– Yara –

Hear me out—this wasn't some shallow infatuation. I wasn't just a simp; I was an artistic simp, if that makes any sense. I needed to study him, not swoon over the heir like Helen feared.

That's all it was.

Or at least that's what I kept telling myself as I stared at my faint reflection in the car window, the city blurring past. The setting sun cast fleeting shadows over the streets, but my mind was elsewhere.

Trevor wasn't coming with me to the meeting, but he was driving me to the restaurant—a high-end Italian spot near town hall, overlooking Everstone Park. Zayne chose it over his office. I didn't know if I should feel relieved or more on edge. The knot in my stomach only grew tighter.

And they say women have it easy approaching men.

Especially men like him.

Trevor's voice snapped me out of my thoughts. His tone was firm, but patience clung to it as he repeated Helen's warnings. It felt like I was walking into a lion's den.

Was Zayne really as dangerous as they said?

The thought sent a chill down my spine, something far too complicated to ignore.

I nodded absently, the words just drifting past me, too distant to care about. Trevor sighed, recognizing the futility of his pep talk. His eyes flickered at me, but I was already lost in the looming silhouette of the hotel ahead.

I was walking on a razor's edge—misunderstood or rejected. My expectations were set that low.

The car glided to a stop at the entrance of the restaurant. Trevor opened my door with his usual professionalism, but there was an edge of concern in his gaze as he extended his hand.

I barely steadied myself as I stepped out, my legs shaking. Trevor's eyes narrowed. "Yara, you alright?"

I forced a weak smile. "Yes," I lied. My clammy palms pressed over the textured fabric of my skirt, the weave a cruel reminder of how fine it was.

Trevor didn't buy it. How could he? Little did he know, my nerves weren't about a simple apology—schemes were churning beneath the surface.

The ornate mirror in the restaurant reflected the cream outfit Helen's stylist had picked for me. At least it wasn't something I hated, thanks to my perfectionist aunt. What was this fabric? The kind a boutique would call "timeless" and "bespoke." The tailored jacket clung to my frame, the calf-length skirt whispering quiet sophistication. Golden buttons caught the light, but not a single strand of my hair was out of place.

The look exuded confidence—everything I was not in that moment.

The staff greeted me with practiced poise. "Miss Levine, Mr. Lanston is waiting for you." My heart somersaulted. Trevor offered one last wordless encouragement before the host led me deeper into the belly of this tension-filled luxury. Each step felt heavier, the plush carpet beneath my heels doing nothing to soften the pounding of my heart.

Calm down, Yara. It's not an execution—it's just a conversation with a man who could crush me with a single word. No biggie.

And I would take my chances.

The host stopped, hand brushing the brass handle before easing the door open. I unclenched my fists, forced a small smile, and stepped inside.

Then, the air shifted.

Zayne sat, composed, watching. The space between us shrank, yet he didn't move—he didn't have to. That gaze, green with flecks of gold, carved through the air, through me. A slow sweep, head to toe, followed. Assessing. Calculating. Peeling me apart.

I'd met him before. But tonight, something was different. The suit, the cold precision—they were expected. What wasn't? The quiet, leashed danger coiled beneath his stillness.

Heat crept up my spine, unwanted, uninvited.

Why did he have to look at me like that? Like he... I didn't dare finish that thought. He didn't move, didn't speak. Just sat there, patient, like he had all the time in the world to wait me out.

I should say something instead of standing like an idiot and not taking a fucking seat.

Yet, he beat me to it.

"Miss Levine," His voice deeper than I remembered. The weight of it settled over me like velvet, rich and suffocating.

He rose, fluidly. The scrape of his chair was barely audible, yet sharp enough to drag over my skin.

"Are you planning to stand there all evening?"

Not mocking. Not impatient. Just waiting.

I blinked, dragging myself out of my daze, forcing a frown as I muttered, "No." My legs finally obeyed, carrying me forward, chin high despite the mutiny in my knees.

His lips twitched, a flicker of amusement. Then, without hurry, he closed the distance.

"I reserved this room for privacy. I assumed you'd prefer that over an audience."

"T-Thank you." Damn it. Why did my voice shake?

He didn't reply—just watched, unreadable. I couldn't tell, and if I didn't pull myself together, I'd lose my shit before I even started.

He pulled out my chair, a simple gesture made weighty by his presence. I hesitated, but my body betrayed me, taking in the familiar clean scent of cedar and something darker as I stepped past him.

As I settled, he leaned in, his breath a whisper against my ear.

"Relax," he murmured. "I don't bite."

Not unless you ask.

The words weren't spoken, but I heard them all the same. My pulse spiked. So did my irritation.

