Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
SOPHIE
The car Christian sends is not the Bentley from last night but a sleek black Mercedes, driven by a different chauffeur who introduces himself as Thomas.
I slide into the back seat, smoothing the midnight-blue dress I chose after agonizing over my limited wardrobe options.
The box that arrived at my apartment an hour before pickup—a designer dress in deep crimson with a note reading "Wear this"—sits untouched on my bed.
A small rebellion, perhaps childish, but necessary.
If I'm going to confront Christian Hawthorne about his possessive behavior, I can't be wearing a dress he commanded me to put on.
I need whatever scraps of independence I can muster, even if they come in the form of fabric and color choices.
The drive to Archer's is short but gives me time to rehearse what I need to say.
"Don't smile at them like that, Sophie. Not when you're mine.
" His words from this afternoon echo in my head, both thrilling and infuriating me in equal measure.
The possessiveness in his voice, the heat in his eyes when he gripped my arms—it sent shivers down my spine even as my brain screamed warnings about red flags and controlling behavior.
I can't keep vacillating between desire and common sense.
Tonight, I need to draw clear boundaries, even if part of me wants to surrender completely to whatever this is between us.
Archer's is the most exclusive restaurant in Evergreen, a converted mansion on the edge of town that requires reservations weeks in advance—unless you're Christian Hawthorne, apparently.
Thomas pulls up to the entrance, where a valet opens my door before I can reach for the handle.
The restaurant glows with warm light against the winter darkness, intimidatingly elegant.
I take a deep breath, straightening my shoulders.
I can do this. I can stand my ground with the most powerful man in town, even if he makes my knees weak with a single glance.
Christian waits in the lobby, his back to me as he speaks to the ma?tre d'.
My heart does a traitorous little flip at the sight of him in a perfectly tailored suit, dark hair still slightly damp as if he showered just before coming.
When he turns and sees me, something flashes in his eyes—surprise, quickly followed by appreciation, then a hint of displeasure.
"Not the dress I sent," he observes as I approach, his tone neutral but eyes assessing.
"No," I agree simply, refusing to apologize or explain.
He studies me for a long moment, then offers his arm. "You look beautiful regardless."
I place my hand on his sleeve, hyperaware of the solid muscle beneath fine fabric. "Thank you."
The ma?tre d' leads us not to the main dining room but up a private staircase to a small room with a single table overlooking the restaurant's winter garden.
A crystal chandelier casts soft light over white linens, silver, and the dozen white roses arranged as a centerpiece—a miniature echo of the floral explosion in my shop.
"The private dining room, as requested, Mr. Hawthorne," the ma?tre d' says with a slight bow. "Chef Michel has prepared the special menu you discussed."
Of course he has. Christian probably planned this dinner with the same strategic precision he applies to business acquisitions. The thought both impresses and unnerves me.
Christian holds my chair, his hands lingering briefly on my shoulders as I sit. The casual possessiveness of the gesture stiffens my resolve. I need to speak up before I lose myself in the romance of the setting, in the intoxicating presence of the man now seated across from me.
A waiter appears with champagne, pouring without asking if we want it. Christian raises his glass. "To new beginnings."
I lift mine but don't drink immediately. "What kind of beginning are we talking about, exactly?"
His eyes hold mine over the rim of his glass. "The only kind that matters. One that continues."
The intensity of his gaze makes my stomach flutter, but I push through it. "We need to talk about what happened today."
"Which part?" he asks, though I suspect he knows exactly what I mean.
"The part where you dragged me into my own workroom to warn me about smiling at other men." I set my champagne down untouched. "The part where you acted like you have some claim on me after one kiss and a few conversations."
His jaw tightens slightly, the only visible sign that my directness has hit a nerve. "I don't appreciate watching men flirt with you."
"And I don't appreciate being treated like property," I counter, my voice steadier than I feel. "I'm not your possession, Christian. I'm not something you can acquire or claim or own."
