Chapter Three-Cecilia
The restaurant Atlas picks is one of those hushed, dimly lit Manhattan temples of excess where the cheapest wine costs as much as a semester at Rutgers.
The kind of place where men make deals that rewrite economies—or destroy them.
I should feel at home.
After all, I was raised in boardrooms and black cars.
But tonight? I feel different, and I’m not sure I like it.
He’s sitting across from me, impossibly poised.
The waiter just poured our wine, and Atlas swirls his glass like a man with nowhere to be and nothing to prove.
His deep, husky voice seems to wrap around the whole room every time he speaks.
“So, tell me, Miss Batiste—”
“Oh, come on now. You’re still doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Calling me that. I mean, you punched a guy for me tonight. I think we’re up to the part where we can use first names now,” I tell him.
He grins. Like one of those sexy, full on wicked grins all those sexy dukes on Bridgerton like to give their Victorian era misses.
Yes, I’m a fan.
And yes, I swear I feel a tremble go right through me at the sexy as hell smile.
“Alright. Then tell me, Cecilia, are you always this hard to impress?” he asks, eyes glinting like caramel struck by flame.
“Depends on who’s trying,” I reply, spearing a bite of perfectly poached lobster with my fork. “Usually, I prefer my dinner companions to be less, uh, TMZ headline material.”
He chuckles. “Ah, so you’ve read the headlines?”
“About you? You wish,” I murmur, sipping my wine and looking anywhere other than the maddening man before me.
The restaurant really is something. It’s the kind of place that whispers wealth.
Dim lighting.
Heavy linen.
A panoramic view of the city glittering outside like a crown.
Every table is its own little stage, every diner pretending not to notice the others while they play their own private games.
And here I am, sitting across from Atlas Stavros—the most dangerous kind of man.
Not the loud, obvious ones. No.
The quiet ones. The secretive ones. The plotters.
The ones who smile when they lie, who seduce when they speak, and who make you forget which side of the fire you’re standing on.
I swirl the wine in my glass, pretending it’s him under my scrutiny instead of the other way around.
“I’ve heard the stories,” I correct, giving him a pointed look over the rim. “Andrea Falco—she’s my honorary cousin by marriage—said her husband had to train your personal guard a few weeks back when you were still negotiating with Sigma.”
I let my mouth curve in a faint smile.
“Said you were the type of man who could snap his fingers and be surrounded by supermodels within seconds. Naked ones, apparently.”
He smirks. That slow, lazy kind of smirk that feels like a sin.
The one that starts small and grows until it’s a full-blown invitation to ruin.
“I’m not sure what’s more flattering,” he murmurs, his accent curling around every word, rich and decadent. “That your cousin’s husband still talks about me—or that you listened to him.”
I tilt my head, keeping my voice cool.
“Oh, I didn’t say I believed him.”
A pause.
I sip, slow and deliberate.
“But I’m not blind either. You’re charming. Confident. Filthy rich. Royalty. The kind of man who collects beautiful things just because he can.”
“Beautiful things,” he repeats, his tone dipping low—dangerously low. “You make it sound like I don’t know the difference between art and people.”
“Do you?” I challenge.
Something in the air shifts.
He leans forward, elbows braced on the table, his gaze cutting through me like a hot blade wrapped in velvet.
The kind of stare that strips you bare while you sit perfectly still and let it happen.
“I know the difference,” he says quietly. “Art never looks back at you.”
The words hit me somewhere deep and unguarded.
There’s a flash in his eyes—something raw, almost broken—and for half a breath, I forget to breathe.
Then it’s gone.
Replaced by that perfectly composed smile.
The one that hides more than it reveals.
“You are a mysterious woman, Cecilia.”
I laugh, short and sharp, using humor like armor. “Me? No, I’m really not.”
He shakes his head, eyes glinting. “You are. And tell me—why law? You could have done anything. Finance. Politics. Modeling.”
I almost choke on my wine.
“Modeling? Really?”
He looks genuinely confused.
“Why is that funny?”
I set the glass down, the stem cold against my fingers.
“Well, now I know Remy was bullshitting. I doubt you’ve ever met any real supermodels.”
“What? Why do say that?”
“Because I’m nobody’s idea of a model.”
“I beg to differ,” he says softly, his gaze trailing over me like a caress. “You, kardhoúla mou, are exquisite.”
That word—exquisite—lands like a touch on my skin.
Hot. Heavy. Possessive.
But I don’t flinch. I meet his eyes and smile, slow and knowing.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t.”
His brow arches slightly.
“I know it’s weird to say this,” I continue, “but I know exactly how I look. The tattoos, the piercings. Some people hate them, but I’m confident enough to know their opinions don’t matter.
I think I look good. I know I’m attractive, but I also know I’m way too thick and curvy for any kind of modeling. ”
I shake my head before he can interrupt me.
“It’s just a fact. And it’s fine. The point is, you don’t need to say things like that to me, Atlas. I know what I am.”
His eyes darken, something like amusement—or hunger—flickering there.
“I’m afraid I have to disagree. I’m not at all certain that you do know what you are, Cecilia Batiste.”
“It’s like you said,” I finish, voice smooth as the silk napkin in my lap, “I’m very well educated. And I believe in being straightforward.”
“A straightforward lawyer?” he repeats, voice low, the sound rolling through his chest like distant thunder. “See? I was right. Mysterious.”
Then he does it.