Before I could stop myself, I shot back, "Who says I'd let you?"

The second it left my mouth, I cursed myself. Did I just challenge him? Worse—flirt?

A low chuckle rumbled from him, rich, indulgent. He leaned in slightly, his voice smooth as sin.

"I think you'd be surprised how easily I could convince you."

Shit.

Oh, no, no, no, no.

Did I just imagine how it will play out?

Scrambling for control, I dragged my gaze away, the weight of his words pressing in. It felt too much like staring down a predator who already knew how weak my defenses were.

Hating how my next words sounded more like a plea than a warning, I managed, "Don't give me another reason to apologize, Mr. Lanston."

His lips curved up.

"If I wanted you to regret something, Miss Levine, you wouldn't be left wondering."

The words settled between us like a dark promise, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine—one I barely managed to suppress before a knock at the door shattered the moment.

Mercifully. A waiter entered, rolling in a cart laden with dishes and wine. The interruption was welcome, but my mind lagged behind, still caught in the lingering weight of Zayne's last words. I hadn't even looked at a menu.

Zayne moved with unhurried ease, retaking his seat as if nothing had passed between us. "I hope you don't mind," he said smoothly, "that I took the liberty of ordering for us in advance. My time is limited.".

My stomach tightened—not from hunger, but from the audacity laced in his words. I clenched my jaw as the waiter set the plates before us, forcing my irritation down.

And then I saw the entrée.

Insalata di Mare.

I froze.

The dish sat there, perfectly arranged, yet it felt like a taunt. One of my favorites. A coincidence? Or something else?

I slowly raised my gaze to Zayne just as the waiter exited, leaving us alone once more. Lifting my glass, I took a deliberate sip of water before arching a brow.

"And what if I were allergic to something you ordered?"

His fork paused—just for a fraction of a second. His green eyes flicked to mine, sharp, assessing.

Then, he set the fork down gently, leaning back in his chair.

"Miss Levine," his voice cutting through the space between us, "I don't leave things to chance. And if I were someone you had to worry about, you wouldn't have made it past the first sip of water."

A cold prickle ran down my spine.

Helen's warning roared back into my head.

I gripped my fork tighter, willing my fingers to steady, torn between launching it at him and bolting for the door.

Had he chosen to savor my tension over my restraint today?

Scrambling for composure, I forced a casual tone. "So, Trevor told you?"

"He did."

He took a slow bite, eyes steady on mine, daring me.

Infuriating asshole.

I matched his movements, refusing to let him see he'd rattled me.

And yet, despite every deliberate act of defiance, my gaze betrayed me.

I watched the way he moved—every motion was calculated, fluid, effortlessly controlled as he handled the cutlery. My attention dipped lower, lingering on his hands. Strong. Veined. Each movement was precise My fingers twitched.

Damn it.

I bit my lower lip, the urge to sketch overwhelming. The shape, the structure—capturing it would be a challenge, but the result? Worth it.

My fingers stroked an invisible line against the table, mentally tracing the strokes I'd need to bring him to life on canvas.

"Miss Levine?"

His voice—low, smooth, and entirely too amused and I  jumped in my seat.

Heat crawled up my neck, mortifyingly slow.

Had he noticed?

Of course, he had.

I squeaked—actually squeaked—before barely managing, "Y-yes?"

The glimmer in his eyes confirmed my worst fear. The bastard saw. And worse? He was enjoying it.

"Are the dishes not to your liking?" His tone was casual—too casual. The kind of casual that wasn't casual at all. His fork hovered mid-air, a deliberate pause. "Would you prefer what I'm having?"

The heat in my cheeks flared into an inferno.

"No," I snapped, scrambling for composure. "I was just wondering who eats steak in an Italian restaurant."

The words tumbled out before I could think better of them, but I seized them like a lifeline. Yes. Deflect, Yara. Good job. Focus on his questionable life choices, not the fact that you were just drooling over his hands like an absolute fool.

"I do."

The simplicity of his response made it all the more insufferable.

He cut into the steak with precise, unhurried movements—the knife gliding through the meat with a quiet, effortless finality. My nerves frayed further.

"Chef's special. Want me to order one for you?" he offered, tone impossibly polite. But there was a teasing lilt at the edges, a knowing smirk that might as well have been audible.

I nearly choked.

As if I could handle another steak on top of this dinner that was already making my insides feel like they were on a slow spin cycle. I will come to this restaurant at another time with another, easier company. One that does not make me feel like I am under cross-examination while trying to eat.

I shook my head—rapidly.

"Then eat."

The command came with that sharp, quiet authority that left no room for argument.

