The dinner is at a discreet, upscale restaurant, the kind where the lighting is so dim you can barely see your food, and the prices are so high they probably require a second mortgage.
Lucien orders for both of us, effortlessly, like he knows exactly what I want. Which, honestly, is probably true for most things he encounters.
We start with small talk, formal and polite, but the undercurrent of tension from the suite still lingers.
I'm acutely aware of him across the table – the way the dim light catches the planes of his face, the subtle flex of his jaw, the almost unnoticeable way his eyes follow my movements.
"So," I begin, taking a sip of sparkling water, "about tonight. I believe I earned a medal for 'Most Convincing Performance by an Unwilling Participant.'"
He raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
"Your performance was, indeed,... compelling. Particularly your convincing portrayal of utter adoration."
"Hey, I read the contract. It said 'legitimacy to social expectations.' I'm a method actor. I went all in." I lean forward slightly. "Though, I do believe 'love' was explicitly off the table. You nearly violated the conjugal rights clause, Mr. Holt."
His eyes darken, a slow burn igniting in them.
"Did I? I seem to recall a consensus on 'half the evening.'"
"Half the evening, not half my life!" My voice is a breathless whisper. The banter is light, but the meaning behind it is anything but.
The air between us is thick with unspoken desire which I find disgusting. This is not part of the plan, I shouldn't find this man amusing in any way.
"A simple misunderstanding, then," he murmurs, his gaze holding mine. "Perhaps I misjudged your... enthusiasm."
"My enthusiasm is solely for my brother's freedom," I counter, though my cheeks feel hot. "Don't mistake professional diligence for personal interest."
He leans back, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face.
"Of course. And my interest is purely in the seamless operation of Holt Industries. You proved useful tonight, Mrs. Holt. A valuable asset. I expect you to continue being so."
"Oh, I'm always useful," I say, trying to sound flippant, but the heat in his eyes is making it hard to breathe.
"You just haven't seen my full range of talents yet."
His smile deepens. "I'm quite sure I haven't. And I find myself... very much looking forward to the demonstration."
The food arrives, a delicate work of art on a plate, but I barely notice it. The real meal is the conversation, the charged glances, the unspoken questions hanging between us.
Lucien Holt might be cold, but his gaze, when it lands on me, feels like fire. And I am finding myself increasingly seen by him. And, terrifyingly, increasingly intrigued.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, only breaking it to comment on the food or the stupid weather. But fifteen minutes in, the flirty tension that had been crackling just moments before, snaps like an overloaded wire.
"You know," I say, pushing a perfect green bean around my plate, my voice laced with a bitterness I can't seem to hide. "It's funny, actually. My brother goes to jail for a 'crime' he didn't commit, and then suddenly, I'm here. Married to the CEO. It's almost too neat."
Lucien's fork, halfway to his mouth, pauses. His jaw tightens.
The casual, almost playful glint in his eyes vanishes, replaced by something cold and hard.
"Are you implying something, Ms. Quinn?" His voice drops, a low, dangerous rumble.
"I'm implying your company has more holes than Swiss cheese, Mr. Holt," I retort, my voice rising, fuelled by exhaustion and resentment.
"My brother barely knows how to reboot a router, how can he get caught in that? What if there's a traitor in your perfect, impenetrable empire is flawle-"
He slams his hand, softly, but with chilling precision, onto the table. The glasses jump.
The few hushed conversations around us suddenly die. All eyes, it feels like, are on us. Lucien's eyes are like chips of ice, utterly devoid of warmth.
"That is enough, Ms. Quinn," he seethes, his voice barely audible, but laced with lethal intent. "You will not speak about Holt Industries in such a manner. And you will certainly not speak about my company's internal affairs, about which you know nothing, in public."
"I know enough to know that an innocent person was framed!" I shoot back, ignoring the danger radiating from him.
"And that person is my brother! And the only reason he's free is because I signed myself over to you and your perfect, morally ambiguous corporation!"
He pushes his chair back, the scrape a harsh sound in the now-silent restaurant.
I wonder how they're not taking out their phones to capture this drama.
"This conversation is over." He signals for the waiter with a flick of his wrist. "The check, please."
The waiter, a highly trained professional, senses the shift in the air and is at our table in seconds, white-faced.
The dinner is cut short. The romantic tension that had simmered between us is dismantled, replaced by a cold, cutting anger.
"Let's go," Lucien says, his voice clipped, his gaze not meeting mine.
He stands, his movements sharp, already walking away.
I practically leap out of my seat, my feet screaming as I stumble to keep up with his furious strides.
The effortless grace he usually possesses is gone, replaced by a rigid, almost violent energy. He doesn't look at me, doesn't speak, just moves, a dark, imposing figure pulling me along in his wake.
The drive back to what I suppose would be my new home is silent, heavy with unspoken words.
I lean my head against the cool window, exhausted, both mentally and physically.
Every muscle aches. My jaw is clenched tight. I just had a very public, very un-fiancée-like argument with the man who holds my brother's freedom in his hand.
What an idiot.