Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
HOLLY
My phone buzzes for the third time in five minutes, vibrating insistently against the library table where I've been sketching designs for the children's wing Christmas display.
I've been ignoring it, focused on creating something magical for the children's hospital charity event Dominic hosts each year, but the persistent notifications finally pull my attention away from the colored pencils and paper before me.
Three texts from Megan, my closest friend since college:
*Are you still alive or has your billionaire locked you in his tower?*
*Girls' night planning committee DEMANDS your presence. Annual Christmas party this Saturday at Nora's. No excuses this time.*
*Seriously, Holly, we're starting to think you've been replaced by a very convincing robot. CALL ME.*
Guilt washes over me as I realize how completely I've disappeared from my friends' lives these past two weeks.
Megan's texts have gone answered with increasingly brief replies.
I've missed our weekly Sunday brunch twice.
The last time I spoke with any of my friends was a hurried five-minute call with Nora over a week ago, during which I was so distracted by preparing for my evening with Dominic that I barely registered her news about a promotion.
My thumb hovers over the call button beside Megan's name.
It's nearly five—Dominic will expect me in his suite for dinner at seven, as has become our routine.
The thought sends a now-familiar flutter through my stomach, but it's accompanied by something else today—a faint resentment at how completely my life has been subsumed into his.
Two weeks ago, I would have immediately accepted the party invitation.
Now, my first thought is how Dominic will react.
Before I can overthink it, I press the call button.
"She lives!" Megan answers on the second ring. "I was about to file a missing persons report."
"I've been busy," I reply, smiling despite my guilt. "The Sterling mansion is enormous, and Christmas is less than two weeks away."
"Mmhmm," she hums skeptically. "And does 'busy' have a name, specifically Dominic Sterling? Because I've heard some interesting rumors about you being spotted having dinner with him at Aureole last weekend."
I flush, remembering the evening well—Dominic's hand on the small of my back as we entered the exclusive restaurant, the way the ma?tre d' practically bowed in his presence, the heated looks exchanged across the table that had nothing to do with the flames from the tableside dishes.
"It's complicated," I hedge, though that's a massive understatement.
"So it's true!" Megan's voice rises with excitement. "Holly Parker, are you sleeping with the billionaire whose house you're decorating? Because that's either the most cliché or most brilliant career move ever."
"It's not a career move," I protest immediately. "It's…I don't know what it is, exactly."
"Well, you can tell us all about it on Saturday," she says firmly. "Nora's hosting the Christmas party this year. Eight o'clock. Bring wine and all the dirty details."
I hesitate, and she catches it instantly.
"Oh my God, you're actually considering not coming?" Disbelief colors her voice. "You haven't missed the annual Christmas party since we started having them six years ago. It's practically your second religion."
"I'm not sure I can make it," I say carefully. "Dominic has several events scheduled, and the installation timeline is tight."
"Holly." Megan's voice turns serious. "You work for him. You're allowed to have a personal life outside of that job, no matter how spectacular the sex is."
Her bluntness makes me laugh, though there's a uncomfortable truth in her words that pricks at my conscience. "It's not just the job," I admit. "It's…intense. He's intense."
"Intense how?" Concern replaces the teasing in her tone. "Holly, is everything okay?"
"Yes, of course," I assure her quickly. "He treats me wonderfully. He's just very…possessive."
"Possessive?" She sounds alarmed now. "Like, controlling? Red flag, Holly."
"Not controlling exactly," I try to explain, though I'm not sure that's entirely true.
The image of Dominic's face when he confronted Mark the lighting specialist flashes through my mind—the cold fury in his eyes, the unmistakable claim in his touch when he put his hand on my back.
"He knows what he wants and he's used to getting it. And right now, what he wants is me."
"And what do you want?" Megan asks, cutting straight to the heart of the matter as she always does.
The question catches me off guard. What do I want? These past two weeks have been a whirlwind of desire and discovery, my days filled with work and my nights with Dominic. I've barely had time to think about what I want beyond the next kiss, the next touch, the next moment in his arms.