He reaches across the table and takes my hand before I can stop him.
His fingers are warm, his palm callused in a way that doesn’t match the cut of his suit or the shine of his watch.
Not smooth like the corporate men I usually deal with—he feels real.
Rough-edged. Capable.
Like a man who’s handled more than just money.
And for one dangerous, reckless moment, I let him.
Because his eyes are on mine, molten gold in the low light, and the world suddenly feels too small for the two of us.
Too hot. Too intimate.
“You know,” I say, throat tight, “this business deal is pretty important. Maybe we shouldn’t—”
“I agree,” he says smoothly, voice dipping lower, brushing over me like a caress. “It’s important. But what happens in the boardroom happens there for a reason.”
He tightens his grip on my hand just slightly, enough to make my pulse skip.
“This?” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. “Out here? Me and you? This is outside the boardroom. And yet—equally important. Tell me it’s not.”
My breath catches.
Every part of me is telling me to pull away, to remember who I am and what kind of man this is.
But his words—his tone—sink into me like honey laced with poison.
“You’re dangerous,” I whisper, because I need to say something.
“I can be,” he admits easily, leaning closer until I catch a hint of his scent—cedarwood, smoke, and sin. “But not to you.”
A sharp, humorless laugh escapes me.
“I don’t believe that.”
His lips twitch.
“Then maybe you just don’t know me well enough yet.”
Before I can answer, the waiter appears, all starched white linen and impeccable timing.
“Pardon me, monsieur, mademoiselle,” he says softly, moving between us to clear the plates.
Atlas releases my hand, slow and deliberate, like he’s forcing himself to do it.
And the second his skin leaves mine, I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
He leans back in his chair, composure restored, while I sip my wine to hide the trembling in my fingers.
He shouldn’t affect me like this.
I know better.
Men like him are the reason women like me build walls in the first place.
I’m supposed to be the calm one, the rational one, the one who knows exactly how to read the danger in a smile like his.
But Atlas Stavros isn’t a man you can read.
He’s a cipher. A contradiction.
And I can feel it—that he’s hiding something.
Something big.
When he looks at me again, that lazy charm returns to his face, but his eyes, his eyes are sharper than they were before.
Watching. Measuring.
Like he’s deciding whether to pull me closer—or cut me loose.
And God help me, I think a part of me wants to see which one he’ll choose.
“Dessert?” the waiter asks.
“Trust me?” Atlas asks, eyes sparkling with mischief.
There’s a teasing note in his voice, but underneath it, curiosity. Genuine curiosity.
And damn it, that makes him even more dangerous.
“Why not?” I say, already doubting my decision.
He orders in French. Something chocolate but that’s all I could make out.
“Do you speak French?”
“Sadly, no. I’m actually terrible at languages. I know enough restaurant Spanish and Italian to get by, but that’s mostly because I studied Latin.”
“For law school?” he asks, and God, I wish he really was as interested as he’s pretending to be.
But still, I nod and answer politely.
“Yes. And I went into law because I like structure,” I admit, swirling what’s left of my wine. “Order. Clean lines. Rules that make sense. My family’s world doesn’t have a lot of that.”
“Ah, yes,” he says softly, “the Vipers. Beautiful chaos with a side of blood.”
The words shouldn’t sound like compliments, but they do. I shrug, feigning indifference.
“You’d fit right in, Prince Charming.”
He barks a laugh, then sips his wine before replying.
“Maybe,” he says, eyes fixed on me like he’s cataloguing my every movement. “But I think I’d rather fit next to you.”
My stomach flips. I hide it by reaching for my water glass.
“You really don’t quit, do you?”
He shakes his head, smile wicked.
“Never. Not when I see something I want, Cece.”
It’s the first time he’s called me by my nickname, and I think I like it.
“Is that so?”
“Indeed, that’s so. And make no mistake, I’m looking at what I want, right now.”
We lapse into silence for a beat too long. The tension stretches taut and shimmering until I have to break it before it breaks me.
“You’re good at this,” I tell him finally. “The whole mysterious billionaire prince thing. I can see why women line up to fall at your feet.”
“Do they?” His voice softens, almost contemplative now. “Maybe they do. But none of them catches my eye.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I mean it. And I’m not looking at any of them.”
That quiet honesty catches me off guard. I stare at him across the table, seeing—not the polished businessman, not the smirking prince—but a man with shadows under his charm.
And it scares me how much I want to understand them.
Dessert is brought out, and it’s sublime.
We eat.
We drink.
And when it’s time to go—Atlas takes my keys and hands them to a man in black—one of his bodyguards, I assume.
“Your car will be ready for you when you leave.”
“What?”
“I’m hoping you’ll join me in my room for a nightcap,” he murmurs, tucking my hand into the crux of his arm and placing his other on the small of my back.
“Does that line still work?” I ask, after we make it outside.
“You tell me, kardhoúla,” he says, and his face is so close I can see flecks of fire in his golden gaze.
“Okay,” I whisper, not ready to end the night.
“Come,” he says.
It’s not a request.
And as we walk quickly through the brisk night air to the glitzy hotel on the corner. Stargazer, of course.
The city lights glitter like fractured stars outside. And I can’t help but wonder what the hell I’m walking into.
One night of passion and pleasure? Or my ultimate ruination?
Because whatever Atlas James Stavros really is—he’s not just danger.
He’s the kind that smiles when you step closer.
And I have every intention of stepping closer.