I choose Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major—not the most technically impressive piece I know, but one that speaks to something deeper, more authentic. As I begin to play, I feel Sophie's attention on me, but it doesn't create the usual tension that comes with being observed. Instead, her presence adds something to the experience, a warmth that infuses the familiar notes with new meaning.
When I finish, the last notes lingering in the air between us, I turn to find her watching me with an expression I can't immediately identify. Appreciation, certainly, but something more—a recognition, perhaps, of the man behind the CEO, the human beneath the carefully constructed facade.
"That was beautiful," she says softly. "Thank you for sharing it."
"Thank you for asking," I reply, returning to sit beside her on the sofa. "Few people do."
"Few people look beyond the business titan to the person underneath," she observes, her insight once again cutting straight to truths I rarely acknowledge. "Their loss."
The simple statement affects me more deeply than it should. Sophie sees me—not just the wealth, the power, the carefully crafted image, but glimpses of the actual man. And reBenably, she doesn't seem disappointed by what she finds.
"You're unlike anyone I've ever known, Sophie Winters," I tell her, the honesty emerging more easily than I anticipated.
She smiles, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "A good thing, I hope?"
"The best thing," I admit. "Though occasionally terrifying."
Her eyebrows rise in surprise. "I terrify you? That seems unlikely."
"You see too much," I explain. "Most people see what I want them to see. You see what I try to hide."
Her expression softens, understanding dawning. "And that's frightening because..."
"Because it creates vulnerability," I finish for her. "And vulnerability has rarely served me well."
She considers this, then deliberately sets down her port glass and shifts closer to me on the sofa. Not touching, but near enough that I can feel the warmth of her, smell the subtle vanilla scent that's become synonymous with her in my mind.
"Maybe," she suggests gently, "vulnerability serves different purposes with different people. Some will exploit it. Others will honor it."
"And which are you?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
Her eyes meet mine, steady and sincere. "I think you know, or I wouldn't be here right now."
The truth of her statement settles something in me—a recognition that the risk of opening up to Sophie, while real, is one worth taking. That what's developing between us transcends my usual careful calculations and strategic maneuvers.
That for the first time in my adult life, I want something—someone—for reasons that have nothing to do with acquisition or control and everything to do with genuine connection.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it fills me with an unfamiliar but not unwelcome sense of possibility.
The fire has died down to embers, casting a soft glow that complements the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. Sophie's earlier work has transformed it from a designer showpiece to something with character, with meaning—much like what she's doing to my carefully ordered existence. We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the easy conversation of dinner and port giving way to something more contemplative. It's the perfect transition to what comes next. The gift I've been planning since our dinner at Archer's, when Sophie helped me understand the fear beneath my possessiveness. A gift that acknowledges both that insight and my unchanged determination to make her mine.
"The tree looks better now," I observe, nodding toward the corner where the silver and white designer ornaments nowmingle with Sophie's handcrafted pieces. "Your additions give it life."
She smiles, pleased by the compliment. "It needed some personality. Some history."
"Speaking of which," I say, rising from the sofa and offering my hand, "I have something for the tree. Something I'd like to show you."
Sophie places her hand in mine without hesitation—another small victory in our evolving dynamic. I lead her to the tree, where the white lights illuminate her features in a soft glow that makes her look almost ethereal. Beautiful in a way that transcends physical attributes, that speaks to something essential about who she is.
"Wait here," I tell her, reluctantly releasing her hand to retrieve the gift I've hidden in my study.
The small box feels significant in my palm as I return to Sophie—heavier than its physical weight would suggest, weighted with intention and meaning. I've given expensive gifts before, of course. Corporate presents, strategic offerings to secure deals or curry favor. This is different. Personal in a way few things in my life have been.
Sophie watches me approach, curiosity evident in her expression. "Another surprise?"
"A contribution to the tree," I explain, rejoining her beside the evergreen. "Something to add to its history."
I hand her the box—midnight blue velvet with a simple silver ribbon. No flashy wrapping, no ostentatious presentation. The contents speak loudly enough without such embellishments.
