Heat floods my cheeks, unwanted, uninvited. I tilt my head away, pretending the blur of city lights outside the tinted glass has my attention. But the truth is, I feel him everywhere—his presence crowding out oxygen, his voice wrapping around me like a velvet rope.
I remind myself of the rules. Keep it cool. Don’t let him see how he rattles you. But sitting this close, my body betrays me, remembering everything I swore I buried from that night. The champagne on my tongue, the weight of him pressing me into sheets, the way he said my name was like a prayer and a curse.
“Where are we having dinner?” I ask, softer this time, because I hate the silence stretching between us.
His lips twitch. “At my penthouse.”
I snort. “What is this, Theo? A date?”
His hand rests casually on his knee, but there’s nothing casual about the way his fingers flex, like he’s gripping the urge to touch me instead. “Call it whatever you want. Just know one thing…”
I arch a brow. “And what’s that?”
His voice drops. “When I decide I want something, I don’t let it walk away twice.”
My stomach flips, traitorous. My mouth opens, but I shut it again before I say something reckless. Because the truth is, I don’t know if he’s talking about control. About sex. About me.
And maybe the most terrifying part is—I don’t know which one I’d resist.
The elevator doors whisper open straight into his penthouse, and for a second I don’t move. My heels stay planted, spine stiff, while my eyes sweep over the place.
It’s beautiful in the most clinical, joyless way—glass and stained concrete, sharp-edged furniture in earth tones so dark they may as well be shadows. Polished floors that gleam like they’ve never seen dirt. The entire far wall is glass, the city sprawled beneath us in glittering surrender.
Sure, it’s impressive, but it also makes my skin itch. It feels…staged. Like a set built for a man playing human. Everything curated, nothing lived in.
“Who did your interior design? A caveman?” I ask, stepping over the threshold with a smirk. “Definitely wasn’t a woman.”
Behind me, I hear the soft clink of his keys in a bowl that probably costs more than my entire rent back in Vegas. His voice follows, smooth and detached. “I don’t bring women here.”
I glance back, arching a brow. “Is that supposed to make me feel special?”
“No.” His gaze pins me, flat and merciless. “Just informed.”
I drift toward the windows, tracing my fingertips over the edge of a black marble console. It holds exactly nothing—no photos, no flowers, not even a book left out of place. It’s immaculate, impersonal. Empty. “Do you ever think about adding something warm?” I ask. “A plant, maybe. Or a blanket that doesn’t belong in a billionaire catalog.”
His mouth curves, humorless. “I own throw pillows.”
“Oh good,” I say, saccharine. “For a second I thought you might be secretly dead inside.”
He brushes past me on his way to the kitchen, his colognetrailing after him like a hand at my throat. Unbothered. Untouchable.
“Then stop complaining.”
I follow him, letting the atmosphere wrap around me. Watching him open drawer after drawer until it’s clear he has no idea where anything is. For the first time tonight, he looks vaguely human. And that might be the most dangerous thing he could show me.
“You said dinner,” I remind him, sliding onto one of the stools at the island.
“I did.”
“Do you have ingredients?”
“No.”
I cross one leg over the other, leaning an elbow on the counter like I’ve got all night to spar with him. “So what’s the plan? Hope it’s not impolite to point out you’ve basically kidnapped me under false pretenses.”
Unbothered, he pulls his phone from his pocket, tapping across the screen without sparing me a glance. “I’m ordering. I just didn’t know what you liked.”
“That’s almost sweet,” I mock, letting the words roll off my tongue like I’m testing him.
