"Good girl," he murmurs, and the praise sends a shameful thrill through me. "Now get dressed. We have more shopping to do before our dinner."
By seven-thirty, I've been waxed, polished, styled, and poured into the blue dress like a living doll. My hair has been arranged in an elegant updo by a stylist who came to the penthouse, my makeup applied by another professional who treated my face as a canvas for subtle artistry. The sapphireshoes, as it turns out, fit perfectly—Roman was right, as he seems to be about everything that concerns my body.
"Remember," Roman says as we ride the elevator down to where his driver waits. "You're a reflection of me tonight. Behave accordingly."
I nod, not trusting myself to respond without sarcasm. The woman in the elevator's mirrored walls looks like a stranger—polished, perfect, expensive. A woman who belongs on Roman Wolfe's arm. Not a woman drowning in student debt and facing eviction just three days ago.
The restaurant is even more exclusive than I imagined. There's no sign, just a discreet door manned by a host who recognizes Roman immediately. We're whisked through a dimly lit corridor into a space that feels more like a private club than a restaurant—well-spaced tables, subtle lighting that flatters everyone, the quiet murmur of privileged conversation.
"Mr. Wolfe," the maître d' greets with a deference that borders on obsequiousness. "Your usual table is ready."
Of course Roman has a usual table. Of course it's the best in the house—a corner booth with perfect sightlines to the entire restaurant while offering relative privacy. He guides me with that proprietary hand on my lower back, and I notice how every eye in the place tracks our movement. The men assess Roman with a mixture of respect and wariness; the women assess me with cool curiosity and, in some cases, poorly disguised envy.
Once seated, Roman doesn't bother with menus. "We'll have the chef's tasting menu," he informs the sommelier who has appeared at his elbow. "And the 2010 Montrachet to start."
I open my mouth to say I'd like to see the menu, then remember his instructions. Speak only when spoken to. I press my lips together, feeling a flicker of genuine resentment burning through the fog of luxury that's surrounded me since I signed his contract.
"You look beautiful tonight," Roman says once we're alone, his eyes moving over me with that same proprietary satisfaction. "The dress was the right choice."
"Your choice," I can't help but remind him.
A slight smile curves his lips. "Yes. And a good one." He reaches across the table to take my hand, his thumb stroking my palm in a gesture that feels oddly intimate. "You're angry that I ordered for you."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I'm capable of selecting my own meal."
"Undoubtedly," he agrees. "But tonight isn't about what you want. It's about what I want for you." His grip tightens slightly. "Remember our arrangement, Delilah. For this month, your pleasure comes from pleasing me."
The words, combined with the intensity of his gaze, send an unwelcome heat spiraling through me. I should be outraged at his presumption, his control. Instead, I feel that now-familiar mixture of resentment and arousal that seems to define every interaction with Roman.
"Yes, Roman," I say, the submission both alien and oddly satisfying on my tongue.
His smile widens. "Good girl."
The meal progresses like a choreographed dance. Course after exquisite course appears—each a miniature work of art, flavors I've never experienced combined in ways that make my taste buds sing. Roman watches me experience each bite with that same intense focus he brings to everything, as if my pleasure is an extension of his own.
Wine flows, each glass selected specifically to complement the food. Roman ensures my glass never empties but monitors my consumption with careful attention. "You'll want your full faculties later," he murmurs when I reach for my third glass, and the promise in his eyes makes my pulse jump.
Throughout dinner, people stop by our table—business associates, social acquaintances, even the chef himself. Roman introduces me simply as "Delilah," offering no explanation for my presence but making it clear through subtle cues—a hand on my shoulder, a possessive glance—that I belong to him. I smile, speak when addressed directly, and try to ignore the speculative looks that follow these introductions.
"Roman, good to see you out and about," says a silver-haired man who approaches as we're finishing dessert. His gaze slides to me with undisguised interest. "You've been keeping to yourself lately."
"Harrison," Roman acknowledges with a nod that's just this side of dismissive. "I've been occupied with more important matters than social obligations."
Harrison's eyes linger on me. "So I see." He extends a hand toward me. "Harrison Blake. And you are?"
"Delilah," I reply, taking his hand briefly.
Before I can say more, Roman's hand covers mine possessively on the table. "Delilah is with me," he says, a thread of steel beneath the casual statement.
Something passes between the men—some unspoken communication charged with masculine territory-marking that makes me feel like a prize being contested.
"Lucky man," Harrison says finally, withdrawing his hand. "Perhaps we'll see you both at the charity gala next week?"
"Perhaps," Roman says noncommittally.
The exchange continues for another minute—superficial pleasantries that barely mask some deeper current of competition—before Harrison departs with a final lingering look at me that makes Roman's jaw tighten.
"I don't like the way he looked at you," Roman says once we're alone again.
