CHAPTER FIVE — DINNER AND DANGEROUS GLANCES
1245 Words
(Ariana’s POV)
Dinner was served precisely at seven. Not a minute earlier. Not a second late.
Somehow that didn’t surprise me. Nothing about Damian Voss suggested spontaneity or softness. Everything he did felt calculated, controlled, and timed down to the breath.
Still, I didn’t know what to expect.
Maybe a casual meal.
Maybe an awkward introduction.
Maybe — if the universe felt generous — a normal conversation.
What I walked into was none of that.
It was… something else entirely.
The dining room looked like it belonged in a glossy magazine spread. A long polished mahogany table stretched across the room, but only two seats had been prepared. A strange intimacy in a space so large it echoed. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city, where snow drifted down like scattered diamonds falling from a broken necklace.
The room glowed with soft golden light.
And there he was.
Damian stood near his chair, half-turned toward the window, hands in his pockets. The faintest halo of city light outlined him, making him look carved from shadow and silver.
He turned when I entered.
If he felt anything seeing me — annoyance, interest, judgment — it didn’t show. He had perfected the art of unreadable.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing smoothly.
That single word carried command, courtesy, and warning all wrapped together in silk.
I sat slowly, straightening my spine, holding my chin high. If he wanted compliance, he wouldn’t get it easily. He could have my presence, my cooperation, my time — but not my dignity.
Never that.
A server appeared like a whisper, placing plates before us. The meal smelled exquisite, rich, and unfamiliar. Grilled salmon for me, filet mignon for him. Crystal glasses. Wine so expensive I had no business even smelling it.
This was a world so far removed from mine that it made my throat tighten.
I picked up my fork and forced a bite. I needed food — my stomach had been empty since morning — but tension had a way of making even gourmet meals taste like paper.
“You’ve eaten nothing since you arrived,” Damian said finally, slicing into his steak without looking up.
“I have,” I lied.
He lifted one eyebrow. “Have you?”
My cheeks heated. “I’m… pacing myself.”
He hummed, a low vibration of amusement. “Pacing yourself. Interesting.”
I clenched my jaw. “I choose my words carefully.”
“Not everyone has that luxury,” he replied calmly.
“And you do?” I shot back.
He didn’t hesitate. “Always.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t gloat. He simply stated it. And somehow, that was worse.
He studied me across the table — not in a predatory way, not in a gentle way either. It was something quieter. Something analytical. Something that made my skin prickle.
“You’re defensive,” he said after a moment. “Good.”
“Good?” My voice almost cracked. “You think this—this—” I gestured vaguely at the table, the contract, the house, him— “is something to praise?”
He set down his utensils with deliberate control. “I think defensiveness reveals someone who still has fight left in them. And I prefer that.”
My breath caught. “Prefer?”
“Obedience is easy,” he said. “Fire is… interesting.”
My fork paused halfway to my mouth.
A shiver ran across my skin — not entirely fear, not entirely irritation. More like something unnamed. Something unwelcome.
“I don’t need you to analyze me,” I muttered.
“I’m not analyzing,” he said simply. “I’m observing.”
“Same thing.”
“Not to me.”
His gaze locked with mine. And for the first time since I arrived, something in his eyes shifted — softened at the edges, like he was seeing more than I meant to reveal.
“You’re clever, Ariana,” he said.
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Clever? I’m one bad day away from losing everything. Clever people don’t end up in deals with men like you.”
He tilted his head, eyes sharpening. “Desperation sharpens intellect. Hardship forces clarity. People make their smartest choices when they have the most to lose.”
I stared at him.
How could someone say something so harsh and sound so… understanding at the same time?
“And what do you know about hardship?” I asked, unable to hold back.
He held my gaze for a long moment.
Too long.
“That is not a story I share at dinner,” he said at last. A soft finality. A locked door.
Silence pulsed between us. Not comfortable, but charged.
“Let’s be honest,” I said after a moment. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I know enough.”
“You don’t.”
“I know you didn’t cry when you lost your shop.”
A knife through my chest.
“I know you didn’t beg when you came to negotiate.”
Another.
“I know you didn’t flinch when I told you the contract terms.”
A final twist.
“And I know,” he added quietly, “you are not here because you are weak. You’re here because you refuse to break.”
My breath stuttered.
For a second — just a second — I felt seen.
Then the moment passed.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I whispered. “You don’t know me.”
“I will,” he said.
The words landed like a physical touch.
Soft.
Dangerous.
Certain.
I swallowed hard.
He reached forward slightly — hand hovering close to mine, close enough that warmth radiated across my skin.
He didn’t touch me.
That somehow made it worse.
“You think you’re here to survive,” he said. “But surviving is the lowest possible aim.”
“And what’s the highest?” I whispered before I could stop myself.
His eyes dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second. Barely there. Almost imaginary.
Then he met my eyes again.
“Winning,” he murmured.
Something inside me tightened. Heat coiled low in my stomach. My pulse beat too fast.
“I don’t want your games,” I said, voice cracking despite me. “I want my life back.”
“You’ll get it back,” he said. “If you can handle this.”
“If I can handle you,” I corrected.
A hint of a smile touched his mouth — small, dangerous, addictive.
“Yes,” he said softly. “If you can handle me.”
The air shifted.
Suddenly the room felt too warm. The food too rich. The silence too close.
I dropped my gaze to my plate, forcing myself to eat, to breathe, to think.
Three weeks.
Just three weeks.
I could survive that.
I could outthink him.
I could keep my distance.
I could ignore the strange pull between us — whatever it was.
But as I looked up at him again — at the steady, unreadable intensity in his eyes — something inside me whispered the truth:
This wasn’t going to be easy.
And survival?
It wasn’t guaranteed.
Not when the most dangerous thing in this penthouse wasn’t the contract…
It was the man sitting across from me.
- Writer
