His fingers tighten around mine, not painfully but with an intensity that communicates more than words could. "Trust has never come easily to me."
"I've noticed," I say with a small smile, trying to lighten the moment. "But maybe it's worth practicing. Starting small."
"With you?" he asks, his voice dropping to that intimate register that makes my stomach flutter.
"If you want."
His eyes hold mine, storm-gray and intense. "I want."
Two simple words, but they carry the weight of promise, of possibility. The waiter approaches to clear our dessert plates, breaking the moment but not the connection that seems to strengthen with each honest exchange between us.
"Coffee?" Christian asks as the waiter retreats.
I shake my head. "It's getting late, and I open the shop early tomorrow."
