Page 58 of Her Cruel Empire
Robin laughs, shaking her head. “I can’t let you keep buying me a new wardrobe every time I overdose on pastries.”
“Of course you can.” I step closer, letting my fingers trail along her arm. “Whatever I want, I get. And while you’re with me, the same applies to you.”
Her breath catches. “Eva...”
“Tomorrow, you’ll have a bodyguard with you. And he’ll carry a credit card.” I pause, watching her face. “Buy anything you want.”
Her eyes go wide. “Anything?”
“Anything. Even more pastries.” I touch her cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin. “While you’re with me, the world is yours.”
She doesn’t mention the bodyguard, doesn’t ask why she needs protection. Good. I don’t want her worrying about the risks that come with being associated with me.
But then her face changes. “Why are you being so generous?” she asks quietly.
Because you make me want to give you everything. Because when you smile, something in my chest loosens. Because I’ve never met anyone who looks at the world with such wonder.
“Because I can,” I say instead. “So why the hell not?”
L’Ambroisie is a temple to French cuisine, and the maître d’ bows when he sees me. “Madame Novak, your table is ready.”
I watch Robin take in the ambience—the perfectly pressed linens, the flowers and candles, the way the other diners steal glances at us. But she doesn’t gawk like a tourist. Instead, she observes with that quiet intelligence and joy I’ve come to appreciate.
“This is incredible,” she murmurs as we’re seated.
“You should see the wine cellar.”
The sommelier appears as if summoned, presenting a vintage Bordeaux. Robin sips it with wide-eyed anxiety. “It’s so good,” she whispers, as though someone might snatch it from her if she’s too loud.
“What is your favorite food?” I ask, surprising myself with the question. Normally I wouldn’t care in the slightest about my companions’ likes and dislikes. Mine have always been much more important.
She tilts her head. “That’s random.”
“Humor me.”
“Mac and cheese with a side of garlic bread,” she says without hesitation. “The kind of mac and cheese that comes in a box. I know it’s not exactly great cuisine, but when everything was falling apart, right after Mom died, I could always make mac and cheese, heat up some frozen garlic bread, and everyone lovedit. It was our comfort meal. But I guess I’ll have to change my answer by the time I get back there.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, because now I know what great food actually tastes like.” She gestures to the plate in front of her—duck confit with cherry reduction, artfully arranged. She grins. “But I’ll still make mac and cheese for the kids.”
I think about my own childhood—private chefs, meals that were business meetings, food as fuel rather than comfort. “You’re quite the homemaker.”
“I’m just someone who cares for her family.” She meets my eyes. “Family takes care of family. Right?”
I nod slowly. I know about family loyalty, about the weight of responsibility. But I’ve never thought of it as care. For me, family has always been duty.
“What about you?” Robin asks. “What’s your favorite?”
I consider lying, but only for a moment. “My father used to make these terrible American pancakes when I was small. He’d burn them every time, but he’d cover them in so much syrup it didn’t matter.”
Robin’s face softens. “That sounds perfect.”
“It was.” The admission slips out before I can stop it: “I miss him.”
She reaches across the table and briefly touches my hand. The contact sends electricity up my arm. “Thank you for bringing me here,” she says. “For all of this.”
I want to tell her she doesn’t need to thank me. I want to tell her that seeing her wonder is worth more than any business deal. Instead, I just lift my wine glass.