I clenched my jaw, irritation curling hot in my stomach. I hated being told what to do. Hated the effortless way he wielded control like it was his birthright. But I had my reasons for being here—reasons I reminded myself of with every bite of pasta I forced down.

Zayne's abrupt departure yesterday still clung to me like a bad aftertaste. I had no idea if I had actually offended him, or if he was still brooding over the charity incident even though he said it was fine. Either way, I couldn't afford to let this meeting spiral.

I took a steadying breath, forcing my shoulders to ease.

"I believe I owe you an apology."

His gaze locked onto mine, sharp and knowing. "For?"

He set his spoon down with deliberate slowness, his attention now fully on me.

Of course, he's going to make me say it.

Social nuance. Great. Just the kind of conversation I wanted to have with a man who could probably write a thesis on making others squirm.

"For..." I hesitated, forcing my voice steady. "Social nuance demands that I apologize with compensation. A simple 'sorry' and dry cleaning wouldn't suffice."

Reaching into my purse, I retrieved my phone, scrolling quickly before sliding it across the table toward him.

"This."

The glow of the screen illuminated the antique vase, its delicate form casting faint shadows. "An Ernest Chaplet vase, over a hundred years old." My words rushed out, nerves coiling in my stomach. "Everyone knows you're a collector, so Helen thought it would make a proper compensation."

His expression remained impassive, but something in his gaze made me feel small. Not out of condescension—but like a child caught in the act, held under scrutiny far too knowing.

"Because of the incident," I clarified, fumbling under the weight of his silence.

Who knew a single spilled glass of wine could cost a fortune? Yet Helen had practically skipped at the opportunity to bid on the vase, her determination unwavering. I wondered—not for the first time—if David, her husband, realized just how devoted she was to smoothing out even the tiniest wrinkles in their world, despite his infidelity.

Zayne finally spoke.

"Thoughtful." His voice was measured. "Though unnecessary."

For a moment, something in my chest sank.

But then he continued.

"Compensation implies a loss, Miss Levine." His tone was cool and composed. "And the last time I checked, I don't make a habit of clinging to trivialities."

I blinked, caught off guard by his logic. How would I know what he clung to or didn't?

His words rubbed against something raw, something I hadn't even realized was there. Before I could stop myself, I asked, "What do you have to lose, then?"

His brow arched.

Just silent permission for me to continue.

"The people who give you gifts," I said, voice steadier than I expected, "aren't doing it out of generosity. They do it in thinking—that they're being amicable or secure an alliance."

His gaze remained fixed on me, unmoving, unreadable.

"This vase could mean nothing more than a peace offering. If you don't want ties to David or the right wing, you could simply take it as an apology gift and nothing else."

It was a practical argument. Logical. Safe.

After all, why wouldn't he accept an antique worth thousands, served up on a silver platter? This wasn't a loss for him.

A low chuckle escaped him—dark, incredulous.

He tapped a single finger against the table, rhythmically, a measured beat.

And suddenly, it felt like I'd just stepped onto a chessboard.

"Hmm," he mused, his tone laced with a mix of curiosity. "You've clearly thought this through." He paused, before finally conceding. "Alright, I'll accept it—since, as you say, it comes with no ties."

A small, concealed sigh of relief slipped past me. One mission complete—Helen wouldn't have my head over this. But there was still one more hurdle to clear.

I offered a bright smile, a contrast to the tension still simmering between us. "Wonderful. The vase will be sent to your address next weekend, right after appraisal, along with the necessary legal documents."

He offered no verbal affirmation. Then, with unhurried grace, he swirled his whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light. "Tell me, was it Helen's idea or yours?"

His pinpoint precision made my eyes widen, but I answered truthfully. "It may come as a surprise, but no. I'm not exactly cut out for this kind of high-society niceties..."

His lips curled slightly, His gaze—steady, dissecting—made holding eye contact feel like an uphill battle. "Then why go through all this trouble?"

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

"You mean why I'm here having this meeting with you... braving potential indigestion?"

His chuckle was quiet, rich. A sound that grated against my nerves in the worst—or perhaps best—way possible. "Is that so?"

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled under his chin as his eyes bore into mine. "But we both know there's more to it than that."

Again, that unnerving gaze of his—it didn't make my skin crawl like it usually would when a man's attention carried such heat. It made my pulse flutter. Like I was caught in some invisible web.

Compelled, almost bewitched, the words slipped past my lips. "I do have a reason. A request."

The air between us crackled, thick and electric. He leaned back, gaze dark, expectant.

"I'm all ears, Miss Levine,"

This...this must be what it feels like to strike a deal with the devil.

But it was far too late to back out now.

I took a breath and asked shyly. "Can you be my model?"