His smirk sharpens. "We do, every evening. Eight sharp. Wear something nice."
I scoff, feeling frustrated that I can’t penetrate his walls. "Oh, of course. Let me make sure to schedule time between my captivity and your cryptic threats to dress up for whatever power play this is."
He just watches me, his fingers still drumming a slow rhythm on the wheel. "I like it when you dress up for me."
My stomach flips, and I hate it. "How generous of you." Something in his tone unsettles me. "Fine. Where are we going?"
His fingers drum against the steering wheel, slow and deliberate. "We’re not going anywhere. You’ll be in the dining room. On your knees, waiting for me by the head of the table."
My stomach tightens at the way he says it, at the way his eyes don’t waver. It’s infuriating, the way he makes commands sound like inevitabilities. Hayden has a way of acting as though he already knows my answer before I do. Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I roll my eyes to cover it. "You have a way of making dinner sound like a death sentence."
Hayden’s smirk deepens. "Thatdepends on how well you behave."
I narrow my eyes. "You keep saying that like I’m supposed to be scared."
He tilts his head slightly, studying me in a way that makes my pulse trip over itself. "No, Martine. I say it because I know you’re not."
A shiver runs through me, but I lift my chin. "And what if I don’t show up?"
His eyes darken, something flickering behind them. "You will, brat."
I hold his gaze for a long moment, the air between us charged, stretched tight like a wire ready to snap. I hate that he always sounds so sure of me. I hate that, deep down, I already know he’s right.
Still, I refuse to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. So instead, I lift my chin, feigning indifference. "Guess we’ll see."
The moment we arrive in front of the looming entrance, he throws the car into park without hesitation. Before I can react, he reaches over and grabs my chin, turning my face toward him. His eyes drop to my lips, and he stares for a second like he’s thinking about what to do next.
I suck my bottom lip between my teeth in anticipation, and only once I release it do his eyes darken with desire. A desire so deep even he fails to mask it.
Then he kisses me, soft and slow, completely unexpected. Pressing himself into me and using my jaw to drag me across the car console, he pulls his lips against mine. It's softer than I expected, and when he pushes his tongue into my mouth to taste me, I moan.
I freeze. My whole body reacts before my brain can catch up. I shudder, not because I’m cold, but because the kiss feels tootender. Too real. I don’t know what to do with the way it makes me feel.
So I act with cowardice and I pull back quickly, mutter something I can’t even remember, and rush out of the car with his taste on my lips. I don’t even bother looking back; I move so quickly from embarrassment that I almost trip over my own feet. I run straight to my room and start getting ready, hoping it’ll distract me from how much I want him to kiss me again. How much I wish I had just stayed and indulged in the taste of him.
Instead, I turn red from the embarrassment. That one press of his lips made my underwear wet and sticky.
An hour later, I stand before the mirror, adjusting the thin straps of my dress, my fingers grazing over smooth skin. The fabric is a light cream, clinging to my curves in a way that makes me look nearly naked. I smooth a hand down my waist, feeling the tension coiled beneath my ribs.
If I want to make a statement, this would be it. And it’s the statement that will keep me brave, clothes acting as armor against what I know will be surely asked of me.
I breathe in and straighten my shoulders, as I try my best to even my breaths and exhale slowly.
The house is silent as I make my way down the grand staircase, my heels clicking against marble, swallowed by the heavy hush of the mansion.
The dining room is waiting for me, empty but for the ticking of an old clock and the wind moving the bushes outside gently against the windowpanes.
I step inside, and the scent of polished wood and old smoke from the fireplace settles around me. It’s not the smoke of Hayden I wish to be smelling. The chandelier hums with a lowgolden light, casting long, languid shadows across the table. His chair at the head is empty.
But he is here.
I feel his presence lingering in the details, the neat arrangement of the contracts stacked beside his crystal tumbler, their edges lined up with precision. The vodka sits ready, the ice shifting softly inside the glass. Everything is set.
I move without thinking, lowering myself beside his chair and pressing my knees to the cool floor. The marble is smooth beneath me, grounding. My hands rest lightly on my thighs, fingers barely touching my skin.
The air is still. Heavy.
I clench my thighs, the anticipation curling deep, insistent. A claw of fear curls in my gut, and I choke back panted breaths.
