“That might be worse.”
“Possibly.”
She leans back slightly, her storm-gray eyes never leaving mine. “You don't perform. You don't try to convince me of anything or reassure me that everything will be fine.”
“I respect your intelligence too much for that,” I answer, the glass rising as my gaze remains on hers.
Her expression changes then, her eyes lowering just enough that I can see the vulnerability she normally guards so carefully. “That's why I called you.”
The admission lingers between us, plain and direct.
Dinner concludes without ceremony. Plates are cleared. Glasses are refilled once, then left untouched. The conversation feels unfinished, suspended rather than resolved, and I know she feels it too. The information she's shared has created more questions than answers and opened doors neither of us fully understands yet.
“There's a penthouse suite upstairs,” I tell her once the silence has run its course. “Quiet. No staff. No interruptions. We can continue this conversation without the risk of being overheard.”
She studies me carefully, her eyes moving across my face as she approaches the decision with the same discipline she brings to her work.
“You're inviting me to your room?”
“I'm offering a place to continue the conversation without noise or distraction.”
Her jaw tightens slightly, tension visible in the small muscles along her throat as she considers. She considers the decision with care rather than fear, calculating risk against necessity.
“All right,” she agrees after a long moment. “But only because I don't want to stop talking yet.”
The elevator ride is silent. The enclosed space feels smaller now, the air between us charged with unspoken recognition. She stands beside me rather than across from me, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo.
When the doors open, I lead her down the hallway to the suite I've maintained here for months, a space designed for privacy rather than luxury. The penthouse is dim when we enter, the city lights stretching beyond the windows. Functional elegance. Nothing indulgent or excessive.
I pause by the sideboard rather than sitting on the sofa right away.
“Would you like a drink?” I ask, the question offered without expectation.
“Yes,” she answers after a brief moment. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
I pour vodka for both of us, no ice. The glass is cool against my palm as I hand it to her. Our fingers brush lightly in the exchange, the brief contact noted but not commented on. She accepts it with a small nod of thanks, her eyes dropping to the glass before lifting again.
I take the seat beside her, close enough to be aware of her warmth without crowding it. She adjusts her posture slightly. Not pulling away, just adjusting to the new distance between us. It isn’t nerves. It’s awareness. The same focused alertness she had at dinner, now sharpened that I’m within reach.
She takes a sip, then another, her shoulders easing slightly. Her attention turns to the windows briefly, then back to me.
“Tell me about your family,” she says.
The request is direct. Personal without being intrusive. I rest my forearms loosely against my thighs, the glass balanced in one hand. “My father is gone, as you know. My mother died giving birth to my younger sister.”
Her eyes soften, not with pity, but recognition. She doesn’t interrupt.
“Elyana lives elsewhere,” I continue. “I keep her insulated from most of my world.”
“That sounds intentional,” she remarks.
“It is.”
She nods slowly, absorbing what I offer and what I don’t. “You don’t talk about them like obligations.”
“They aren’t.”
She studies me again, this time without the earlier reserve.
