CHAPTER THREE #2
“Selene,” he repeated, extending his hand. “Then please, call me Alaric. There’s no need for any formalities between us tonight.”
I placed my hand in his, expecting the customary shake. Instead, he turned my palm upward and brushed his thumb across my wrist where my pulse quickened traitorously.
“You’ve always been more gorgeous in person,” he stated casually, releasing my hand and gesturing to the chair opposite his. “The photographs never capture half of what they should have.”
I slipped into the offered seat, arranging my face into something pleasant but noncommittal. “I wasn’t aware there were photographs,” I replied, spreading my napkin across my lap with practiced ease.
His smile deepened. “Your father has been thorough.”
Of course he had. I suppressed the urge to ask exactly what my father had promised him. Instead, I reached for the glass of water before me, letting the cool liquid soothe my throat where my father’s fingers had pressed just an hour before.
I fell back on autopilot. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”
“The anticipation was worth every second.” His eyes never left my face, studying me with an intensity that felt almost intrusive. “I’ve ordered ahead for us both. I hope you don’t mind.”
How predictable. “Not at all.”
A knowing smile touched his lips, not reaching the cool assessment in his pale blue eyes. “You could have said you do mind; I wouldn’t have been offended.”
His words hung in the air between us. I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
The practiced responses I’d been taught since childhood seemed suddenly inadequate.
Men had always been distant planets in my orbit, my father’s business associates who looked through me when they weren’t perving out, drivers who spoke only to confirm destinations, waiters trained to be invisible.
None had ever asked what I wanted, let alone suggested I could have refused what was offered.
A server materialized at our table then, carrying a silver tray with two crystal glasses.
“A 1926 Macallan Fine and Rare,” the server explained as he placed the glass before me.
I recognized it immediately. My father owned one bottle, kept under lock and key, brought out only for his most important business associates.
“You’ve had it before?” Alaric asked, noticing the recognition in my eyes.
“I’ve seen it,” I answered carefully. “My father doesn’t believe women should drink whisky.”
“And what do you believe, Selene?”
I lifted the glass, letting the aroma reach me—honey, dried fruit, and something smoky that reminded me of autumn. The first sip burned pleasantly, warming me from within as complex flavors bloomed across my tongue.
“I believe me and my father don’t agree on many things,” I said after savoring the taste.
Alaric’s smile turned genuine then, reaching his eyes for the first time. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
The server returned with our first course; two small plates arranged with artistic precision.
“Chef Amaro’s signature,” the young man explained. “Wagyu carpaccio with black truffle and aged balsamic. The beef is flown in from Japan twice weekly.”
“Thank you,” I said with a genial smile.
“I hope it’s to your liking.”
The rich, decadent aroma was at odds with the hollow feeling in my chest. I picked up my fork, carefully spearing a single slice.
The meat practically dissolved on my tongue—buttery, rich, and complex with a subtle earthiness from the truffle.
Too bad I couldn’t truly enjoy it. All I could think of was the price, of what this dinner would truly cost me in return.
“You approve?” Alaric asked.
“It’s...” I paused, searching for words that wouldn’t reveal too much. “Really good.”
“Chef Amaro only prepares this for special occasions.” Alaric took a bite of his own, maintaining eye contact. “Your father mentioned you’ve never been here before.”
Of course he’d discussed me with my father. I set down my fork, appetite diminishing entirely despite the decadent food.
“No, I haven’t. My father prefers to keep me close to home.”
“Now that you’ve achieved nearly all his goals for you, that’s not surprising.”
“His goals for me?” I questioned.
“I did my homework,” he continued after a moment, conversational. “You ride. Dressage, not show jumping. You did ballet until sixteen. Formal dance after that—waltz, foxtrot, Latin influence, I’d guess your mother’s side.”
My spine stiffened slightly.
“Your dinner etiquette’s perfect; your posture gives you away.
You speak four languages fluently. Five, if we’re counting the one you pretend you’ve forgotten.
You’re educated enough to balance ledgers but never permitted to handle them.
You know every rule, every code, every expectation placed on you… ”
He trailed off, I assumed watching for my reaction, but I had none to give. “And you’ve mastered pretending you don’t.”
“You sound impressed,” I acknowledged, not at all surprised he knew any of that information. My father probably sent an entire binder and headshots to him when setting this dinner up, and he naturally would’ve done his own digging if he was seriously considering marriage.
“Maybe I am,” he replied.
