Chapter 50
Julian
The dates and the gifts hadn’t stopped for weeks.
Besides the outings and the watch, she got me a first edition of The Stranger by Camus; I would have preferred another McMillan book, but the thought was there.
There was a set of custom cufflinks made from fragments of vintage watch gears.
A weekend reservation at a remote cabin in Maine—plane tickets, itinerary, everything included—with a note: Have I wooed you enough yet?
This is expensive. You’re the billionaire, not me.
I had laughed for ten minutes straight at that one.
She’d pop up at my office with coffee, exactly how I liked it. She’d have lunch sent to me on days she knew I’d skip it. She’d text me a single line—“Thinking of you”—at random times of the day and night. It was a full-scale, targeted campaign. And I was the objective.
My mother was sitting across from me as I ate from a bento box filled with all the sushi I liked. “It’s beautiful to watch,” she said, her eyes gleaming with a pride I hadn't seen since I closed my first eight-figure deal. “The student has become the master.”
“She’s annoying,” I grumbled, staring at the Patek on my wrist. I’d worn it every day since she gave it to me.
“You love it,” Vivienne corrected, unfazed. “You love every second of it.”
I hated that she was right. I loved the relentless, focused attention. The grand gestures. The quiet, consistent presence. It was everything I’d ever done to her, thrown back in my face with devastating precision. And I was enjoying it. God, I was enjoying it.
My indifference was a shield, but she was chipping away at it—touch by touch, gift by gift, whispered word by whispered word.
I was playing her game. I’d let her woo me; I’d let her think she was the one in control for now.
Because the truth was, after three years of being her secret and eight months of empty silence, the sound of her key in my door was the only thing I wanted to hear.
The intercom buzzed.
"Mr. Hale? Ms. Vance is on line one. She says to tell you she booked dinner for tonight. She texted Quinn the address.”
I reached for the phone, my fingers brushing the silver gear cufflinks she’d given me. "Tell her I’ll be on time," I said.
My mother chuckled, the sound of a woman who had won a long-standing bet with herself.
I hung up and sat back, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my face.
This was the perfect life. The "no sex" rule I had enacted was going to be the death of me, but the payoff of seeing her work for me, of seeing her choose me every single hour of the day, was worth every agonizing minute of restraint.