Chapter 7
Ezra
I had spent my entire life viewing waiting as an inefficiency.
Waiting was a gap in the schedule. It was a debit in the ledger of time management. Whether it was waiting for a face-off, waiting for a board meeting to start, or waiting for the market to open, I usually filled the void with analysis. I checked emails. I ran projections. I optimized the silence.
But tonight, standing in the foyer of my penthouse, adjusting the cuffs of my bespoke charcoal suit for the third time, I wasn't analyzing anything.
I was just… waiting.
And for the first time in twenty-two years, the anticipation wasn't annoying. It was electric. It hummed in my veins, a low-frequency vibration that made my skin feel too tight.
Check the time. 19:42.
We had reservations at The Gilded Stag at 20:00.
It was the most pretentious restaurant in Blackwood, a place where the steak cost more than a credit hour and the wine list was older than the university itself.
It was exactly the kind of place my father’s spies monitored.
If we wanted to sell the narrative that I had successfully merged the Sterling and Vane dynasties into a power couple, we had to do it there.
I heard the door to the hallway open.
The click of heels on the slate floor.
I turned around.
The air left my lungs. It didn't woosh out; it simply vanished, replaced by a sudden, violent need to burn the restaurant reservation and lock the front door.
Amara stopped at the edge of the living room rug. She looked unsure, her hands smoothing down the front of her dress.
It was the dress I had selected. I had sent a stylist to the boutique with strict instructions: Elegant. lethal. Expensive.
It was black silk, fluid and shimmering like oil.
It had a high neck—modest, deceptively so—but the back was completely open, plunging dangerously low to the curve of her spine.
It clung to her hips like a second skin before pooling around her feet.
She had pulled her platinum hair back into a sleek, severe bun, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck.
She looked like a queen. She looked like a weapon.
“Well?” she asked, her voice wavering slightly. She touched her earlobe, where a diamond drop earring—borrowed from the stylist—caught the light. “Is it too much? I feel like I’m wearing a mortgage payment.”
I walked toward her. I couldn't stop myself. The gravitational pull she exerted on me was stronger than any defensive line I’d ever faced.
“It’s not too much,” I said. My voice was rougher than I intended.
I stopped in front of her. I reached out, my fingers hovering over the bare skin of her shoulder before finally, inevitably, making contact. Her skin was warm, soft against the cool slide of the silk.
“You look…” I struggled for the word. Beautiful felt too small. Hot felt too crude. “You look like you own the place.”
Amara let out a breath, a small smile tugging at her lips. The "Brat" spark returned to her eyes.
“Good. Because if I’m going to be paraded around like a prize pony, I at least want to look like a Triple Crown winner.”
She reached up and straightened my tie. It was an intimate gesture, domestic and possessive. Her knuckles brushed against my chest, and I felt my heart kick against my ribs.
“You clean up okay too, Sterling,” she murmured, her eyes scanning my face. “It’s weird seeing you without a helmet or a scowl. You almost look approachable.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I said. “I’m on duty tonight.”
“The Mission,” she said, stepping back and saluting mockingly. “Operation: Convince the World We Aren't a Disaster.”
“Operation: Survival,” I corrected.
I held out my arm. “Shall we?”
She looked at my arm. Then she looked at me. A softness entered her expression, a vulnerability that she usually kept hidden behind layers of sarcasm and designer labels.
“We shall,” she said.
She slipped her hand into the crook of my elbow. She squeezed my bicep, her fingers digging in slightly.
“Ezra?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m nervous,” she admitted. “People are going to stare. They know about my dad cutting me off. They know about the rivalry. They’re going to be waiting for me to trip or spill wine or… I don’t know, set the tablecloth on fire.”
I covered her hand with mine. The contact was grounding.
“Let them stare,” I said firmly. “If they stare, it means they’re watching. And if they’re watching, they’re going to see exactly what I want them to see.”
“Which is?”
I looked down at her, tightening my grip.
“That you’re with me,” I said. “And that anyone who has a problem with you, has a problem with me.”
Her eyes widened. She absorbed the words, letting them bolster her confidence. She lifted her chin, the Vane armor sliding back into place, but this time, it was reinforced by my steel.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s go give them a show.”
The Gilded Stag smelled of truffle oil, old leather, and quiet judgment.
It was crowded, filled with the upper echelon of Blackwood society—alumni, visiting parents, professors with tenure. The lighting was dim, the conversations hushed.
When we walked in, the hush deepened.
