Elsie's fingers hovered over the screen. She typed and deleted a dozen different messages. Each one sounded either too demanding or too pathetic.

A direct request would be too easy for a man like him to deny. She needed a different approach. A lure.

Finally, she settled on a message, carefully crafted to be both submissive and strategic.

Mr. Blake, good evening. In light of our upcoming... arrangement, I was hoping to understand if you have any particular preferences or requirements for my future wardrobe.

It was a brilliant piece of misdirection. It cloaked her true desire-to go out-in the guise of fulfilling her duty as his future wife.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she pressed send. She tossed the phone onto her bed as if it were on fire.

In his private gym, Duke was pushing through a grueling set of reps, sweat glistening on the hard planes of his muscles.

His personal assistant, Alex Stone, approached cautiously, holding out a phone. "Sir. A message from Miss Sutton."

Duke lowered the weights with a controlled thud. He took the phone. A ghost of a smile touched his lips as he read the text.

She was a clever one. She wanted to go out.

Appreciating her cunning, the way she had framed her request as a question of his desires, he wiped his hands on a towel and typed a short, dismissive reply.

No requirements. Wear whatever you like.

He sent it, shutting down her line of inquiry completely.

Elsie's stomach dropped when she saw his reply. It was a brick wall. A clear denial of her veiled request.

Frustration pricked at her. Fine. If the direct approach didn't work, and the subtle approach failed, she would have to use a different kind of weapon.

Thinking of her voice, with its soft, breathy quality people had always commented on—a natural innocence she had learned to use to her advantage—she made a bold decision: opening a new message, this time tapping the microphone icon, she took a breath, consciously softening her tone, infusing it with a delicate mix of confusion and vulnerability, and began to record.

"But... if I don't know what you like, how can I possibly choose the right fabrics for my gown? Or... were you not planning on coming with me?"

Letting the last few words hang in the air, her voice lifting slightly, a subtle, almost imperceptible hint of a pout, she squeezed her eyes shut and hit send.

Duke had just stepped out of the shower, a towel slung low on his hips, when Alex handed him the phone again.

He frowned when he saw it was a voice message. He connected his wireless earbud and pressed play.

Elsie's voice filled his head.

It was soft, intimate, the sound of silk brushing against skin. The little hitch in her breath, the slight, questioning lilt at the end-it was like a feather being dragged directly across his nervous system.

The carefully administered suppressant that kept his condition in check was instantly overwhelmed.

A raw, primal heat flooded his veins.

His entire body went rigid. His jaw clenched, and he could feel the blood pounding in his ears.

Damn it. He had severely underestimated the effect she would have on him.

Alex saw the change immediately. The sudden tension in his boss's shoulders, the darkening of his eyes, the way his breathing became harsh.

Duke ripped the earbud out and slammed his phone face down on the counter. He closed his eyes, fighting for control, wrestling the beast back into its cage.

Having lost this round, made to lose control by nothing but her voice, he turned to Alex, his own voice a low, rough rasp he barely recognized.

"Tell James to clear my schedule. We're picking up Miss Sutton tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock."

James Moran entered Duke's office the next morning and found his boss already there, staring out the window. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a tension in his jaw that hadn't been there the day before.

"Cancel all my meetings before noon," Duke said, repeating the order Alex had relayed the night before. "We are picking up Miss Sutton at ten."

James, ever the professional, tried to hide his surprise. "Of course, sir. And the destination? Shall I prepare a list of the top bridal couturiers?"

"That won't be necessary. She will tell us where she wants to go." Duke's voice was flat, certain. He turned from the window and added, "And I'll be driving."

This time, James couldn't hide his shock. Duke Blake had not driven himself in over a decade. His time was measured in millions of dollars per minute.

Duke offered no explanation, simply waving a hand in dismissal.

After James left, Duke walked to a concealed safe behind a painting. He opened it and took out a small, sterile box. Inside was a syringe filled with a clear liquid. His custom-formulated suppressant.

He had barely slept. Her voice had replayed in his mind all night, a siren's call. He'd been forced to take a half-dose of the medication just to get through the morning.

He had to drive himself. He needed to see her, to be near her. He had to understand the power she held over him. It was a date, yes, but it was also a stress test. A dangerous experiment to see how close he could get to the fire without being burned.

At Sutton Manor, Elsie woke with a nervous energy buzzing under her skin.

A text from James Moran was waiting on her phone: Mr. Blake will be arriving personally to collect you at 10 a.m. Please provide the destination to allow for route planning.

The word personally made her heart skip a beat.

She quickly typed her reply: Greta Novak Atelier, SoHo.

The choice was strategic. It was her territory, a place where she felt comfortable and confident. It was a genuine need. And most importantly, it was a chance to show Duke a part of her world, the part where she was not a patient, but a creator.

She carefully chose her outfit. Not the virginal white her mother preferred, but a pale blue sundress that was soft and feminine, yet held a hint of cool distance.

At 9:55 a.m., a sleek, black Bentley Flying Spur glided to a silent stop in front of the manor.

Elsie walked out, Niam by her side. She saw Duke in the driver's seat.

He was dressed more casually today in a dark grey cashmere sweater that stretched across his broad shoulders and chest. He looked less like a CEO and more like a predator at rest.

He didn't get out to open her door. He simply lowered the passenger-side window, his eyes beckoning her.

Her heart did a little flip. She took a breath, smoothed her dress, and slid into the passenger seat.

The car was spacious, but his presence filled every inch of it, making the air feel thick and charged. She could smell that same clean, woodsy scent from the restaurant, but today there was something else underneath it. A faint, almost imperceptible chemical smell, like antiseptic.

She dismissed it as a trick of her imagination.

He didn't speak. He just put the car in gear and pulled away from the manor, the gates closing behind them with a soft, final thud. As they turned onto the main drive, Elsie caught a glimpse in the side mirror of a black Cadillac Escalade pulling out from a service road, falling in line a discreet distance behind them.

Elsie watched the familiar, suffocating scenery of her home disappear. As they turned onto the main road, a genuine, unbidden smile touched her lips. It was the first time in months she had left the grounds in the daylight.

It felt like freedom.

From the corner of his eye, Duke saw her smile. He saw the light that entered her eyes as the cage grew smaller in the rearview mirror.

He knew his trap was working perfectly. He had given the prey the illusion of escape.