"I want..." I pause, genuinely uncertain. "I want to figure out what this is between us. But I also don't want to lose myself in it."
"Then come to the party," Megan urges. "Take one night for yourself, for your friends who miss you. If Mr. Billionaire can't handle that, then maybe that tells you something important about what this relationship really is."
She's right, and I know it. The thought of telling Dominic I have other plans for Saturday night makes my stomach tighten with anxiety, though—a reaction that itself is worrying. When did I become afraid of asserting my independence?
"I'll try," I promise, not quite committing. "I need to check a few things first."
Megan sighs, clearly frustrated with my equivocation. "Holly, listen to yourself. You've never needed to 'check' before making plans with your closest friends. This doesn't sound healthy."
"It's still new," I defend weakly. "We're still figuring things out."
"Just promise me you'll come up for air long enough to remember who you were before Dominic Sterling swept you off your feet," she says. "The Holly I know doesn't need anyone's permission to see her friends."
Her words hit harder than she probably intended. Have I really changed so much in two weeks? Has Dominic's intensity, his possessiveness, already altered how I navigate my own life?
"I'll be there," I say suddenly, making the decision in that moment. "Saturday at eight. I'll bring that spiced wine everyone liked last year."
"Really?" Megan sounds both pleased and surprised. "No checking with the boss first?"
"He's not my boss in everything," I reply with more confidence than I feel. "I'm allowed to have a social life."
After we hang up, I stare at my phone, a mixture of emotions swirling through me. Excitement about seeing my friends. Anxiety about telling Dominic. And beneath both, a troubling realization that I've allowed his preferences to dictate my choices without even noticing.
Last weekend, he mentioned wanting to take me to the symphony on Saturday evening.
Not quite a firm plan, but an expressed desire.
When I tell him I've made other arrangements, how will he react?
The Dominic who whispers tender words in the night, who watches me with wonder when he thinks I'm not looking—that Dominic might understand, might respect my need for time with friends.
But the Dominic who pulled me into a secluded room after seeing another man simply talk to me, who declared me his with absolute certainty, who arranges my life with the same precision he applies to business acquisitions—that Dominic might see my independent plans as a challenge to his authority, a rejection of his claim.
And I'm no longer certain which Dominic is the real one—or if perhaps both are, two sides of a complex man I'm still only beginning to understand.
What I do know is that Megan is right. I need to remember who I am outside of Dominic Sterling's orbit. The question is whether he'll allow that independence—and what it means for us if he doesn't.
The private dining room in Dominic's suite feels too warm tonight, though the temperature hasn't changed from our previous dinners together.
I push my salmon around the plate, rehearsing different ways to mention the Christmas party while Dominic reviews quarterly reports between bites of his perfectly cooked steak.
This domestic routine we've established in just two weeks feels simultaneously brand new and oddly familiar—as if we've been sharing meals and beds for years rather than days.
"You're distracted," Dominic observes without looking up from his tablet. His perception is uncanny and sometimes unsettling. "The children's wing designs troubling you?"
"No, the designs are finalized," I reply, setting down my fork. "Actually, I got a call from my friend Megan today."
Now he looks up, his blue eyes focusing on me with that laser-like attention that still makes my pulse quicken. "Megan," he repeats, as if cataloging the name. "The interior designer friend you mentioned."
"Yes." I'm surprised he remembers this detail from a casual conversation days ago. "She called about our annual Christmas party this Saturday at our friend Nora's apartment. It's a tradition we've had since college."
Something flickers across his expression—so brief I almost miss it before his features settle into neutral interest. "This Saturday? I believe I mentioned the symphony that evening. The Berlin Philharmonic is performing for one night only."
His tone is casual, but there's an underlying note that raises my defenses. Not quite a command, but certainly an expectation that his previously mentioned desire would take precedence over any other plans.
"You mentioned you were thinking about taking me," I acknowledge carefully. "But we didn't have firm plans. I've never missed this party—it's an important tradition with my closest friends."
Dominic sets his tablet aside, giving me his full attention. The weight of his gaze feels physical, assessing. "I see. And these friends—they're important to you?"