"Now tell me," he said, voice low, "what would you like for dinner?"
Seraphina blinked at the question, utterly baffled by the domesticity of it. Dinner. Alexander Langford was asking her to dinner.
After contracts, threats of liquidated damages, negotiations about investments, exchange of capital, in that tense room filled with lawyers arguing like a courtroom—he was asking her about dinner. Like it was the most normal and expected thing to do.
She studied his face, searching for mockery, calculation. There was none. The same unnerving patience, tempered with something softer—something that might have been amusement, or perhaps simple relief that the battlefield had, for the moment, gone quiet.
Something heavy clasped around her ribs.
"You're serious," she said, not quite a question.
"Extremely." The corner of his mouth curved again, that private half-smile she was beginning to recognize as his.
Seraphina raised an eyebrow, challenging him. "I thought the document stated that Party A and Party B will have a strictly business relationship behind closed doors."
Alexander's smile widened—slow and deliberate. He took a single step closer, closing the distance between them until she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could catch that intoxicating blend of fresh pine and smoked wood that seemed to wrap around her like a physical touch.
Her breath caught. God, he was close. Close enough that she could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his pupils dilated slightly as he looked at her.
"The document," he said, voice dropping even lower, "states that we maintain a professional relationship. It says nothing about starving my future wife."
Future wife. The words sent heat racing through her body. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
"Besides," he continued, those storm-blue eyes holding hers with quiet intensity that made her knees weak, "you haven't slept in two days. You've barely eaten. You signed a contract that ties you to me for the next two years minimum. The least I can do is feed you."
He wasn't wrong. The ache in her stomach and exhaustion in her body had become a constant companion ever since her rebirth. The kind of bone-deep weariness that made even standing feel like an effort, that turned food into an afterthought she kept forgetting until her body reminded her with sharp pangs and dizzy spells. She'd been running on adrenaline and fear for so long that basic needs had become background noise—easily ignored until they couldn't be anymore.
But dinner with him. That was dangerous territory.
Her stomach, however, didn't agree with her reasoning and chose that exact moment to growl—a soft, mortifying sound in the quiet office.
Heat rushed to her face.
Alexander's smile widened ear to ear, something boyish and pleased breaking through his usual composure, transforming his features from commanding CEO to something almost playful. His eyes crinkled at the corners, genuine delight flickering there, making her blush deepen. "I'll take that as a yes."
"I—" Seraphina started, nearly ready to refuse, then paused.
When was the last time someone had actually cared whether she ate? Derek had loved critiquing portions, commenting on every bite, making her feel like eating itself was something to be monitored and judged. Her mother only cared about appearances at society luncheons, about being photographed with the right food, the right wine, the right image. Even Samantha's fruit plates had been about maintaining productivity, keeping the CEO functional.
But Alexander was looking at her like her answer actually mattered. Like she mattered, with those sincere blue eyes and worry that created unwelcome tingles in her belly.
They used to look at her like that too. All of them. Derek with his soft eyes and softer lies. Evelyn with her sweet sister smiles while sharpening the knife behind her back. Her mother with her warm embraces that meant nothing.
This was a method. A technique. Show someone you care, that they matter, act soft and gentle and concerned. Because caring was how they got you. How they made you vulnerable. Map out every weakness, every fear, every desperate need for someone to actually give a damn. And as soon as you trusted them, as soon as you showed them where it hurt—they would know exactly where to strike. Where to stab so the bleeding was fatal. A single thrust designed to kill.
No. She wouldn't fall into this trap again.
Her stomach growled again, louder this time, and she was so tired, so exhausted, so hungry. When had she last eaten a real meal? Yesterday? The day before? Time had blurred into an endless succession of crises and damage control, coffee replacing breakfast, anxiety replacing lunch, and dinner forgotten entirely in favor of reviewing contracts and plotting survival.
Alexander looked at her expectantly, waiting for an answer, his expression patient but tinged with something that looked almost like genuine concern. His head tilted slightly, studying her face, and she wondered what he saw there—the exhaustion she couldn't quite hide, the wariness, the desperate hunger she was trying to mask.
One night of dinner with this devil wouldn't hurt. Would it?
"Italian," she said finally putting her thoughts to a stop. "There's a small place in the East Village I used to go to. Terrazza."
Something flickered in his eyes—approval, perhaps. No, it was satisfaction that his strategy was working, that he'd successfully maneuvered her into exactly where he wanted her.
"Terrazza," he repeated, committing it to memory, rolling the word across his tongue like he was tasting it. "I'll have Marcus bring the car around. Unless you'd prefer somewhere more private? The press has been... relentless."
The reminder of the outside world crashed back over her. The headlines. The hashtags. #SeraphinaSlapsDerek was still trending, spawning thousands of videos, conspiracy theories, content creators hungry for views finding new ways to butcher her reputation for a living.
She had done nothing wrong. She wasn't the one who cheated, who gave false hopes for years, who proposed to her sister when she was engaged to another in front of the entire city.
Why should
she be the one to hide?
"Terrazza," she said firmly, lifting her chin.
Alexander studied her for a long moment, dark blue eyes searching over her face as if reading everything about her—every line of defiance, every shadow of fear, every carefully constructed wall. She shivered under the weight of that gaze. Something that looked almost like pride flickered across his features—quick, almost hidden, but there. Then he nodded once, decisively.
"Marcus," he said into his phone. "Bring the car to the private entrance. We're going to Terrazza. Contact the owner—reserve the back room. Full privacy. Fifteen minutes."
"Yes, sir."