“It’s my job.”He shrugged, but his smile widened.“Also, I like seeing you succeed.Your father never let you show what you could do.It’s about time someone did.”
The words landed somewhere soft and bruised inside me.I thought of Raphael, who touched me like I was something to be owned rather than valued.Who made me feel wanted but never capable.Who seemed surprised every time I proved I was more than just a body in a contract.
“You handled that crisis better than anyone I’ve seen,” Michael continued.“The way you coordinated the staff, managed the guests, kept everything running while the temperature was dropping.Your father would be proud.”
I wanted to believe that.Wanted to believe my father had ever seen me as anything other than a disappointment to be managed.
“Lena.”Michael leaned forward, his expression softening.“When’s the last time someone took care of you?Instead of the other way around?”
The question landed too close to the wound I was trying to ignore.I thought of last night.The way Raphael had cleaned me with gentle hands, then held me against his chest like I mattered.The way it had felt, for one terrible moment, like being cared for.
Before he’d thrown me out.
“I can take care of myself,” I said, and my voice came out sharper than I intended.
Michael held up his hands.“I know you can.I’ve seen it.I just…” He hesitated, something flickering behind his easy smile.“You deserve someone who doesn’t make you look like that.Exhausted.Guarded.Like you’re bracing for the next blow.”
I opened my mouth to argue, to defend, to deflect.But the words wouldn’t come.Because he was right.That was exactly how I felt around Raphael.Constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.For the tenderness to turn to cruelty.For the warmth to become ice.
“I should get back to work,” I said instead.
Michael nodded, rising from his chair.At the door, he paused.“If you ever need anything, Lena.Anything at all.I’m here.”
“I know.”And I did know.Michael had been a steady presence since my father’s stroke, reliable and competent and kind.The opposite of everything Raphael represented.
So why couldn’t I stop thinking about that dark, rich scent and the way Raphael’s eyes had looked when he watched me leave?
I buried myself in paperwork until the afternoon shadows lengthened across my desk.But no matter how many spreadsheets I reviewed, no matter how many emails I answered, I couldn’t escape the dread building in my stomach.
Evening was coming.And with it, the manor.And him.
The drive back felt shorter than it should have.Too soon, the gates were opening before me, the manor rising against the darkening sky like something out of a gothic novel.Stone and shadows and secrets.I parked and sat in my car for a long moment, hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to remember how to be cold.
Just a body.Just a contract.Give him nothing more.
I walked inside.
His scent hit me immediately, stronger now, and I knew he was home.I found him in the library, standing by the window with a glass of whiskey, silhouetted against the dying light.
He didn’t turn when I entered.
“Good evening,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.Professional.Like we were strangers meeting at a business function.
“Lena.”
Just my name.No warmth.No heat.No predatory focus.Just acknowledgment, flat and distant.
Good.This was what I wanted.
So why did it feel like a door slamming shut?
The evening routine began.We had a tense dinner together and afterward, I sat at the piano, playing the pieces he’d requested in our first weeks together.Chopin.Debussy.Music that had once made me feel exposed, like every note was a confession.
Tonight it felt like playing for an empty room.
He didn’t circle me the way he usually did, prowling like a predator assessing prey.He simply sat in his chair, whiskey in hand, and watched.His expression was carved from stone.
When the last note faded, I stood and turned to face him.Waited for the command to strip, for the inspection, for the ritual of dominance and submission that had defined our arrangement.
