20. Vera
I stand in front of my closet in my underwear, staring at the same five dresses. Twenty minutes of this.
The black one? Too much like armor. Too I’m ready for battle.
The blue one? Too casual. Like I’m not taking this seriously.
The emerald green? Too bold. Too look at me.
That leaves the wine-colored dress hanging at the end. Silk, knee-length, with a subtle v-neck that suggests without announcing. Elegant. Sophisticated. But soft in a way I don’t usually let myself be.
I pull it on, smooth it over my hips, and study my reflection.
For Kane, I want to be soft.
I stop. Lipstick wand halfway to my mouth. I look at myself in the mirror like I’m waiting for her to explain herself. When did that happen? When did I start wanting to be soft for a man?
My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter.
Sloane’s name lights up the screen.
My stomach drops. I let it ring once more, then guilt wins.
“Hey,” I answer.
“I’m having a meltdown about this work project and I need your brain.” She sounds harried. “Can you come over? I could use your eyes and opinions. And honestly, I need to be in the same room as someone who isn’t my laptop.”
Oh no.
“I actually—” I scramble. “I have plans tonight.”
“Plans? What kind of plans?”
“Dinner plans.”
“OH MY GOD.” Her entire tone shifts. “With Gerald?”
“Maybe.”
She squeals. Actually squeals. “Vera! Where is he taking you? What are you wearing? Have you—”
“Sloane, I need to finish getting ready—”
“Fine, fine. But you’re calling me tomorrow with every single detail. Promise?”
The lie tastes like ash. “Promise.”
“Have so much fun! And Vee?” Her voice softens. “I’m happy for you.”
She hangs up.
I stand there for a moment with the phone face-down on the bathroom counter, lipstick wand still in my hand.
I’m happy for you.
She said it like a gift. Like she was handing me something that cost her nothing because she didn’t know the price. And I took it.
I pick up the lipstick. Finish my mouth, and look at myself in the mirror.
I look exactly like someone who just lied to her best friend and is about to have a beautiful evening anyway.
My phone buzzes again.
Gerald: Leaving now. Be there in fifteen.
Fifteen minutes. I don’t have time to spiral.
I finish my makeup — not the bold red lips I’d wear to a scene, but rose-tinted. Natural. I leave my hair down in loose waves instead of the severe bun I wear to work or the styling I do for Eclipse.
When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself.
The knock comes at exactly seven PM. Because of course it does.
I open the door.
Kane is in a charcoal suit, navy tie, hair styled but not rigidly so — like he ran his fingers through it once and let it fall.
His eyes track from my heels to my face, slow and unhurried, his breath catching, heat moving through his expression before he banks it with visible effort.
“You look beautiful.”
Not hot. Not sexy. Beautiful.
I press my lips together so I don’t tell him what it does to me. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Sinclair.”
He smiles, that rare genuine smile. “I try.”
Then he offers his arm like we’re in a period drama or he’s escorting me to a gala.
I take it, feeling ridiculous, charmed, and completely gone for this man.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he guides me to his car.
“Somewhere quiet. Private. Where we can talk.” He opens the passenger door for me. “Trust me?”
“Always.”
The drive takes twenty minutes through downtown, past the theater district, into a neighborhood I don’t know well. It’s upscale, the kind of place where restaurants don’t need signs because the right people already know where they are.
He pulls up to a small place tucked between a bookstore and an art gallery. Warm light spills from the windows, catching the old brick facade. A single word in gold script above the door: Marcello’s.
“I’ve never heard of this place,” I say.
“That’s the point.” He comes around to open my door. “They don’t advertise. You need a reservation weeks in advance. But the owner is a client. I designed his vacation home abroad. He owed me a favor.”
“You called in a favor for our date?”
“I wanted it to be perfect,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Inside, the restaurant is exactly what he promised — intimate without being stuffy, elegant without being pretentious.
Maybe twenty tables total, all far enough apart for private conversation.
Exposed brick walls. Soft candlelight. Fresh flowers on every table.
Garlic and wine and something baking that makes my mouth water.
Sloane would love this place. She’d want to know the owner’s name, the wine list, the history of the building. I don’t say it out loud. I file it somewhere I’m not looking at tonight.
An older man in an immaculate suit approaches immediately. “Mr. Sinclair. Signorina.” He kisses my hand with old-world charm. “Your table is ready.”