"Is that what you think I'm doing?" he asks, leaning forward slightly. "Treating you like an acquisition?"
"Aren't you? 'You're mine, Sophie.' 'Don't smile at them, Sophie.' 'Wear this dress, Sophie.'" I mimic his commanding tone. "You don't get to dictate who I talk to or how I interact with customers in my own shop."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes—not anger, exactly, but a fierce intensity that makes my breath catch. "The man wanted more than a Christmas ornament."
"That's not the point," I insist, refusing to be derailed. "The point is that you don't own me. You can't stake some territorial claim and expect me to just…comply."
"Yet here you are," he observes, gesturing to our surroundings. "At dinner with me, despite my apparent overstepping."
"Because I want to be," I admit, the honesty costing me something. "And that's the difference, Christian. I'm choosing to be here. Not being commanded, not being claimed. Choosing."
He's silent for a moment, studying me with unnerving focus. I force myself to hold his gaze, not to look away or soften my stance. This matters. My independence matters, even as my heart races under his scrutiny.
"You wore blue instead of red," he says finally, surprising me with the apparent non sequitur.
"Yes."
"A deliberate choice. To establish independence."
I blink, unsettled by how accurately he's read my small rebellion. "Yes."
A hint of a smile touches his lips. "I admire your spirit, Sophie. I always have."
"But?" I prompt, sensing the unspoken qualifier.
"No but." He reaches across the table, not taking my hand but placing his palm up in invitation. "I'm not accustomed to being challenged. It's…refreshing."
I stare at his outstretched hand, caught off guard by this shift. "So you understand why your behavior today was unacceptable?"
"I understand that it concerned you," he says carefully. "And that's enough for me to reconsider my approach."
Not quite an apology, but perhaps as close as a man like Christian Hawthorne comes to one. I hesitate, then place my hand in his, feeling the now-familiar warmth of his palm against mine.
"I'm drawn to you, Christian," I admit, my voice quieter now. "More than I should be, considering we barely know each other. But I won't sacrifice my autonomy, not even for…whatever this is between us."
His fingers close around mine, gentle but secure. "I don't want your sacrifice, Sophie. I want your surrender. There's a difference."
The distinction sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear. "And what exactly would I be surrendering to?"
His thumb traces small circles on my wrist, a hypnotic touch that makes it hard to focus. "To this connection. To the possibility that some things are inevitable. To me."
His voice drops on those last two words, dark and intimate in a way that makes heat pool low in my stomach. I force myself to stay on track.
"I can't surrender to someone who treats me like a possession," I tell him, though my body betrays me with its reaction to his touch. "I need to be a partner, not an acquisition."
Christian studies me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression—a recognition, perhaps, that I won't be so easily claimed as he expected.
"Then we'll negotiate terms," he says finally, the businessman in him finding familiar ground. "You tell me what you need from me. I'll tell you what I need from you. We'll find…compromise."
The word sounds foreign on his tongue, as if he rarely uses it. I suspect he doesn't, not in business, not in life. The fact that he's willing to even consider it now, with me, feels like a significant concession.
"Starting with?" I prompt.
"Starting with dinner," he says, releasing my hand to pick up his menu. "And a conversation that doesn't involve ultimatums from either of us."
It's a reasonable suggestion, a step back from the intensity that's defined our interactions so far. I find myself relaxing slightly, the knot of tension between my shoulders loosening.
"I'd like that," I agree, reaching for my champagne at last.
Christian raises his glass again, his eyes never leaving mine. "To negotiation, then."
I clink my glass against his, a tentative smile forming. "To negotiation."
As I sip the expensive champagne, I realize I've won a small victory. Not a complete surrender on his part—Christian Hawthorne doesn't seem the type to surrender anything completely—but an acknowledgment, at least, that I won't be simply claimed like a prize.
It's a start. A beginning, as he said. One that continues.
And despite every warning sign, every red flag, every cautious voice in my head, I find myself hoping it continues for a very long time.