Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
DOMINIC
She thinks I don't notice the subtle changes, but I catalog each one with painful precision.
The way Holly leaves my bed before dawn now, when just days ago she would linger until the last possible moment.
How her smiles no longer reach her eyes when I enter a room.
The slight stiffening of her body when I touch her—a momentary resistance before she yields.
Most telling is the distance in her gaze when she thinks I'm not watching—as if she's already planning her escape.
I recognize the signs because I've seen them before, in other women who decided the intensity of my attention, my expectations, was ultimately too much to bear.
I stand in the doorway of the ballroom, observing her direct the installation of the final crystal elements for the gala.
She's entirely focused on her work, professional and composed as she guides her team with quiet authority.
Nothing in her demeanor suggests the woman who came apart in my arms just last night, who whispered my name like a prayer as pleasure overtook her.
That dichotomy—the passionate lover and the increasingly distant professional—feeds my growing certainty that she's pulling away.
The realization shouldn't affect me this deeply.
Women come and go in my life without leaving a trace—beautiful, sophisticated women who understand the temporary nature of my interest. None have ever occupied my thoughts the way Holly does.
None have ever made me rearrange my schedule, my priorities, my expectations.
And none have ever made me feel this creeping dread at the prospect of their departure.
I step back before she notices me, retreating to my office where Patricia waits with the Tokyo acquisition paperwork. She eyes me with that knowing look that occasionally makes me regret hiring someone so perceptive.
"The final contracts are ready for your signature," she says, sliding a folder across my desk. "And Ms. Parker requested approval for the additional lighting for Saturday's children's event."
The mention of Saturday—the day of Holly's party, the day she's choosing friends over me—sends a fresh wave of irritation through me. "Approved. Whatever she needs."
Patricia studies me for a moment longer than necessary. "Is there anything else you require, sir?"
What I require is for Holly Parker to look at me the way she did that first week—with wonder and desire uncomplicated by doubts.
What I require is the certainty that she belongs to me completely, that she won't walk away when the decorations are complete and her professional obligations fulfilled.
What I require is to not feel this unfamiliar vulnerability, this fear of loss that I haven't experienced since childhood.
"That will be all," I say instead, dismissing her with a nod.
When the door closes behind Patricia, I move to the window overlooking the snow-covered grounds.
The last woman who managed to affect me so deeply was Elise, six years ago.
She, too, began with passion that seemed to match my own, with acceptance of my intensity that felt like understanding.
Until gradually, inevitably, she started pulling away—making plans that didn't include me, questioning my "controlling tendencies," suggesting I seek therapy for my "unhealthy attachment style.
" Three months in, she left my bed for the last time, telling me that love shouldn't feel like possession.
I didn't correct her assumption that what I felt was love.
I didn't know what love was then, and I'm not certain I know now.
But what I feel for Holly transcends anything I experienced with Elise or any woman before or since.
This bone-deep certainty that she belongs with me, to me, isn't something I'm willing to relinquish because of her sudden hesitation.
My phone chimes with a text message from an unknown number. When I read it, a cold smile forms on my face.
*Mr. Sterling - Mark Winters here. Thank you for the recommendation to the Blackwell commercial project. Wanted to express my gratitude for the opportunity.*
The lighting specialist who dared to look at Holly with appreciation, now expressing gratitude for being reassigned to a project that will keep him occupied through January. In another city. One small threat to my relationship with Holly, efficiently neutralized.
If only her doubts could be as easily removed.
Whatever caused this shift in her—this pulling away—happened despite my careful attention, my generous gifts, my thorough claiming of her body and her time.
Perhaps that's the problem. Perhaps I've been too giving, too accommodating.
Allowed her to take my interest for granted.
The thought solidifies as I watch snow begin to fall outside, transforming the precisely maintained grounds into something softer, less controlled.
Holly entered my life and disrupted my carefully ordered world in less than two weeks.
Now she's contemplating leaving it, returning to her small apartment, her modest career, her friends who couldn't possibly understand what exists between us.
