I lift a hand slowly, almost without thinking, reaching for the loose strand of hair on his forehead.
But before I touch him, his eyes open. I freeze.
Those icy gray eyes find mine instantly—clear, sharp, awake in a way that makes my stomach flip. My hand hangs suspended between us.
He doesn’t speak. He just watches me…quietly. Too quietly.
No smirk. No cutting remark. Just a stare that feels like he’s trying to figure out what I am doing in his arms—and why he doesn’t hate it. The silence stretches.
I brace for mockery. A taunt. A cruel reminder that last night was a mistake. A harsh reenactment of the stables in Monaco.
But instead…he lifts his hand. His thumb drags slowly across my lower lip, warm and deliberate, sending a shiver down my spine.
His voice is a low, dangerous murmur.
“You shouldn’t have let me touch you.” A pause. His gaze darkens. “Now I won’t be able to stop.”
“Then don’t,” I whisper bravely.
For a beat, he goes utterly still. Then he smiles. Not the cruel one. Not the mocking one. A soft one—warm enough to melt sour milk, gentle enough to make my chest ache.
He leans in and kisses me, slow and sure, cradling my face like he’s afraid I’ll break or disappear if he holds me wrong.
And everything shifts.
The rest of the day, we move around each other like magnets fighting their own gravitational pull—never touching long enough, never pulling away fast enough.
His hand brushes mine when we pass each other in the hallway.
My shoulder grazes his when I reach for a glass during breakfast.
He stands too close, and I don’t step back.
I speak softly, and he listens.
He looks at me, and there is no hate—just something warm, bewildered…almost tender.
It’s beautiful in a way that terrifies me.
Because the anger in his eyes is gone.
And what replaces it is wonder, curiosity, something fragile and unnamed; it might be more dangerous than the hate ever was.
By afternoon, the shift between us is still there, humming under my skin. Breakfast had been…warm. Gentle. Dimitri had looked at me like I was something worth touching softly, worth holding. And I want that feeling again. Just for a little longer.
The lunch table is empty when I walk in. The silence feels heavier now that I’ve tasted what it’s like to sit across from him and feel wanted.
I stare at the untouched food and sigh. I don’t want to eat alone. Not today.
So I leave the dining room and head down the hall toward his study. He’s been trying today—trying to make me feel safe, trying to meet me where I am. Maybe I can try too. Maybe inviting him to lunch is a small step, but it’s something.
I reach the study door, lift my hand to knock—and pause. Dimitri’s voice drifts through the wood: low, muffled, but unmistakably tense. I hear the words “…Laurent Bank collapse.”
My breath catches.
Laurent.
My father.
