"You're intelligent and stubborn and you don't give up even when you should," he continues, stopping just close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "You work yourselfto the bone and you still find time to create something beautiful. You think that doesn't matter to me?"
"You don't know me." My voice shakes, and I hate that it does.
He leans in, one hand bracing against the wall beside my head. Not touching me, but close enough that I'd have to push past him to escape. His eyes are dark, intense, locked on mine.
"I know you take your coffee black. I know you write best between midnight and three AM. I know you're terrified of failure and that you haven't been on a date in eight months."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "That's not knowing me. That's stalking me."
"Maybe." His eyes are locked on mine, intense and unapologetic. "But tell me I'm wrong."
I can't. Because he's not.
“And if I'm not whatever you've built up in your head? What then?"
"Then I'll be disappointed. But you'll still have the money. You'll still be free of the debt. Nothing changes that."
I should feel relieved that he's not demanding anything, not expecting me to perform or be someone I'm not. But all I feel is anger coursing through me. He thinks money solves everything, and the worst part is that he's right. The money did solve everything.
"My mother warned me about men like you," I say. "Men who think they can control people with their wealth. Men who offer freedom but what they really want is ownership."
Phoenix's expression hardens. "I'm not trying to own you."
"Aren't you? You paid my debts. You brought me to your house. You're feeding me expensive food and wine in this expensive place, and all of it is designed to make me feel grateful. Obligated. Like I owe you something even though you say I don't."
"That's not what this is."
"Then tell me what it is. Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like manipulation."
The silence that follows is heavy. Phoenix doesn't move, doesn't look away, just watches me with those dark eyes that see too much.
"If that's what you think," he says finally, his voice low and controlled, "then maybe you should go back to the guest house."
"Maybe I should."
"The door isn't locked. Robert can drive you to the airport whenever you want. The money is yours regardless of whether you stay or leave."
He's giving me an out. Making it easy for me to walk away. And somehow that makes me even angrier, because I don't want it to be easy. I want him to fight, to argue, to prove that I'm wrong about him.
But he just stands there, tall and imposing and completely in control, while I'm the one falling apart.
"Fine." I turn toward the door. "Thank you for dinner."
"Jade."
I stop but don't turn around.
"I'm not trying to manipulate you or to own you. I'm trying to give you a choice. Maybe that's unfamiliar to you because you're not used to having options. But all I'm offering is time. One week to see what life could be like without the weight you've been carrying.”
I don't respond. Because part of me knows he's right, and part of me is so used to struggling that freedom does look like a trap.
I walk out of the dining room, through the hallway, out the side door that leads to the path to the guest cottage. The air outside is cold and damp with the promise of rain. The oceancrashes against the rocks below, louder now that I'm outside, angry and relentless.
Behind me, I hear the door close.
I don't look back.
The guest cottage is exactly as I left it, warm and quiet and high-end. I close the door and lean against it, my heart racing, my hands shaking.