The idea is unacceptable. Completely unacceptable.
I've built an empire on identifying what I want and systematically acquiring it, whether it's a company, a property, or a rare artifact for my collection.
Holly is infinitely more valuable than any acquisition I've ever pursued.
She requires a more nuanced approach, but the principle remains the same: what I value, I keep.
A knock at my door interrupts my thoughts. "Come in," I call, turning from the window.
Holly enters, tablet in hand, her expression professionally neutral. "I have the final budget for the gala for your approval," she says, her voice giving away nothing of her inner thoughts.
I gesture for her to approach. "Show me."
She crosses to my desk, setting the tablet before me and leaning in to navigate through the spreadsheet.
I breathe in her scent—vanilla and something floral, now as familiar to me as my own cologne—and watch the pulse beat at the base of her throat.
When my hand covers hers on the tablet, she stills momentarily before carefully sliding her hand away.
That small retreat speaks volumes.
"Everything seems in order," I say, scrolling through numbers I barely register. "You've been thorough as always."
"Thank you." She steps back, maintaining a professional distance. "The installation is on schedule. Everything will be ready for the gala."
"And after the gala?" I ask, watching her face carefully. "What then, Holly?"
A flicker of uncertainty crosses her features. "The children's event, then the Christmas Eve staff party, then—"
"I'm not asking about the schedule," I interrupt, rising from my chair to eliminate the desk barrier between us. "I'm asking about us."
She doesn't back away as I approach, but I can see the internal retreat in her eyes. "Dominic, I don't think this is the time—"
"It's exactly the time." I stop directly before her, close enough to touch though I deliberately refrain. "You've been distant since our discussion about Saturday's party. Your body responds to me the same way, but your mind is elsewhere. I want to know where."
Her eyes widen slightly at my directness. "I've been thinking," she admits after a moment's hesitation. "About how quickly this has happened. About what it means."
"And your conclusions?" I keep my voice neutral despite the tightening in my chest.
"I don't have any yet," she says, meeting my gaze with surprising steadiness. "That's why I need some space. Some time to think without..."
"Without what?" I press when she trails off.
"Without you overwhelming everything else," she finishes quietly.
The words land like a physical blow, confirming my worst suspicions. She's pulling away, creating distance, preparing her exit. The familiar cold certainty settles in my chest—the knowledge that everyone leaves eventually, that attachment leads inevitably to loss.
"I see." I step back, giving her the physical space she seems to crave. "Then by all means, take your time on Saturday. Think thoroughly about what you want, Holly."
Relief crosses her face—relief at my apparent understanding, my seeming willingness to give her space. She doesn't recognize the danger in my calm, doesn't hear the determination beneath my reasonable tone.
"Thank you," she says softly. "I just need to clear my head. To make sure this is—"
"Real?" I supply. "Sustainable? Worth the disruption to your carefully ordered life?"
She nods, looking grateful for my articulation of her concerns. "Exactly."
"I understand completely." I move to the window again, turning my back to her in a calculated display of acceptance. "Take your Saturday. Consider your options carefully."
I hear her soft footsteps as she crosses to the door, pausing there briefly. "Dominic?"
"Yes?" I don't turn around.
"I'm not pulling away because I don't care," she says, her voice gentle. "I'm pulling away to make sure I understand what caring about you means."
The door closes softly behind her. I remain at the window, watching snow transform the landscape, erasing boundaries and definitions beneath its smooth white surface.
She's wrong about one crucial detail. I'm not giving her space to think, to question, to potentially decide against what I know is right for us both.
I'm giving her enough rope to recognize how tightly she's already bound to me—how impossible it would be to untangle her life from mine now that I've claimed her so thoroughly.
By Sunday morning, Holly Parker will understand exactly where she belongs. And it isn't at her small apartment with dying plants, or at parties with friends who could never provide what I can offer. It's here, with me, permanently and irrevocably.
I just need to make sure she sees it as clearly as I do.