Chapter 4
Dinner, it turned out, wasn't dinner.
It was a test dressed up in candlelight.
The car was waiting outside the building, sleek and black, door already open like a command rather than an invitation. Adrian didn't ask if I was comfortable. He didn't check if I was hungry. He simply got in, and the city bent to his will as the driver pulled away.
I slid in beside him, knees angled carefully, hands folded in my lap like armour.
"This isn't work-related," I said as the car merged into traffic.
"It is," Adrian replied calmly. "Just not in the way you're imagining."
"That's not reassuring."
He glanced at me, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "It's not meant to be."
The restaurant was private. Of course it was. No sign outside. No menu in sight. Just a quiet confidence that only people who belonged there would ever find it.
The maître d' greeted Adrian by name.
My chest tightened.
We were seated in a corner booth, with low lighting and soft jazz humming beneath conversation. The kind of place where deals were sealed with handshakes and secrets stayed buried.
A waiter appeared instantly.
"The usual?" he asked Adrian.
"Yes," Adrian said. Then, without looking at me, "She'll have whatever she wants."
The waiter turned to me expectantly.
I froze.
"I—" I scanned the menu quickly, words blurring together. Everything was expensive. Everything screamed not for you. "I'll just have the grilled chicken."
Adrian's gaze flicked up sharply.
"No," he said.
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You'll have the seabass," he told the waiter. "And a glass of white wine."
"I didn't order—"
"I know," he said calmly. "Trust me."
The waiter disappeared.
I stared at Adrian. "You don't get to decide for me."
"You'll thank me later."
"I doubt that."
His lips curved slightly. "You doubt a lot of things."
"And you assume too much."
"Only about people who try too hard not to be seen," he replied.
The words hit uncomfortably close.
I crossed my arms. "Why are we here, Adrian?"
He leaned back, studying me. "Because I needed to see how you behave outside the office."
"That sounds like surveillance."
"It is."
I scoffed. "You're unbelievable."
"Yet you're still here."
I hated that he was right.
The food arrived. It was incredible, despite my resentment. I hated that too.
"So," I said after a moment, "what exactly are your rules?"
He tilted his head. "You want them listed?"
"Yes. Clearly. Preferably laminated."
His mouth twitched. "Rule one: you don't lie to me."
"That's rich."
"I don't lie either," he said. "I omit."
"That's worse."
"It's efficient."
I shook my head. "What else?"
"Rule two: you don't let people use you to get to me."
"I'm not some—"
"You are my assistant," he said sharply. "That makes you a target."
The seriousness in his tone silenced me.
"And rule three," he continued, softer now, "you don't mistake my attention for affection."
My heart stumbled.
"I wouldn't," I said quickly.
"Good," he replied. "Because that mistake destroys people."
Something in his voice—old, scarred—made my chest ache.
We ate in silence for a few minutes after that.
I was halfway through my wine when I noticed the woman at the bar.
She was watching us.
Dark hair. Red lipstick. Her gaze lingered on Adrian, then slid to me, assessing. Calculating.
I shifted uncomfortably.
"She's staring," I muttered.
Adrian didn't look. "Let her."
"That's easy for you to say."
"Is it?" he asked.
The woman stood, smoothing her dress, and walked toward us.
"Adrian Blackwood," she purred. "It's been a while."
He sighed. "Not long enough."
She laughed, eyes glittering. "And who's this?"
I stiffened.
"My assistant," Adrian said coolly.
Her smile widened. "Pretty. Young. Efficient?"
"Very," he replied.
The woman turned to me. "Careful, sweetheart. Men like him don't keep things that shine too brightly."
Before I could respond, Adrian stood.
"That's enough," he said coldly. "Go back to your drink."
The woman's smile faltered.
"I was just being friendly."
"I don't tolerate disrespect," he replied.
She huffed and walked away.
I stared at him. "You didn't have to do that."
"Yes," he said. "I did."
Something warm and dangerous curled in my chest.
We left shortly after.
Outside, the night air was crisp, the city alive around us. Adrian walked beside me, close enough that our arms almost brushed.
Almost.
"You don't like people flirting with me," I said lightly.
"I don't like distractions," he replied.
"That's not what it looked like."
He stopped walking.
I stopped too.
His gaze dropped to my face, intense, searching.
"Do you know why jealousy is dangerous?" he asked quietly.
"Because it's ugly?"
"Because it reveals ownership," he said. "And I don't own you."
The words felt like a warning. Or a lie.
"Good," I said. "Because I'm not owned."
His eyes darkened. "I know."
The drive back was quiet.
When we reached my apartment, I hesitated before opening the door.
"Thank you," I said finally.
"For what?"
"For not letting her talk to me like that."
He studied me. "Get used to it."
"To what?"
"To people testing you," he said. "And to me stepping in."
"That sounds possessive."
"It's protective."
"Those aren't the same thing."
"They are to me."
I met his gaze, something electric passing between us.
"This is a bad idea," I said softly.
"Yes," he agreed. "It is."
I got out of the car before either of us could say more.
Inside my apartment, I leaned against the door, heart racing, skin still humming from his proximity.
At the same time, across the city, Adrian Blackwood sat in the dark back seat of his car, jaw tight, replaying the way Elara Monroe had looked at him under candlelight.
He didn't understand it.
Didn't like it.
And that terrified him more than any loss ever had.