Her hand lifts to my face, fingertips lightly touching my jaw in a gesture so gentle it nearly undoes me. "I'm not ready to be 'yours' in every sense," she continues, her honesty matching mine. "Not yet. But I'm not running from the possibility either."
It's more than I expected, this openness to what I'm offering. This willingness to consider a future where the word engraved on that ornament becomes reality rather than aspiration.
"That's enough," I tell her, covering her hand with mine where it rests against my face. "For now."
The qualification hangs between us—a promise, a warning, a statement of intent. I haven't abandoned my determination to make Sophie mine completely. I've simply adjusted my approach, incorporating her insights about fear and control, about choice and mutual claiming.
The diamonds on the ornament scatter light across her features, my gift Bening her as surely as if I'd placed a ring on her finger. A beginning rather than a conclusion. A declaration of intent rather than a completed acquisition.
But as Sophie's eyes hold mine in the glow of the Christmas tree, I know with bone-deep certainty that this woman will be mine in every way that matters. Not because I've commanded it or strategized to make it so, but because what's growing between us is too powerful, too inevitable for any other outcome.
Some acquisitions are hostile. Others are mergers of equals, entered willingly by both parties.
I'm counting on the latter. But I haven't ruled out the former, should it become necessary.
After all, I'm still Christian Hawthorne. And I still get what I want.
Chapter
Twelve
SOPHIE
The Hawthorne Enterprisesheadquarters rises forty stories above downtown Evergreen, a gleaming tower of glass and steel that seems to pierce the winter sky like a declaration of ambition made physical. I clutch the carefully packaged box of custom ornaments—Christian's fifty-piece order completed ahead of schedule—and try not to feel intimidated as I approach the revolving doors. It's been three days since our evening at his penthouse, three days of replaying every moment: decorating his tree, his unexpected laughter during dinner, the diamond snowflake with my name and that single, possessive word.Mine. I've analyzed that evening from every angle, trying to reconcile my wariness about his controlling nature with my growing certainty that there's something real developing between us—something worth exploring despite the red flags.
Christian has called each day since, our conversations growing longer and more personal each time. Last night, we talked for nearly two hours, about everything from childhood memories to future aspirations. I told him things I rarely share—about my parents' divorce, about the loneliness of being shuttledbetween homes, about finding stability in my grandmother's shop. He listened with an intensity that made me feel truly heard, truly seen. And in return, he offered glimpses behind his carefully constructed walls—stories of his early business struggles, the ruthless determination that built his empire, the emptiness of success without anyone to share it with.
The security guard at the desk eyes me with professional suspicion until I mention Christian's name. His demeanor changes immediately. "Ms. Winters? Mr. Hawthorne mentioned you might be stopping by. Thirty-eighth floor, executive suites. They're expecting you."
The private elevator—accessible only with a keycard the guard provides—whisks me upward with disorienting speed. My stomach flutters, partly from the rapid ascent, partly from anticipation of seeing Christian again. This is his domain, his world of corporate power and wealth. So different from my small shop with its handmade ornaments and personal touches.
The elevator opens directly into a reception area decorated in the same minimalist style as Christian's penthouse—all sleek lines, neutral colors, and carefully placed artwork that probably costs more than my annual revenue. A stylish woman in her thirties sits behind a curved desk, speaking quietly into a headset. She holds up one finger when she sees me, indicating I should wait.
I stand awkwardly with my package, taking in the impressive view of the mountains visible through floor-to-ceiling windows. Christian's office must have the same panoramic vista, another symbol of his position at the very top of everything he surveys. The thought brings a small smile to my face—so characteristic of him, to position himself where he can see everything, control everything.
Except me. I'm the variable he can't quite control, though not for lack of trying. The diamond ornament was proof of that—both his possessive instinct and his growing understanding of why it exists, why it matters to him.
"I understand the Munich team needs an answer by Friday," the receptionist says into her headset, her voice lowered but still audible in the quiet space. "But Mr. Hawthorne is still weighing the European headquarters relocation. It's a significant commitment—at least two years overseas while the acquisition integrates."
My heart stutters in my chest. European headquarters? Two years overseas? The words hit me like physical blows, each one more disorienting than the last.
"Yes, I'm aware it's been in the works for months," the receptionist continues, unaware of my presence or the effect her words are having. "The London and Paris options are still on the table too, but Munich seems to be leading…Yes, I'll make sure those documents are on his desk for review this afternoon."
My fingers tighten around the package I'm holding, the carefully tied ribbon suddenly seeming foolish, childish. I feel dizzy, disconnected from reality. Christian is considering relocating to Europe. For years. A deal that's been "in the works for months."
Months during which he's been pursuing me with single-minded determination. Months during which he's been telling me I'm his, that what's developing between us matters, that he sees a future where we're connected in ways that go beyond the temporary.
All while planning to leave the country. Without mentioning it once during our increasingly intimate conversations.
The receptionist finally notices me standing there, her professional smile faltering slightly as she registers my expression. "I need to go," she says into her headset. "Ms. Winters has arrived." She disconnects and rises, extending herhand. "I'm Vanessa, Mr. Hawthorne's executive assistant. I apologize for the wait. He's just wrapping up a meeting."
"European headquarters?" The words slip out before I can stop them, my voice embarrassingly small.
Vanessa's carefully composed features freeze for a fraction of a second—long enough to confirm that I wasn't meant to hear that conversation, that the information isn't public knowledge. "Mr. Hawthorne considers multiple business opportunities at any given time," she says smoothly. "I'm sure he'd be happy to discuss any questions you might have directly."
But her eyes tell a different story. Pity, perhaps. Or understanding of exactly what I've just realized—that I'm a temporary diversion for a man whose real priorities lie elsewhere. A local amusement while he finalizes plans that have been in motion long before he bid on that charity dance.
The diamond snowflake with its possessive declaration takes on an entirely different meaning now. Not a promise of future commitment but a fleeting claim of ownership. Temporary. Disposable when no longer convenient.
