“Wear this. It’ll match the necklace.” He hands it to me and leaves the room without further explanation, which is very Rolan.
I put on the dress. He’s right, the match is flawless, the satindraping against my skin as though it was poured rather than sewn. The emeralds sit against my collarbone. I admire myself in the mirror, something I haven’t done in a long time.
When I step out, he’s in the bedroom, finishing the last cufflink on his left sleeve. Dark suit, no tie, the collar slightly open. He glances up as I approach, and his eyes travel over me. Slowly, a small, satisfied smile surfaces on his lips.
The heat rises in my cheeks instantly. Months of this and my body still hasn’t developed a defense against his stare.
“Ready?” he asks, as though he hasn’t just dismantled my composure with a single glance.
“Ready.”
We walk through the corridor and descend the stairs together, his hand resting at the small of my back. At the bottom, I expect him to turn left toward the garage. Instead, he steers me right.
To the sunroom.
I frown. Maybe he forgot something?
I stop in the doorway.
The room is unrecognizable. The table where Anya and I spend our mornings has vanished. In its place stands a dining table set for two, dressed in white linen.
Rich velvet curtains in deep crimson frame the glass windows, softening the room’s usual brightness into a more intimate space. Candles occupy every available surface, pillars arranged among clusters of fresh flowers whose scent fills the warm air with a sweet and faintly spiced smell.
When he said dinner, I assumed a restaurant. Somewhere outside the estate, a rare venture into the city, the kind of outing that requires armored cars and advanced security sweeps. This is — this is better. Infinitely, unexpectedly better.
“We can’t risk going out yet,” he says from behind me. His voice is quiet, close. “But I still wanted to treat you to a special night.”
I turn to face him. The candlelight catches the planes of his jaw, the line of his collar, the green of my dress reflected in his eyes.
“It’s perfect.”
A small smirk tugs at his lips as he guides me to the table and pulls my chair out. Then he takes the seat across from me, and it’s just us at a table. On a date.
A few minutes pass before a man I don’t recognize enters the room, dressed in a chef’s whites.
“I hope you like Italian,” Rolan mentions, picking up the menu from beside his plate.
I reach for mine and open it. Every word is in Italian. I scan the options with the growing awareness that my comprehension extends to approximately two items on the entire page:spaghettiandlasagna. The rest might as well be poetry.
“Cosa desiderate per questa sera?” the chef asks. I raise my eyebrows.
Rolan’s gaze shifts to me. I’m still staring at the menu, trying to extract meaning frombranzino al cartocciothrough sheer determination.
“Fettuccine per la signora,” Rolan says, his Italian flowing without hesitation. “E lasagna per me.”
It’s a shock. I figured he was fluent in Russian. But Italian too?
“You’re a man of many surprises,” I note.
His small smirk widens. “You don’t know the half of it.”
The chef nods and retreats. Moments later, wine arrives, a deep red poured with ceremony into glasses that catch the candlelight and hold it.
Now we’re alone again.
Rolan can’t stop staring.
“Gorgeous,” he says.
