He's wearing a charcoal suit that fits him like it was sewn onto his body, a white shirt open at the collar, no tie. Casual elegance. The kind of effortless style that takes money and time, and the certainty that the world will arrange itself around your preferences.
He stands as I enter, and I'm struck again by how tall he is, how broad. How much physical space he occupies, how the air in the room seems to compress around him.
"Ms. Rivers." He smiles, and it's the same smile I saw at the market—warm, charming, utterly false. "Thank you for coming."
The maître d' closes the door behind me, and I'm alone with him.
The private dining room is small but elegant. A single table, two chairs, a window overlooking a courtyard garden. Flowers everywhere—lilies, roses, orchids—but none of them are mine. None of them has the soul I would have given them.
I wonder if he notices. I wonder if that's why he wants me.
"Please, sit." He gestures to the chair across from him. "I've taken the liberty of ordering wine. I hope you don't mind."
I do mind. I mind everything about this situation. But I sit anyway, lowering myself into the chair with what I hope is composure, arranging my bag at my feet, folding my hands on the table like a proper professional.
"Thank you for meeting with me," I say. The words taste like ash.
"Thank you for calling." He settles back into his chair, watching me with those dark eyes that see too much. "I wasn't sure you would."
"I almost didn't."
The admission slips out before I can stop it. His eyebrows rise slightly—surprise, or perhaps pleasure.
"Honesty. I appreciate that." He pours wine into my glass, then his own. A deep red, expensive-looking. "Most people aren't honest with me. They tell me what they think I want to hear."
"I don't know what you want to hear."
"No." He lifts his glass, studies the wine against the light. "I suppose you don't."
A waiter appears with menus, recites the specials in a hushed voice, disappears again. I stare at the words on the page without seeing them, my appetite nonexistent.
"The risotto is excellent," Gabriel says. "If you're having trouble deciding."
"I'm not very hungry."
"Try to eat something. We have a lot to discuss, and I'd hate for you to faint."
Is that a concern? Mockery? I can't tell. His tone is light, his expression pleasant, and underneath it all, I can feel the weight of what he is, what he's done, pressing against me like a hand on my chest.
"The risotto, then," I say, just to end the discussion.
He orders for both of us—the risotto for me, something with lamb for him—and the waiter vanishes again. We're alone.
"So," Gabriel says, leaning forward slightly. "Let's talk business."
He outlines the arrangement with the precision of a man who's thought it through carefully. Weekly retainer. Availability on a twenty-four-hour notice. Exclusivity—I work for him and no one else for the duration of the contract. In exchange, triple my usual rate, all expenses covered, access to wholesale accounts I couldn't afford on my own.
It's a generous offer. Obscenely generous. The kind of offer that would have made me weep with gratitude a month ago, before I knew what he was.
Now it feels like a gilded cage.
"Exclusivity," I repeat. "For how long?"
"Six months initially. Renewable by mutual agreement."
"And if I want to terminate early?"
"You won't."
