Page 57 of Devil In A Suit

I catch the glint of its sleek exterior, and my attention sharpens. The doorman steps forward as she emerges from the back seat. She’s wearing jeans and a tucked-in black t-shirt, paired with heels—casual but effortlessly striking. Her hair is loose and flowing as she steps onto the sidewalk. I thought she’ddress up. It’s dinner at a top-tier place, not some corner café. Greta should’ve told her that.

I force myself to turn back to the clients. “Let’s wrap this up for today. I’ll have my team review it by next week and get back to you then.”

Both men in front of me nod, pleased with the outcome of our meeting, but my mind is already elsewhere. As soon as they leave, I call Greta.

“Greta, didn’t you tell Lara where we were having dinner?” I ask, keeping my voice calm.

“Of course, I did. I also told her to be punctual. Is she not there yet.”

“It’s all good. She’s here now,” I say and hang up.

She’s defying me, and it’s obvious. I look across the room and catch sight of her approaching the hostess. Even so, I can’t deny it—she still looks breathtaking. The jeans hug her in all the right places, and the casual look somehow makes her stand out even more. But I wanted her in something different tonight, something that I had paid for. I wanted to see her skin exposed, her cleavage enticing me throughout dinner. Something that I could simply pull up and eat her out in the back of the car on the way home

However, once again, she has robbed me of this fantasy. I wonder what to do about this. Maybe I should punish her. The thought of punishing her excites me. I think of putting her on my knees and smacking her bottom until it is red…

I wave to the waiter. “Bring her over to the table.”

As she approaches, I watch her every move. There’s a confidence in her stride, a spark in her eyes—a defiance that sets my nerves on edge. When she meets my gaze, I feel it: a challenge, an unspoken dare. And it’s not just defiance; there’s something else there, too, something I can’t quite name, and it gnaws at me.

“You look…different from what I expected.”

She lifts an eyebrow, her expression almost daring me to continue. “What did you expect?”

I don’t mince my words. “A dress? Some effort?”

“Well, I didn’t feel like playing dress-up,” she says, her tone casual.

“Making an effort for dinner is playing dress-up?”

She looks up at me. “Yes, it feels that way. I should be able to wear what I want.”

I lean back, trying to keep my cool, but the irritation rises. "I’m paying you to look the part. Very heftily, I might add. And yet you can’t dress up for dinner.”

Her eyes flash, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. She sits down, her movements deliberate, controlled.

The tension between us builds, a palpable thing. She’s upset. No, more than upset. She’s wounded. It’s in the way she looks past me, like she’s shutting me out. And that stings, more than I care to admit. I want to take my cruel words back, to say something kind that will undo the hurt in her eyes, but I can’t. Years of living walled up in my own world makes me turn away and signal the waiter over.

“Drinks list for the lady, please.”

The waiter hands it to her and she takes it and smiles her thanks to him, but her fingers hesitate on the pages. She’s not even really looking. “

“I have no idea what to choose,” she says finally, her voice flat. “Everything looks expensive, and I usually just drink the cheap stuff.”

“Choose anything you want,” I say, but I am shocked. Shocked by how affected I am that I have hurt her.

She pushes the menu back across the table. “Whatever you recommend.”

The waiter stands by, waiting.

I skim the list, but the names blur together. She’s nothing like what I thought she was going to be like. She is not following directions; she’s making a point. I shouldn’t let her get to me, but she does. “Just bring us a bottle of Château Margaux.”

She pretends to flip through the food menu, but it’s obvious she’s not reading a single word. She’s closing herself off, like she’s building a wall between us. I pick up my own menu, pretending not to care either that our first dinner together is already ruined. I know it’s my fault. I started it, but fuck her. I’ve paid a fortune to have her company.

“What’s the special tonight?” I ask when the waiter returns.

He starts listing the options off in a ridiculous French accent—every dish is made to sound impressive and extravagant so that it all sounds like it’s straight out of a Michelin kitchen.

“The grilled summer peaches with Serrano ham to start and the Black label fillet steak to follow,” I decide, shutting the menu. “For both of us.”

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