Page 26 of His to Possess
"Good evening, Laurel."
I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, his hand reached out. My breath caught as his fingers gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was brief and almost tender, but it sent a shiver down my spine.
"Perfect," he murmured, his eyes locked on mine.
I swallowed hard, unsure how to respond to his approval. Before I could decide, he offered his arm, escorting me to the dinner table with practiced ease.
He pulled out my chair, his hand brushing my back as I sat. The touch, though fleeting, sent a jolt through me. He tookhis seat across from me, gesturing to a server I hadn't even noticed. The first course appeared before us, placed gently on the table by a silent, white-gloved server. A delicate plate of foie gras torchon, smooth and pale, rested on a thin slice of toasted brioche. There were tiny dots of fig compote on the side and a drizzle of balsamic.
I arched a brow, surprised. Back in Paris, this had been one of my favorite meals. For a second, I wondered how he knew that, but I didn't ask. I already understood that some questions weren't worth the answer. With Rex, I learned things were never accidental.
He stared at me with that usual intensity, his gaze sharp and unreadable as I reached for my fork. It was like he was waiting for a reaction or a comment—for anything that might confirm he had control over my every move.
"This is my favorite," I said, knowing full well he already knew that. My voice didn't carry surprise. It wasn't a compliment—just a fact.
"I know," he replied, just as calm, turning his attention to his own fork. "I had it made for you."
Of course, he had. I knew better than to mistake it for kindness. This wasn't about thoughtfulness. It was a reminder that even the meal in front of me wasn't really mine. He controlled what I ate, when I ate, and even how I felt about it. This was just another piece in the game he played, a silent way of saying, 'I see everything. I own everything. Including you.'
Still, despite knowing all that, the dish brought a strange kind of comfort, tugging at something inside me that had been quiet for too long. For just a few seconds, I let myself pretend I was back in Paris, before everything had fallen apart, before contracts, power plays, and people like Rex became my reality.
I kept my eyes off him after that and let them wander instead. Around the room, crystal glasses shimmered under thesoft golden light. The silverware gleamed like polished mirrors, perfectly aligned. The servers moved smoothly. I wondered how long it had taken them to become that precise and disciplined. How many hours of training did it take to erase the human parts of themselves in order to serve flawlessly? And for a moment, I wondered if that was happening to me too. A slow erasing, one elegant dinner at a time.
"How was your workday?" Rex asked, breaking into my thoughts.
I paused for a moment, unsure if I wanted to answer. Over the past few days, I had tried several times to speak with him to understand the man who seemed to hold so much power over my life, but every time, he had shut me down without hesitation.
I looked at him calmly. "As you don't want to talk about your work, why should I discuss mine?"
His eyes flickered with annoyance, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. He took a measured sip of wine before responding. "There's nothing interesting to say about my day."
I mirrored his action, lifting my glass to my lips. The wine was exquisite, of course, but I didn't expect anything less from him. "Well, there's nothing interesting to say about mine either."
Silence fell between us, heavy and charged. We resumed eating, the only sounds the soft clinking of silverware against China. I observed him closely, following his every move. His movements were precise and controlled. Even the way he cut his food spoke of restraint.
A small chuckle escaped me before I could stop it. Rex's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing.
"Are you sulking?" I asked, unable to keep the amusement from my voice. I didn't know why, but the thought of it was beyond comical. Men like Rex Compton didn't sulk. I was sure of it, yet here he was. Apparently sulking.
I watched Rex's reaction carefully, half-expecting him to bristle at my accusation. Instead, a slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features. It was disarming, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe. It was like seeing the Northern Lights for the first time.
"Sulking? Me?" He leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass. "I prefer to think of it as strategic silence."
I couldn't help but snort at that. "Is that what you call it? And here I thought you were just being difficult."
His eyes glittered with amusement. Yet another surprise from him. I had expected him to be completely serious the whole time, with the personality of drywall, but slowly yet surely, he was proving me wrong. There was something behind those cold eyes. The only question was whether I could reach it. "Oh, I can be very difficult when I want to be. But tonight, I'm merely observing."
The way he said it sent a shiver down my spine. I took another sip of wine to steady myself. "Observing what, exactly?"
Rex set down his glass, leaning forward slightly. "You. Your reactions. The way you've started to challenge me at every turn."
My cheeks flushed, but I held his gaze. I was acutely aware of every inch of the lingerie beneath my dress, of the way his eyes seemed to caress my skin without even touching me.
"Well," I said, "I wouldn't want to bore you. The contract didn't give me the impression that it's something you tolerate."
He chuckled, low and dark. "Oh, Laurel. I don't think you could ever bore me."
My name, pronounced in such a low and charged tone, caught me off guard. It felt intimate, dangerous. I struggled to maintain my composure as he continued to watch me, his gaze intense and unrelenting.