I smiled and shook my head and set my second glass down, sticking to strictly water. I was not a heavy drinker and did not need the unnecessary stressor of alcohol.
“Don’t be. None of it was genuine ambition, it was more or less survival,” I confessed. Maybe this was giving away too much, being too open, but I didn’t want him to get any false ideas of what he would be getting.
I was already a disappointment in one man’s eyes; I didn’t want to have a repeat with another.
“Survival,” he repeated, his voice softer now. “That’s a language I understand. Most people learn it young. The clever ones never forget it.” His eyes held mine. “Behind all those accomplishments your father catalogued so carefully, I wonder who’s actually there.”
Well, that was an unexpected statement. “I don’t want to be evasive, but I doubt the particulars of my personality will factor much into whatever arrangement you and my father have negotiated.”
I couldn’t bring myself to say marriage or engagement outright.
The word felt like tempting fate. I was dancing around any outright mention of the engagement, sparing myself blatant rejection when all I could see were those photographs of him with Danielle, her carefree smile, his hand at the small of her back.
One corner of his mouth lifted something flickering in his gaze. “I believe that’s for me to determine, not you.”
The server’s return offered a momentary reprieve as he refilled Alaric’s glass and inquired about our satisfaction before Alaric dismissed him with a courteous nod that held no warmth.
“If you don’t want to tell me about the real you, then at least tell me what you hope to gain from this, Selene,” he asked
“Is that question sincere?”
His gaze locked with mine, unwavering. “ I don’t waste breath on questions I don’t want answered.”
I answered before I could stop myself. “Freedom to walk outside without permission. To feel the sun without someone timing how long I’ve been gone.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Is that all you want?”
“No.” My throat tightened around the word. “My sister. I need to see her again.”
His eyes remained fixed on me, unreadable. Was he calculating the value of my confession or memorizing my weaknesses?
“If I could arrange that?” he finally asked.
“Then I’d want to hear what you expect in return.”
It was ridiculous because I had no real agency here.
My father would chain me to this man like a medieval transfer of property, the golden handcuffs simply changing hands.
Yet as I sat across from him in this dimly lit restaurant, I clung to the illusion of choice like a drowning woman to driftwood.
“If this goes any further, I only want three things from you. Honesty, loyalty, and to understand what it means to be my wife.”
I felt my composure slip for just a moment. “You believe I’m capable of that given who my father is?”
He smiled, bemused. “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be sitting here.”
I swallowed, pulse stuttering. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
"You’re right, I have a lot to learn, that’s why when you speak to me, I want your words to be yours. Not what you think your father would approve of. Not what Dominion duty demands. Just yours."
He shifted forward in his chair, the distance between us unchanged yet somehow charged.
“What does that mean, exactly?” I asked, voice carefully modulated. “I know the basics of the Dominion, the… structure and expectations of a wife. But what does it mean to be yours?”
A slow, dark smile curved his lips. “Agree to see me again and I’ll tell you.”
I opened my mouth to agree on instinct—because what other option did I have?—but Alaric raised his hand, stopping me before the words could form.
“Don’t say yes if this isn’t what you want,” he cautioned, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “This isn’t a command. Not from me.”
The statement hung between us, impossible and confusing. I studied his face, searching for the trap. Men like him didn’t offer choices; they collected assets. And that’s all I was to my father, an asset to be traded.
“How can you be so sure you want me?” I asked, the question escaping before I could rein it back. “We’ve just met. And we both know I don’t really have a say in this. My father has already decided.”
Alaric leaned closer, the ambient light catching the flecks of gray in his blue eyes. “Your father may think he’s decided, but he doesn’t control me, and despite what you’ve been led to believe, he doesn’t control this situation either.”
He reached across the table, not quite touching my hand but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin.
“I’ll handle your father. I’ll handle everything else, but I need one thing from you that has to be real, that has to be yours alone to give. I need your answer. Do you want to see me again, Selene?”
His reassurances didn’t mean much to me.
My damnable curiosity and the chance to get away from my father were another matter.
I realized how surreal this situation was.
Our entire exchange had been a carefully choreographed dance around what mattered—his actual intentions, my genuine desires, and the reality of what awaited me regardless of my answer.
“Yes,” I said finally, the word escaping like a breath I’d been holding too long. “I would like to see you again.”
His smile reached his eyes once more, transforming his face. “Good. Then I’ll make the arrangements.”
That meant I’d done what I was meant to, didn’t it? That I’d survived the first test. So why did it feel like I’d just agreed to something I didn’t understand?