Page 38 of His for Christmas
"I'm not controlling anything, Holly. I'm being transparent about my preferences and my alternatives." His voice remainsmaddeningly calm. "You're free to choose your party. I'm free to choose other company."
The implication hangs between us, a threat disguised as reasonable autonomy. I feel my resolve hardening in the face of his manipulation.
"Then we both have plans for Saturday," I say, straightening my shoulders. "I hope you enjoy your evening with Alessandra, if that's who you choose to spend it with."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes—a glimpse of genuine emotion breaking through his calculated facade. For a moment, I think he might drop the pretense, might acknowledge the manipulation. Instead, he inclines his head in a slight nod.
"I'm sure we'll both have memorable evenings," he says smoothly. "Now, shall we continue dinner, or have you lost your appetite?"
I've lost more than my appetite—I've lost the warm intimacy that normally characterizes our evenings together, replaced by this cold war of wills. But retreating now would feel like surrender.
"I'm still hungry," I lie, returning to my seat with as much dignity as I can muster.
As Dominic returns to his own chair, his expression reveals nothing of his thoughts. But the tension between us remains, crackling like electricity before a storm. I've won this small battle for independence, but something tells me the war is just beginning.
The angel ornaments blur before my eyes as I sort through the box, categorizing them by size for the children's hospital display. I've been working alone in the east wing storage room for threehours, deliberately choosing a task that keeps me away from Dominic's usual paths through the mansion. After last night's tense dinner, we went through the motions of our evening routine—work discussion, shared shower, bed—but something had changed. The warmth between us had cooled, replaced by a brittle politeness that was almost worse than outright anger. This morning, I slipped out of his bedroom before he woke, leaving a note about "early deliveries" that we both know is an excuse.
I set aside a particularly beautiful glass angel, its delicate wings catching the light. Dominic's behavior last night keeps replaying in my mind—the calculated way he tried to make me feel guilty for choosing my friends over him, the deliberate mention of Alessandra to provoke jealousy. In the harsh light of day, away from his magnetic presence, the manipulation is so obvious it makes me cringe.
But this isn't the first time, is it? I've just been too caught up in the whirlwind of desire and attention to see the pattern clearly. The way he "tested" me with the fake dinner meeting with Celia Williams, deliberately provoking jealousy to gauge my feelings. His immediate hostility toward any man who speaks to me professionally—Mark the lighting specialist, Brian the contractor. The constant gifts that come with unspoken obligations. The expectation that my schedule will always conform to his desires.
Individually, each incident seemed romantic in its intensity—evidence of his passionate feelings, his desire to claim me as his own. Collectively, they form a pattern that sends a chill down my spine despite the room's comfortable temperature.
Yet alongside these troubling realizations come memories that confuse the narrative: Dominic's face when I'm sleeping beside him, softened in a way no one else ever sees. The genuine interest he takes in my design process, asking thoughtfulquestions that show real respect for my work. The way he holds me after we make love, as if I'm something precious he can't believe he's found. Are those moments real, or just another facet of the manipulation?
I close the box of angels harder than necessary, frustration building in my chest. Two weeks. I've known this man for two weeks, and already he's become the center of my universe, the axis around which my thoughts and feelings revolve. How did I allow that to happen so quickly? I've always been independent, focused on building my business, careful about who I let into my life. Yet somehow Dominic Sterling bypassed all my usual caution, all my carefully constructed boundaries, claiming space in my heart before I even realized what was happening.
"There you are."
His voice from the doorway startles me. I look up to find Dominic watching me, his expression unreadable. He's immaculately dressed as always—charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, tie the exact shade of his eyes. Nothing in his appearance betrays the tension from last night.
"I've been organizing the children's hospital decorations," I explain, gesturing to the boxes around me. "The installation team needs everything categorized before tomorrow."
He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds ominous in the quiet space. "You weren't at breakfast."
Not a question—an observation tinged with disapproval. I straighten my shoulders, meeting his gaze directly. "I had an early start. Lots to do today."
"Indeed." He moves closer, stopping beside the table where I'm working. His eyes scan the organized boxes, the lists I've prepared, before returning to my face. "Patricia informs me you've requested a car for Saturday evening."
Of course she told him. Everyone in this house reports to Dominic first, their loyalty unquestioningly his. "Yes. To take me to Nora's for the party."
"I see." His fingers trace the edge of the table, the casual gesture at odds with the intensity in his eyes. "And you'll return here afterward?"
The question carries layers of meaning. He's asking about more than my physical destination—he's asking whether our relationship will continue past this point of conflict. I hesitate, genuinely uncertain.
"I thought I might stay at my apartment Saturday night," I say carefully. "I haven't been home in days. My plants are probably dying."
Something flashes in his eyes—anger, hurt, I can't tell which—before his expression smooths back to neutral. "Your plants," he repeats flatly. "Of course. A pressing concern."
"Dominic—" I begin, then stop, unsure what I even want to say. That his behavior is concerning me? That I need space to think? That despite everything, I still want him with an intensity that frightens me?
He moves around the table to stand directly before me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Let me be clear, Holly," he says, his voice soft yet carrying unmistakable steel. "You're free to attend your party. You're free to sleep in your own apartment. You're free to make whatever choices you deem appropriate."
His hand rises to cup my cheek, the touch gentle despite the hardness in his eyes. "But understand this: what's mine remains mine, whether it's in my immediate possession or temporarily elsewhere."
The possessiveness in his words sends a conflicted shiver through me—part desire, part alarm. "People aren't possessions, Dominic."
"Aren't they?" His thumb strokes my lower lip in that gesture that never fails to make my pulse quicken. "We claim what we value, Holly. We protect what belongs to us. I make no apologies for considering you mine."
