Chapter Five:

The cedar and sharp, expensive cologne that has become one of the most familiar things about this penthouse hits her first when she walks into the living room. Tom Ford Oud Wood. He is standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows with his back to her, looking out at the city. When he turns and sees the amber silk dress she picked from the wardrobe he provided, the compliment comes out flat and direct the way his compliments always do.

"If I knew you were going to look this beautiful in that color, I would have banned you from wearing anything else inside this penthouse."

No build-up. No performance. Just that.

Her cheeks go red. The intensity in his ice-blue eyes startles her, and she takes a quick step back without meaning to, nearly walking into the corner of the marble console table behind her. He lets out a low, quiet laugh at that.

"You are always watching me so closely," she says.

"You are the only person who can pull my attention away from my work," he says. "So I have to stay on high alert whenever you are in the room."

The back-and-forth settles something in her chest. It always does. She has come to rely on this banter in a way she did not expect when she first arrived.

She looks at him standing there in the morning light. Three weeks ago he was a man with a contract and ice-blue eyes that gave nothing away. Cold. Controlled. A transaction. She wonders if this is who he has always been underneath all of it, the version he keeps private, and the ice sculpture something he wears for the outside world. She hopes so. After what Derek and Marcus put her through in Chicago, she could not have survived being trapped in this penthouse with another version of that for twelve months. 

That night in the kitchen comes back to her. The way he pulled back. Closed her robe with careful fingers. Handed her the tea and sent her to bed when he could have taken what he wanted. She did not know everything about him yet, especially whatever was buried in his South Chicago past, but she felt safe around him. After everything, that was the only thing that mattered.

"Are you ready to head to the gallery opening?" he asks, interrupting her thoughts.

She nods.

"I have the full evening planned. Tonight is our first official public appearance together. I want to make the most of how we present publicly. My instincts tell me the media and the high-society crowd will be watching closely tonight, especially after the mess with your family."

"I am ready," she says.

Thirty minutes later they arrive at the crowded Chelsea gallery. Sophia is not surprised that Alexander looks sharp regardless of what he is wearing. He offers her his arm.

"Ready to face the room?" he asks.

She takes it. "Yes."

Internally she notices she is genuinely excited to be spending the evening next to him. That feeling is new. She had not been this excited for anything in a very long time.

Inside, the space is packed and expensive in the way that makes people speak more quietly than usual. The curators walk guests through a collection of modern abstract paintings. Somewhere in the back, a classical string trio plays soft ambient music. A staff member hands them both white wine. Three society women nearby are talking in the loud whispers of people who want to be overheard.

Then Sophia spots Derek Hale.

He is standing a few feet away with a champagne glass in his hand, staring straight at her. But something is different this time. Instead of feeling the old freeze start in her throat and her chest, she feels her anger kick in fast and hot. A hard desire to stand her ground curls low in her belly.

She steps into Alexander and locks her arm through his, her shoulder pressing against his chest, her body aligning with his dark suit. She is fully aware of how it reads in a public room like this. She does not care.

Alexander leans close. "The board members are watching," he tells her quietly. "Which means there are probably paparazzi somewhere in the room."

She whispers back, "I am not doing this for the cameras."

The air between them shifts instantly. His hand grips her waist, rough and firm through the fabric of her dress.

"You are playing a dangerous game," he says, low enough that only she can hear. "Be very sure you know what you are asking for."

She looks up at him. Holds his stare. "The moment I signed that contract, I sealed my fate. I knew exactly what I was doing."

He turns her around to face him fully. His ice-blue eyes are hard and direct, like a dare. She holds the stare but takes a small step back, and her lower back hits the low iron railing of the gallery balcony. She grips it and keeps her eyes on his, refusing to be the first one to look away.

He says her name. Just that. "Sophia." It sounds strange in a public space. Too personal. Like something that was only supposed to exist between the two of them.

"Do not let yourself get swept up so easily. It makes you easy to manipulate. Only say things you actually mean, or I might misunderstand and cross a line."

He reaches out and touches her cheek lightly as he says it, the slow, careless way you would touch a child. Condescending. 

She slaps his hand away and glares at him, genuinely offended. The words are right on the tip of her tongue; she meant every single word, and she is more than capable of deciding that for herself when her phone vibrates hard inside her clutch.

She opens it. There is an unsigned encrypted message. It has a clear photograph of the Chicago store where she bought her mother's funeral dress. Below the photo, one line of text in Derek's exact style: Did you think his glass tower could keep me out, Sophia? I am closer than you think.

Her face changes completely. Alexander sees it before she can hide it. His grip tightens hard over her hand on the railing.

"Who is messing with your phone, Sophia?"