He leads us to a corner booth, private, secluded, with a view of the small courtyard garden lit with string lights.
Kane holds my chair. His fingers graze my bare shoulder as I sit, and I go still for a half-second before I can stop myself.
“Marcello will bring you our finest,” the man says. “Trust him, yes?”
Kane glances at me. Checking. Not deciding for me.
“Trust him,” I agree.
The man disappears. It’s us. Candlelight. Soft music. The other diners murmuring at their own tables, close enough to remind me we’re not alone, far enough that it barely matters.
Kane settles across from me and I realize I’m nervous. Actually nervous. Like this is our first meeting instead of — what? Our tenth time together since the arrangement started?
“You’re thinking too loud,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“I’m... this is strange.”
“Strange how?”
“Good strange.” I fiddle with my napkin. “We’ve been together at Eclipse and in your dungeon. I’ve been bound and blindfolded and completely at your mercy. But sitting across a table from you at a restaurant feels more vulnerable somehow.”
He nods, like I’ve said something he was already half-thinking. “Because anyone can be physically naked. But this—” He gestures between us. “This is different.”
“Yeah.”
“Too different? We can leave if you’re uncomfortable.”
“No.” I reach across the table, cover his hand with mine. “I want this. I want to know you like this. I just... I’m nervous.”
His hand turns, fingers lacing with mine. “Me too.”
The admission surprises me. “Really?”
“Dominance is easy for me. Control is easy. But this?” He squeezes my hand. “Sitting here hoping I can be enough without the structure? Terrifying.”
“Kane.” I lean forward. “You are enough.”
Before he can respond, our waiter appears with wine, a deep red that catches the candlelight. Kane releases my hand to accept the tasting pour, but his eyes never leave mine. He tastes, nods approval, then waits until both our glasses are filled before speaking again.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” he says, picking up his glass.
“Like what?”
“Anything. Your childhood. Your dreams. Something real.”
I take a sip. Rich and smooth, cherry and oak.
“Okay. When I was eight, I wanted to be a veterinarian.”
“What changed?”
“I found a bird with a broken wing. Tried to save it. Spent three days nursing it, staying up all night, doing everything the library books said to do. It died anyway.”
His expression softens. “And you decided you couldn’t handle that kind of loss.”
“I decided I needed a career where I could fix problems that stayed fixed.” I swirl my wine, watching the legs run down the glass. “PR made sense. You craft a narrative, control the message, and if you do it right, the problem goes away. Clean. Permanent. Fixed.”
“Control,” he echoes.
“I know, I know. Ironic for someone who gets off on surrendering it.”
“Not ironic. Complementary.” He leans forward. “Two control freaks. Different methods.”
“Dangerous combination.”
“Only if we’re not paying attention.” He lifts his glass. “I’m paying attention.”
I look away. Study the candle flame. Don’t trust my face right now.
Our first course arrives, burrata so fresh it’s creamy and delicate against the acidity of heirloom tomatoes and fresh basil. We eat slowly, and the conversation flows easier now.
He tells me about the first building he ever designed: a doghouse for his childhood golden retriever. How his father helped him draw the plans, calculate the dimensions, choose materials. How it leaked in the first rain and he cried, convinced he’d never be an architect.
“What did your dad say?” I ask.
“He said, ‘Scaffolding is temporary, Kane. Foundations remain. You’ll make mistakes, but you’ll learn from them. That’s how you build something that lasts.’” He pauses. “He died six months later. Heart attack. But I think about that every time I start a new project.”
I reach across the table and take his hand. “He’d be proud of you.”
“I hope so.” He squeezes my hand, then seems to shake off the weight of it. “Your turn. Tell me about your family.”
So I do. Growing up with my parents — my mom’s brand of organized chaos, my dad’s quiet steadiness, the two of them deciding early on that one child was enough and pouring everything they had into me.
How that felt like abundance and pressure in equal measure.
And then Sloane, my forever best friend.
“She loves you like a sister,” he says.
“I know.” The words come out tight.
He studies me for a moment. Chooses not to push.
The rest of dinner passes like that: questions and answers, stories and laughter, his hand finding mine across the table. Somewhere between the second course and dessert, I realize I’m completely relaxed. Happy.
I wish I could tell Sloane about it. The thought lands quietly, without drama. She’d have opinions about the suit. About the doghouse story. About the way he said beautiful like it was the only accurate word. I push it back down, but it takes a moment longer than it should.