I clasp his wrist. “So, like the rest of the world, you see me as someone with no agency of her own?”
He rears back slightly. “No, I never thought of you as weak.” A pause. Then a slow, deliberate nod. “But I see your point,” he says quietly. “Thinking you’re not weak isn’t the same thing as thinking you’re strong.”
“Exactly,” I murmur.
He studies me, something sharper flickering in his gaze—like he’s seeing more than he let himself before. “You’re getting bolder and sassier, little bird.”
“Does it bother you?” I say, licking my lower lip. Not as some coy trick, but because I’m parched at his nearness.
“No,” he says, considering.
“Just setting some ground rules for the evening ahead, Mr. Grayson. I know how much you like everything on the straight and narrow.”
“Are you calling me a grumpy boss?”
I grin. “I was going to say ‘slightly repressed old man with a God complex.’”
He chuckles, before gesturing forward. “Come on. We’ll be late.”
We walk to the elevator in silence, but my pulse roars. The air between us crackles. I’m doing it—setting the tone for the evening, going toe-to-toe with him, flirting. And the best part—Mr. Grayson is listening, shifting his view of me. Hopefully.
Excitement makes me wobble on my heels, and his hard body is a haven, steadying me.
In the mirrored elevator walls, I catch our reflection—his power suit, his sharp jaw, the silver in his hair catching the light. I look flushed, alive. Like I belong next to him. Like I’ve always belonged.
His gaze slides to mine in the reflection. “You look beautiful, Jasmine. Never let anyone tell you otherwise, yeah?”
My chest aches at the gruff tenderness in his words. “Yes, sir,” I say, giving him the sass he seems to like.
He watches me with that thoughtful intensity that’s always been oxygen for me but says nothing.
The ride down is short. In the underground garage, he walks ahead and opens the passenger side of a sleek black car that looks like it belongs in a heist movie. He reaches into the glove compartment, pulls out a small velvet box, and holds it out.
I open it. Inside, nestled on black satin, is a delicate platinum necklace shaped like bird wings—sleek and light, almost ethereal. My breath catches.
It’s stunning. Understated, elegant, but laced with something intimate. The wings curve outward, like they’re ready to take flight. Like they were made for me.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, barely touching the wings. “Sophie didn’t even tell me you asked her what I’d like. And you know how bad she is at keeping secrets.”
Mr. Grayson frowns. “I didn’t ask her.”
I look up. His voice is low. Steady. “Give your old boss a little credit, little bird. I know what you like.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. Does he know how possessive he sounds?
Something shifts in my chest—something unsteady and huge. The realization that he sees me. That he notices the littlethings. That he calls me Little Bird, and then gifts me this delicate piece of jewelry that looks like it was made for me.
“I—I can’t accept this,” I whisper, fingers curling around the box like it’s too hot to hold.
If I do, how am I supposed to pretend this is just one fantasy evening? How do I walk away, knowing what it feels like to be seen like this?
Suddenly breathless, I thrust the box back toward him. “This is too expensive, Mr. Grayson.”
He looks away, jaw tight. “I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to give you gifts.”
My fingers fumble the velvet edge. “But why?”
His eyes return, darker now, unreadable. “Because I wanted you to have something beautiful.”
