I stop before the door, place my hand against it, and tell myself to relax.
It’s not too late to leave. To run.
Yet even the contemplation of retreat tightens my chest, as if leaving were an allergy severe enough to trigger anaphylaxis.
Get it together.
I hold my head high, completely ignore how I’m about to face the enemy in a dress that screams seduction, and push inside.
Raffael is seated at the head of the table.
Not waiting.
Commanding.
The composed authority rolling off him is nothing like the confidence I’ve spent years admiring. That historical version pales in comparison to the man before me, navy suit immaculate, tie loose, dominance radiating from him with lethal ease.
“Isla,” he greets, voice low and velvet rich.
I force moisture into my mouth. “Raffael.”
He gestures to the seat on his right.
I approach and pull out the next chair along instead, placing a full foot of oak between us before sitting.
For long moments he simply stares at me, as if drinking me in, his perusal a sinful caress and pure torture in equal measure.
Then, without a word, he stands, strides for the drinks tray in the corner, and pours two glasses of Dalmore.
When he returns, he leans in to place a tumbler before me, the sleeve of his suit brushing my bare shoulder. The contact is brief. Incidental. Yet it detonates through me, every nerve screaming for more.
“You wanted to discuss our current agreement?” I ignore the alcohol and pretend each passing second doesn’t ratchet my instability higher as he reclaims his seat.
“I do.” He takes a sip of liquor, eyes dark, intentions seeming darker. “Years ago we shared a drink that led to more and could’ve evolved into something substantial. Due to circumstances you’re now painfully aware of, I was unable to pursue what could’ve been, but a lot has changed, and it would be a disservice to us both not to reassess.”
I school my expression into careful neutrality. “A lot may have changed, but the reasons to maintain distance haven’t.”
“I disagree. Previously, I was concerned about your father’s debt hanging over us and my biological father’s enemies. Those are no longer factors.”
“Lorenzo’s enemies are no longer a factor?” I palm my glass, annoyed I can’t curb the urge to humor him. “Why? I would’ve thought the risk of exposure had increased now that Quinn and I know the truth.”
“The exposure may have increased.” He inclines his head. “But I’m no longer opposed to leaning into my biological father’s legacy if anyone dares to make us a target.”
That’s what’s different about him—the savagery no longer denied but welcomed.
“Hear me when I say this, Isla—I’m desperate to reevaluate our situation.”
He saysdesperatewith unsettling calm. Like a man who’s only familiarity with the word is its pronunciation. It’s enough to make me shake my head in exasperation.
“You don’t believe me?” He raises a brow. “Would you like proof of how being separated from you has torn me apart?”
No. I wouldn’t.
But I hold his stare, neither confirming nor denying, just losing ground with every second his gaze pins me in place until finally he stands, his steps measured as he carries his tumbler to the window.
City lights silhouette his frame, his imperious reflection faint against the glass. “You’re unhappy.”
The change of topic catches me off guard, yet the truth of it burrows deep.
