An hour later, dinner had ended. Or more accurately, Ross had finished eating—and he had eaten like a man who had been denied for too long.
He didn't just eat the meal; he consumed it with intensity, savoring every bite as though it were his last.
There was something carnal in the way he chewed, the way he held his fork like it was an extension of his will.
Jane, who had been too tense to eat at first, found herself unconsciously nibbling from her plate.
Watching him—how present he was in everything he did—made it impossible not to respond in some way.
It was unsettling.
Ross ate like he lived: unapologetically, confidently, and always in control.
And as she observed him across the flickering candlelight, Jane's carefully constructed judgments started to shift.
He wasn't attractive in the conventional sense—no sharp jawline, no charming smile that could melt a woman's defenses.
But he had presence. An undeniable, almost suffocating kind of presence that filled the room without him needing to say a word.
His suit clung to broad shoulders and a thick chest.
He moved with the solid grace of someone who knew how to throw a punch and win.
His voice, his mannerisms, his posture—it all told a story of a man who'd taken things in life by force, not by favor.
He's dangerous, she thought. And men like him always get what they want.
When the final course had been cleared away and the wine was nearly gone, Ross set down his glass and looked at her with full attention.
There was no more small talk. No more pretending.
"I'm full now," he said, voice smooth and deep, tinged with something darker. "And it's time to digest all the food I've eaten."
He stood up, slow and deliberate, like a king rising from his throne.
Then he walked around the table to her side and extended his hand—not gently, not forcefully, but with the unspoken expectation that she would take it.
"Come, Jane," he said. "It's time to make you mine."
His words settled over her like a net.
Jane hesitated.
Her heart beat faster.
Every logical thought in her mind screamed at her to run, to slap him and storm out.
But her body… her body was caught in the strange stillness of inevitability.
She lifted her eyes to meet his, and in that moment, she saw no cruelty—just certainty.
Ross wasn't begging. He wasn't pleading or bargaining.
He knew what was about to happen. He had known the moment she answered his call.
And maybe, deep down, she had too.
Slowly, she placed her hand in his.
He helped her up from the chair, his grip warm and solid.
The touch sent a strange shiver through her, one that had nothing to do with cold.
Without a word, he turned and led her through the suite.
The hallway to the bedroom was wide and dimly lit, lined with thick carpeting that muffled their footsteps.
The only sounds were the low hum of the city outside and the quiet rhythm of their breathing.
With every step, Jane felt the weight of what she was walking toward.
She wasn't just about to sleep with a man she despised.
She was crossing a threshold that would change everything—her pride, her loyalty, her self-worth.
This wasn't about pleasure. This was survival dressed in silk.
At the end of the hallway stood a dark wooden door, slightly ajar. Ross stopped just before it, turning to glance at her over his shoulder.
"Inside this room," he said softly, "miracles can happen."
She said nothing, but her fingers tightened slightly around his.
The door creaked open with a faint push, revealing a bedroom bathed in warm golden light.
The air was heavy with the scent of cologne and something else—something deeper, more intimate.
The king-sized bed dominated the center of the room, covered in rich, dark sheets.
A small fireplace flickered to life on the far wall, casting shadows that danced across the floor.
Ross stepped inside first and turned to face her.
She stood in the doorway, caught between two worlds: the one where she still clung to dignity… and the one where she would surrender it.
He held out his hand again.
"Jane," he said, his voice lower now, softer. "Come."
She stared at him for several long seconds, her body trembling—not from fear, but from the gravity of it all.
Then she stepped forward.
And the door shut behind her with a quiet click that felt louder than thunder.
"I just want to make one thing clear," Jane began, her voice trembling beneath a thin layer of determination. "After I do this, you should—"
But her words were swallowed whole.
Ross moved with sudden purpose, closing the space between them in an instant.
His lips crashed onto hers, silencing everything—her doubts, her warning, her pride. His kiss wasn't gentle.
It was a claim, a statement, a firestorm that swept through her senses like a violent wind.
"Mm-mmph…!" Jane's muffled protest barely escaped her mouth as she struggled against him, her hands pressing firmly into his chest.
But Ross didn't back off.
His large arms wrapped around her tightly, his strength undeniable.
She could feel the muscles under his suit flex as he lifted her clean off the ground without effort.
"No—Ross—wait…" she gasped when she could catch a breath, but her voice was weak against the intensity of his momentum.
He didn't give her the space to finish.
She was already in his arms, cradled like a delicate thing—a possession—and before she could protest again, he laid her down on the bed.
The mattress dipped beneath her weight, and Ross hovered over her like a shadow she couldn't escape.
His mouth found hers again before she could speak, before she could even think.
The kiss this time was slower, but deeper. Like he had time to savor it now.
Like he was tasting victory.
Jane struggled beneath him, her legs shifting, her hands attempting to push his chest away.
But he was immovable—like stone.