I felt Amara stiffen beside me. I could feel the tension radiating off her, the way her breath hitched.
I didn't slow down. I guided her through the room, my hand sliding from her elbow to the small of her back. I rested my palm against the bare skin exposed by the dress. It was a claim. A brand.
Mine.
The Maitre D’, a man named Phillipe who had known my father for twenty years, looked up from his podium. His eyes widened slightly as he took in Amara, then flicked to me.
“Mr. Sterling,” he said, his smile tight. “We weren't expecting… a guest.”
“I made the reservation for two, Phillipe,” I said calmly. “Did you lose it?”
“No, no, of course not. It’s just…” He glanced at Amara again, his gaze lingering on the daring cut of her dress with a sneer of disapproval. “We have a dress code regarding… modesty.”
It was a lie. I had seen women in this restaurant wearing far less. This was a dig. This was a subtle reminder that Amara Vane was considered "new money" chaos, a girl who made headlines for dancing on tables, not sitting at them.
Amara flinched. She started to pull away from me.
I pulled her closer. I felt the heat of her skin sear into my palm.
“The dress is couture,” I said, my voice dropping to a temperature that could freeze helium. “And she looks flawless. If you have a problem with my partner’s attire, Phillipe, I’m happy to take my business—and my family’s annual donation to the culinary institute—elsewhere.”
The threat hung in the air.
Phillipe paled. The Sterling donation was substantial.
“My apologies, Mr. Sterling,” he stammered. “I must have been mistaken. Please. Your table is ready.”
He grabbed two menus and hurried toward the best table in the house, a secluded booth near the fireplace.
I felt Amara relax against my side. She looked up at me, her eyes shining.
“You’re terrifying,” she whispered. “It’s kind of hot.”
“Keep walking, Brat,” I murmured against her ear. “Don’t let him see you smile.”
We sat down. The booth was intimate, the red velvet banquette forcing us to sit close. Usually, people sat across from each other. I gestured for Amara to slide in, then I slid in right next to her.
She looked at me, surprised. “We’re sitting on the same side?”
“Strategic positioning,” I lied. “Better view of the room.”
In reality, I just couldn't stand the idea of three feet of table separating us. I needed to feel her thigh against mine. I needed to smell her perfume—vanilla and peach—over the scent of the truffles.
The waiter poured the water. We ordered wine—a bottle of Barolo that cost more than Amara’s tuition fees.
When the waiter left, the bubble descended.
It was strange. We were in a room full of people watching us. I could see the whispers behind raised menus. I could see the phones being subtly angled to take photos.
But I didn't care.
“So,” Amara said, picking up her wine glass. She swirled the dark liquid, watching the legs run down the glass. “Phase One complete. We have arrived. We have been seated. We have offended the French guy.”
“Phase Two,” I said, clinking my glass against hers. “We enjoy ourselves.”
“Enjoy ourselves?” She raised an eyebrow. “Is that allowed in the Protocol?”
“Tonight is an exemption,” I said. “Tonight, there are no flashcards. No quizzes. Just… us.”
She took a sip of wine, her eyes locking onto mine over the rim of the glass.
“Okay then. Tell me something real, Ezra. Something that isn't on a spreadsheet.”
“Like what?”
“Like… what do you actually want to do? If you weren't the Sterling Heir. If you weren't the Captain. If you were just a guy.”
I looked at her. It was a dangerous question. It required me to access a part of my brain I had walled off years ago.
“I like architecture,” I said quietly.
She blinked. “Architecture? Like… buildings?”
“Structure,” I explained. “I like looking at how things are built. How stress is distributed. How you can make something massive and heavy look like it’s floating if you get the angles right.”
I grabbed a breadstick, snapping it in half.
“I wanted to be an architect. I got into a program in Chicago. My father told me that drawing pretty pictures wasn't a career for a CEO. He threw the acceptance letter in the shredder.”
Amara’s face softened. She reached out under the table and placed her hand on my knee. Her fingers squeezed gently.
“That sucks,” she said. “Your dad sucks.”
“He’s pragmatic,” I defended automatically, though the words tasted like ash.
“No, he’s a dream-killer,” she said fiercely. “You would have been a great architect. You’re obsessed with lines and order. You would have built the most organized, terrifying skyscrapers in the world.”
I laughed. A genuine laugh.
“Terrifying skyscrapers?”
“Totally. They’d stare down at the other buildings and make them feel insecure about their foundations.”
She grinned, nudging my shoulder with hers.
“I wanted to be a race car driver,” she confessed.