The dining room was too large for two people. A long, polished mahogany table stretched between them, lit by a minimalist crystal chandelier. He sat at the head, looking immaculate in a fresh black shirt, while she sat to his right, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
The silence was deafening, broken only by the quiet clink of silver as Mrs. Gable served two plates of seared duck breast. The housekeeper moved with frantic speed, never once making eye contact before vanishing back into the kitchen.
She stared down at her plate, then looked up at the man across from her. He was swirling a glass of deep red wine, his eyes fixed on the liquid.
"Are we going to pretend we don't eat with our mouths open, or can we actually talk?" she asked, picking up her fork.
He paused mid-swirl. His dark eyes snapped to hers, flashing with surprise. "What?"
"You're staring at your wine like it owes you money, and the staff treats me like I'm a ticking bomb," she said, leaning forward. "If I'm supposed to be the lady of the house, shouldn't I at least know why the atmosphere in here feels like a funeral?"
He set his glass down with a slow, deliberate click. "You never used to care about the atmosphere, Elena. Usually, you'd just complain about the menu and leave for a restaurant."
"Well, the old Elena sounds like a drag," she shot back, taking a bite of the duck. "This is delicious. And since I don't remember being a snob, I'm going to enjoy it."
He stared at her, his jaw slightly slack. It was the first time she had seen his perfect, rigid composure show a genuine crack. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes tracking the sharp, animated movement of her jaw as she chewed.
"You're different," he murmured, his voice dropping to a lower register.
"I have amnesia, not a lobotomy," she countered, pointing her fork at him. "My brain is empty, which means I don't have the energy to play whatever cold, high-society games we used to play. I'm hungry, I'm confused, and you're being brooding. It's exhausting."
A sudden, sharp sound cut through the room.
He was laughing. It was a low, rough rumble that sounded like it hadn't been used in years. The sound sent a bizarre wave of warmth straight to her chest.
"What's so funny?" she demanded, though she couldn't completely hide the small smile tugging at the corner of her own lips.
"You," he said, the coldness in his eyes completely melting away, replaced by a burning, intense curiosity. "You haven't spoken to me without a calculated script in three years. Hearing you tell me I'm exhausting is... refreshing."
"Good. Then let's keep it real," she said, setting her fork down and looking him dead in the eye. "Who am I to you? Because you look at me like you want to pull me apart, but you treat me like I'm made of glass."
The amusement vanished from his face, replaced instantly by a thick, suffocating heat. The physical pull between them, the one she had felt in the hospital, flared back to life with a vengeance. He didn't answer. He just stood up, walking slowly around the long table until he stopped right behind her chair.
She didn't move. Her heart began a frantic rhythm against her ribs as he reached down, his large hands resting on the back of her chair. He leaned in, his face inches from her ear.
"You want to know what you are to me?" he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "You're my wife. And right now, you're driving me completely insane."
She turned her head to face him, her nose almost brushing his jaw. "Then stop hiding behind that wall."
The invitation was raw, unfiltered, and entirely dangerous.
The tension that had been building since she woke up in the hospital finally snapped. He grabbed her by the upper arms, lifting her out of the chair with effortless strength. In one swift, fluid motion, he backed her up until her spine hit the cold dining room wall.
She let out a soft gasp, but she didn't pull away.
He pinned her there, his massive frame crowding her completely. His hands moved up to frame her face, his thumbs wiping across her cheekbones. His eyes were entirely consumed by a dark, feral passion. He looked like a man who had been starving in a desert, and she was the only drop of water for miles.
"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he growled, his gaze dropping to her lips.
"Show me," she breathed, her hands coming up to grip his forearms. Her body remembered him, even if her mind didn't. The spark between their skin was an absolute wildfire.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a teasing, agonizing ghost of a kiss. Her eyes fluttered shut, waiting for the impact, waiting for the heat to consume them both.
But the crash never came.
Suddenly, his hands tightened on her face, his fingers digging in slightly. A look of sharp, sudden agony twisted his handsome features. He forced his eyes open, staring down at her with a look so dark, so heavy with secrets, that it felt like a physical blow.
He abruptly let go of her, taking three heavy steps back. He ran a hand through his dark hair, his chest heaving as he fought for breath.
"I can't," he muttered, his voice rough and completely choked with restraint.
She leaned against the wall, her lips tingling, her brain spinning in confusion. "What do you mean, you can't? You want me. I can feel it."
He didn't look at her. He turned his back, his shoulders rigid under his black shirt. When he spoke, his voice was colder than ice, a complete reversal from the man who had just pinned her to the wall.
"I can't do this to you," he said darkly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Not yet."
He turned his back, his shoulders rigid under his black shirt. When he spoke, his voice was colder than ice, a complete reversal from the man who had just pinned her to the wall.
"I can't do this to you," he said darkly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Not yet."
Before she could demand an explanation, he strode out of the dining room, leaving his wine untouched and the heavy silence echoing in his wake. She stood pressed against the cold wall for a long time, her lips still tingling, her mind a chaotic mess of confusion.
She didn't see him for the rest of the night. But the next evening, the silence was broken. A heavy garment bag of emerald silk was delivered to her bed, accompanied by a single, typed note from him: The gala is tonight. Be ready by seven.
