ChapterThree
766 Words
Dinner with the Devil
(Ava Sinclair(FL) – That Evening, New York City)
The black sedan waiting outside her apartment looked far too expensive for her street. The driver stepped out before she could even lock her door, opening the rear door with quiet precision.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said, voice clipped, British. “Mr. Ashford asked me to bring you to the Penthouse.”
Penthouse. Not restaurant.
Ava’s pulse kicked up, but she climbed in any way. Curiosity had always been her worst habit.
The car slid through the city traffic, neon lights smearing across the windows. She caught her reflection — hair down, a simple navy dress that looked professional enough to say I’m not impressed and simple enough to whisper I tried.
By the time they reached the river, the skyline glittered like a promise she didn’t quite trust.
When the elevator doors opened, the scent of cedar and something faintly smoky reached her. The entire floor belonged to him. Floor - to - ceiling glass, a grand piano near the window, soft jazz humming from hidden speakers.
And Liam Ashford was standing on the balcony, sleeves rolled up, tie gone, a glass of wine in his hand.
He turned when he heard her footsteps.
For a moment, the world went still.
“You’re early,” he said.
“You said eight.”
“I expected fashionably late. You don’t play by rules, do you?”
“I didn’t know there were any.”
His mouth curved slightly. “There always are.”
He gestured toward the table set for two. Candles flickered against silver. The meal was simple — steak, salad, wine — but everything about the atmosphere felt deliberate, intimate.
“Wine?”
She nodded. “Just half a glass.”
He poured, watching her over the rim of his own. “You’ve been digging into me for weeks, Miss Sinclair. Tell me — what did you find?”
“That you don’t like being asked questions.”
“True.”
“And that you hide behind sarcasm when something actually matters.”
He froze mid - sip, eyes narrowing. “Careful.”
“I’m a reporter. Being careful doesn’t sell.”
He set the glass down, walked closer until the candlelight painted shadows across his face. “You think you’ve figured me out already?”
“I think you want people to think you’re untouchable because the alternative is being seen.”
For a heartbeat, something unguarded flashed across his expression — pain, recognition — then the mask slipped back into place.
“You’re braver than you look,” he murmured.
“Maybe I’m just bad at knowing when to walk away.”
“Maybe.”
He moved past her and opened a small wooden box on a sideboard. Inside lay a collection of photographs — old, weathered, edges curling. She caught a glimpse before he snapped it shut: a younger Liam, his father beside him, both smiling.
“Your father?” she asked quietly.
“Interview’s over,” he said, voice rougher now.
She didn’t press. Instinct told her to step back, but empathy kept her still. “You don’t have to talk about it. But you don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt either.”
He looked at her then — really looked at her — and for the first time, his eyes softened.
“You shouldn’t try to understand me, Ava.”
“Why not?”
“Because if you do, you won’t be able to write about me anymore.”
Her breath caught. He was closer than before, his words brushing her like a secret. The air between them hummed — half warning, half invitation.
She stepped back first, breaking the spell. “I’m not here to fall for a story, Mr. Ashford.”
He smiled, slow and dangerous. “We’ll see.”
Dinner continued in uneasy silence after that — forks, wine, the low hum of city life far below. But beneath it all, something had shifted.
By the time she left, his last words followed her to the elevator.
“Be careful what you write, Miss Sinclair. Some truths come with a price.”
And hers came back, soft but certain:
“Then I’ll make sure it’s worth paying.”
*******************************************************
The elevator doors slid shut, sealing the tension between them.
Liam stood alone, staring at the empty doorway.
He hadn’t meant to let her see the photo. He hadn’t meant to care.
But she’d
Looked at him like she saw something worth saving.
And that terrified him more than any lie ever could.
- Writer
