He nods, signaling for the check without taking his eyes from my face. "I'll have Thomas drive you home."
"Thank you," I say, and mean it. For the dinner, for the honesty, for showing me the man behind the commanding CEO.
We leave the restaurant side by side, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back. The gesture feels different now—less possessive, more protective. Less about claiming, more about connecting. The distinction matters, though I'm not sure I could have articulated it before tonight.
In the car, sitting close enough that our shoulders occasionally brush with the vehicle's movement, I find myself studying his profile in the passing streetlights. The strong jaw, the perfect posture, the controlled exterior that hides so much complexity. I'm seeing Christian Hawthorne differently now. Not just as the possessive billionaire who declared "You're mine" at my doorstep, but as a man shaped by loss, driven by fear as much as desire, attempting to navigate unfamiliar emotional territory with tools built for business rather than intimacy.
It doesn't excuse his behavior at the shop. Doesn't erase my concerns about his controlling tendencies. But it contextualizes them, makes them human rather than simply red flags. Makes him human.
And that's the most dangerous realization of all—because it's much easier to maintain boundaries with an arrogant, controlling billionaire than with a complex, vulnerable man who's showing me pieces of himself he keeps hidden from the world.
As we pull up outside my apartment, Christian turns to me, his expression serious in the dim light. "Thank you for tonight, Sophie. For your honesty. Your insight."
"Thank you for dinner," I reply. "And for…seeing me. Really seeing me."
"I've seen nothing else since the charity auction," he admits, the confession sending warmth spreading through my chest.
He walks me to my door, maintaining a respectful distance that feels like its own form of communication—acknowledgment of my earlier boundaries, proof that he's listening, learning. When we reach my apartment, he doesn't crowd me against the door as I half-expected. Instead, he simply takes my hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss that's formal but somehow more intimate than if he'd claimed my mouth.
"Goodnight, Sophie," he says, releasing my hand slowly.
"Goodnight, Christian."
As I watch him walk away, straight-backed and controlled as ever, I acknowledge the truth I've been fighting since the gala: I'm falling for Christian Hawthorne. Not despite his complexity but because of it. Not despite the intensity that sometimes manifests as possession, but because I now understand its roots in fear and loss.
And that understanding makes him infinitely more dangerous to my heart than any red flag ever could.
Chapter
Eleven
CHRISTIAN
I've never inviteda woman to my penthouse before. Not for personal reasons. Business associates occasionally, when necessary, but never someone I'm pursuing. My home is my sanctuary, the one place where I control every variable, where nothing happens without my explicit design. Bringing Sophie into this space represents a vulnerability I haven't allowed myself since…ever. Yet here I am, three days after our dinner at Archer's, inspecting every inch of the penthouse for imperfections, adjusting lighting levels, selecting the perfect wine to complement the meal my private chef is preparing. All to "apologize properly," as I phrased it when extending the invitation. Though apology is only part of my intention tonight.
Sophie's insights at dinner have haunted me since. Her ability to see through my carefully constructed facade, to recognize the fear beneath my control—it's unsettling. Exhilarating. Terrifying. No one has ever read me so accurately before. No one has ever cared enough to try. Her words echo in my mind: "Trust. Giving people the space to choose you, rather than trying to remove all other options." A foreign concept toa man who's built his life on eliminating variables, on ensuring outcomes through meticulous planning and strategic execution.
But for Sophie, I'm willing to try. To adjust my approach. To explore unfamiliar emotional territory, guided by her insights rather than my instincts.
Hence, tonight's invitation. Calculated, yes—bringing her into my domain, where I feel most secure, most in command. But also a gesture of trust, of vulnerability. Allowing her to see how I live, where I sleep, the private spaces I share with no one.
"Everything is prepared, Mr. Hawthorne," my chef informs me, emerging from the kitchen. "The appetizers are ready to serve when your guest arrives. Main course will be finished precisely at eight. Dessert is prepared and waiting."
"Thank you, Martin," I reply, inspecting the dining table once more. "You may leave the dishes as discussed and take the rest of the evening off."
He nods, gathering his things efficiently. "Enjoy your evening, sir."
Once he's gone, I make a final circuit of the penthouse. The table is set with crystal and silver, white roses in a low arrangement that won't impede conversation. The lighting is warm but not overly intimate—I don't want to seem presumptuous. The living room is immaculate, the piano freshly polished, the fire already crackling in the massive stone fireplace.
In the corner stands a twelve-foot Christmas tree, decorated by a professional designer in silver and white to complement the penthouse's modern aesthetic. It's beautiful but impersonal—nothing like the handcrafted warmth of Sophie's ornaments. I ordered a selection from her shop yesterday, had them delivered this morning. They sit in a box on the coffee table, waiting. Another piece of my strategy for tonight.
At precisely seven, my phone alerts me that the private elevator is ascending. She's here. I straighten my already perfectly positioned cufflinks, a rare gesture of nervousness I immediately recognize and suppress. I don't get nervous. Not about business deals worth billions, not about board meetings, and certainly not about women.
Except this woman. This maddening, perceptive, beautiful woman who somehow slipped past all my defenses with a mistletoe kiss and insights that cut to the heart of who I am.
The elevator doors open, and Sophie steps into my penthouse. She's wearing a simple burgundy dress that hugs her curves without being overtly sexual, her honey-blonde hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She looks uncertain but determined, clutching a small gift bag like a shield.
"Sophie," I greet her, crossing the foyer to meet her. "Thank you for coming."
