Chapter 7: The Glass Gallery
824 Words
The silk dress they had chosen for my "quiet dinner" at the estate felt like liquid ice against my skin. It was a deep, midnight blue, the color of the Atlantic just before a storm hits. As I walked down the long, silent corridor of the Sterling Estate's east wing, the only sound was the soft, rhythmic thud of my heels sinking into the plush cream carpet. The air in the hallway was chilled to a precise degree, smelling faintly of expensive floor wax and the white lilies that sat in crystal vases every ten paces.
I didn't want to go to the dining room. I wanted to crawl into the oversized bed and pretend the last forty-eight hours were a fever dream. But the "Ice King" didn't allow for retreats.
I found him not in the dining room, but in what Marcus called the "Glass Gallery"—a long sunroom that overlooked the back gardens and the infinity pool. The walls were entirely made of reinforced glass, offering a panoramic view of the Ikoyi skyline. In the dark, the city lights looked like fallen stars scattered across a black velvet cloth.
Alexander was standing by the glass, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. He had discarded his suit jacket, and his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. The glow from the pool reflected off the glass, casting dancing blue ripples across his sharp features.
"You're late, Cynthia," he said. He didn't turn around, but I saw his reflection in the glass. His grey eyes were fixed on the distant horizon. "Three minutes. In my world, three minutes is the difference between a closed deal and a bankruptcy."
"I was struggling with the zipper," I said, my voice sounding hollow in the vast, glass-walled room. "The 'armor' you bought me is a bit difficult to put on alone."
He turned then, his gaze sweeping over me with the clinical precision of a diamond appraiser. I felt a flush creep up my neck, a heat that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. The scent of his sandalwood cologne was stronger here, mixed with the sharp, peat-heavy aroma of the scotch in his glass.
"It serves its purpose," he remarked, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration. "You look like a Sterling now. Elegant. Untouchable. Expensive."
"Is that all I am to you? An expensive asset?" I stepped closer, the heels of my shoes clicking sharply as I moved off the carpet and onto the polished obsidian border of the room. The floor was cold, even through the soles of my shoes.
Alexander took a slow sip of his drink, the ice cubes clinking against the glass with a sound like breaking teeth. "Everything is an asset, Cynthia. The trick is knowing how to manage them. Your father didn't. That’s why you’re standing in my gallery instead of a lecture hall."
The cruelty of his words stung more than any slap. I looked past him at the garden below. The night-blooming jasmine was in full scent now, a heavy, sweet fragrance that drifted in through the slightly cracked ventilation panels. It was beautiful, but it felt like the smell of a funeral.
"Why me?" I whispered. "You could have picked any girl from a dozen high-society families. Why the daughter of a fisherman with a five-million-naira debt?"
Alexander moved then, closing the distance between us in two long, predatory strides. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body, a contrast to the icy air of the gallery. He reached out, his thumb grazing the line of my jaw. His skin was rough, calloused in a way I didn't expect from a man who spent his days behind a marble desk.
"Because the girls from those families are predictable," he murmured, his silver eyes locking onto mine. "They want the name. They want the money. But you... you have a fire in you that even this ice hasn't put out yet. I wanted to see how long it would take for you to burn the house down."
For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. I saw a flash of something—loneliness, perhaps, or a hunger he didn't want to admit to. But then, as quickly as it appeared, the ice refroze. He pulled his hand away and finished his drink in one swallow.
"Dinner is served in the small dining room," he said, his voice once again cold and professional. "Don't keep the chef waiting. He is far less patient than I am."
He walked past me, leaving me alone in the glass gallery. I stood there, shivering despite the heat of the night outside, realized that the most dangerous thing in this house wasn't the debt or the contract. It was the man who owned them.
- Writer
