Something dangerous flashes in his eyes—frustration, impatience—before his control reasserts itself. "Think, then. But don't lie to yourself, Wren. What happened tonight isn't a momentary lapse or a mistake. It's the beginning."
The certainty in his voice both terrifies and thrills me. I gather my scattered composure, slipping on my shoes with trembling fingers, collecting my notes on autopilot. All the while, he watches me with the focused attention of a predator, making no move to help or hinder my retreat.
At the door, I pause, unable to leave without some acknowledgment of the seismic shift that's occurred between us. "Dominic, I?—"
"Tomorrow," he interrupts, his voice softening slightly. "We'll talk tomorrow. Go rest now."
It's a dismissal couched as consideration, and though part of me rebels against his assumption of authority, another part is pathetically grateful for the reprieve—time to process, to rationalize, to decide how to proceed.
As I walk through darkened hallways to my suite, my lips still burning from his kisses, my body still aching with unfulfilled desire, I try to convince myself that I have choices, options, agency in whatever comes next.
But the truth whispers beneath my rationalizations: something fundamental has shifted tonight. A line has been crossed. And Dominic Steele is not a man who moves backward.
seven
. . .
Three daysafter Dominic's kiss reduced my carefully constructed professional boundaries to ashes, I've retreated to my studio like it's a fortress. My paintbrushes are shields, my canvases battlements against the confusion raging inside me. The promised "talk" never materialized—Dominic was called away to London on urgent business the morning after our encounter, leaving only a handwritten note slipped under my door: "We'll continue when I return. Work well, Wren." No apology, no uncertainty, no acknowledgment that what happened might complicate our professional relationship. Just calm certainty that our trajectory is fixed, with only the timing in question. I throw myself into the final commission piece with manic energy, working from dawn until my eyes blur, trying to outrun both desire and doubt.
On the fourth day, a package arrives—a small wooden crate addressed to me, delivered by a staff member who appears at my studio door with the quiet efficiency that characterizes all service at the estate.
"From Mr. Steele," she explains, setting it carefully on my worktable. "He instructed that you should open it immediately."
Inside, nestled in wood shavings, I find an antique paintbrush set—handcrafted sable brushes with turned rosewood handles, clearly museum-quality, accompanied by a note in Dominic's precise handwriting: "These reminded me of the ones you admired in Amsterdam last year. Use them well until I return. -D"
I freeze, the delicate brush trembling in my fingers. I've never mentioned Amsterdam to Dominic. Never told him about the museum exhibit I'd scraped together enough money to visit, where I'd spent long minutes staring at similar brushes in a glass case, wishing I could afford even a modern reproduction.
How could he possibly know?
My Instagram. It must be. I'd posted a photo of the exhibit, gushing about the craftsmanship in the caption. He must have scrolled back through my social media, done his research. The thought is both flattering and mildly unsettling—the idea of Dominic Steele, billionaire CEO, scrolling through my modest online presence, studying my past.
Just basic due diligence, I tell myself. He's investing significantly in my art; of course he'd research me thoroughly.
Two days later, Dominic returns from London. Our reunion is formal, almost cautious—a brief meeting in his study where he reviews my progress on the final piece with professional attention, making no reference to the kiss we shared in this very room. Only the intensity of his gaze betrays that anything has shifted between us.
"You've made excellent progress," he says, studying the detailed sketches I've prepared. "The energy is exactly what I envisioned."
"The Amsterdam brushes helped," I reply, watching his face carefully. "Thank you for those."
Something flickers in his eyes—pleasure, perhaps, at my acknowledgment. "I thought you might appreciate their history.The maker was renowned for his sensitivity to pressure variation."
"How did you know about Amsterdam?" I ask directly, needing to understand the boundaries of his knowledge about me.
His expression remains perfectly neutral. "You mentioned it during one of our early discussions about your influences."
I didn't, I'm certain. But the confidence in his tone makes me doubt my own memory. Perhaps I had mentioned it in passing? The weeks at the estate have begun to blur together.
That evening, restless and needing space from the charged atmosphere of the house, I post a photo to my Instagram story—a small corner café in Greenwich Village with distinctive blue tiles and the caption "Missing my Saturday morning inspiration spot." It's a place I discovered in art school, where I used to sketch people and soak in the ambient creative energy of the neighborhood.
The next morning, Dominic suggests we take breakfast in the garden terrace. "The kitchen has prepared those almond croissants you prefer," he mentions casually as we settle at a wrought iron table beneath a flowering trellis.
I pause, coffee cup halfway to my lips. "How did you know I like almond croissants?"
He doesn't miss a beat. "Mrs. Winters noticed you always select them from the pastry tray."
It's a reasonable explanation. His house manager does seem to notice everything. Yet something about the specificity nags at me—I've only chosen almond croissants a handful of times, usually eating breakfast alone in my studio or rooms.
Saturday arrives, and I feel suffocated by the estate's perfection. "I'm going into the city for the day," I inform Mrs. Winters. "Personal errands."
