"There's something you're not telling us," he says suddenly, advancing into the room, closing the distance between us with measured steps. "Something about this exhibition, about why it's so important. It's more than just networking."
I take an involuntary step back, unsettled by his perception. There's a reason he's good at his job. He notices too much, sees too clearly. But some secrets I'll keep, for now. Tonight belongs to the anonymous artist the critics have been speculating about for months. The mysterious and elusive photographer that nobody knows. Not to Jade Sinclair, model and stalker victim.
"You're deflecting," I accuse. "This isn't about what I know or don't know. It's about you refusing to adapt to circumstances because it's inconvenient."
"Inconvenient?" Something flashes in his eyes. Anger, maybe, or disbelief. "You think this is about convenience? Someone breached our security, invaded your privacy, has been watching you for God knows how long. Andnow you're insisting on attending an event with minimal security preparation."
"I never said it would be easy!" My voice rises despite my efforts to maintain composure. "But hiding away isn't going to solve anything. They've already proven they can get to me here, in my own home. At least in public, with proper security, I have a fighting chance."
"A fighting chance?" Ethan steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Is that what this is about? You want to draw them out?"
"What if I do?" I challenge, refusing to be intimidated by his proximity. "What if I'm tired of waiting for the next violation, the next threat? What if I want to face this head-on instead of cowering in fear?"
"That's not your call to make," he says, voice low and intense. "Security strategy isn't something you can dictate on a whim."
"It's my life!" I jab a finger into his chest, emphasizing each word. "My safety. My choice. Not yours. You work for me, remember?"
"I work to keep you alive," he counters, capturing my wrist in a gentle but unyielding grip. "Which sometimes means protecting you from your own reckless decisions."
"Let go," I warn, though I make no attempt to pull away. The warmth of his hand around my wrist sends an unwelcome current up my arm, a physical awareness I've been trying to suppress fordays.
"You're being impulsive," he says, his voice softening slightly. "Reactive. That's exactly what they want. To push you into making mistakes."
"I know what I'm doing," I insist, though the conviction in my voice wavers. Standing this close to him, I can see the faint shadows beneath his eyes, evidence of sleepless nights spent reinforcing security systems, reviewing footage, searching for the threat that's targeting me.
He's worried about me. And that realization dissolves some of my anger, replacing it with a complicated knot of emotions I'm not ready to examine.
"Do you?" he asks quietly. "It looks like you're deliberately walking into danger to prove a point."
"Maybe I am," I admit, surprising both of us with my honesty. "Maybe I'm tired of having my movements dictated by fear. Maybe I need to reclaim some control over my life before I lose my mind in this beautiful prison."
"You're playing with fire, Sinclair."
"Then burn with me."
The silence crackles. We're close now. Too close. My chest rises and falls fast, and I feel the heat of him, the scent of him, clean and sharp and maddening. Hisgrip loosens, but he doesn't step away. Neither do I.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
One breath. Two.
"You're infuriating," he mutters.
"Takes one to know one."
Something shifts in his expression. Resignation. "Then let us do our jobs properly," he says. "Give us time to secure the venue, establish protocols, and position backup teams. Don't just announce you're going hours before the event."
I hadn't considered that. I wasn't going to go to the opening. But then I realized that I was letting fear dictate my life. And in my hesitancy, I'd overlooked the practical aspects of what I was demanding. Still, I can't afford to miss tonight.
"How much time do you need?" I ask, my voice softer now.
"More than we have," he admits. "But we'll make it work."
I feel a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. "Was that so hard to say from the beginning?"
"Yes," he says bluntly. "Because it's a security compromise I don't want to make."
I become acutely aware that we're standing too close, his hand still loosely circling my wrist, our breathing synchronized in the quiet room. For a moment, I think something might shift between us, might crack the professional veneer that's been firmly in place all week.
