Chapter 6: A Dinner for Two
819 Words
Sterling’s eyes narrowed, the blue hardening into chips of ice. His command had been an attempt to put me back in my box. My response had just smashed that box to pieces.
The silence was a battle of wills waged across inches of leather. He was a predator accustomed to his prey freezing. I was the one smiling back, showing my teeth.
He broke first, giving a curt, almost imperceptible nod. No agreement. Acknowledgment. He pushed his door open and stepped into the city night, leaving me to exit on my own. A deliberate, petty power move. Point to you, Prescott.
I slid out of the car, the cool air a welcome shock. The maître d' at Aureole oozed professional snobbery, practically bowing as Sterling approached. "Mr. Prescott. A pleasure. Your table is ready." His gaze flickered to me, dismissing me as a temporary accessory.
"My guest's name is Davis," Sterling said, his voice flat and cold. "See that she is treated accordingly."
The maître d's smile didn't falter, but his posture snapped to attention. "Of course, sir. This way, Miss Davis."
We were led through the hushed, candlelit room to the best table in the house—a secluded corner booth with a panoramic view of the glittering skyline. A table for power players.
The moment we were alone, he fixed me with that penetrating gaze. He leaned forward, his voice a low murmur that wouldn't carry. "Alright, Miss Davenport."
My blood went cold.
For one, paralyzing second, I was certain he knew. My entire plan, months of work, is about to detonate. My poker face held, but my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I merely raised a single eyebrow. "I'm sorry?" I asked, my voice the picture of polite confusion. "You have me mistaken for someone else. The name is Davis. It's on my resume. The one you found so… adequate."
A slow, cold smile touched his lips for the first time. It was not a pleasant sight. It was the smile of a shark that had just cornered its meal.
"Don't insult my intelligence," he said softly. "The 'gut feeling' about Helios. The 'accidental' discovery of non-public data. The cupcake. And now this…" He gestured vaguely at me, at the red dress, at the woman who had replaced the mousy girl from his office. "This is not the work of a plucky assistant. This is a performance. A deliberate, calculated campaign. The only question is, why?"
He leaned back, steepling his fingers, his blue eyes boring into me. He had laid out my transgressions, my tiny acts of war. He hadn't found my name, but he had discovered my purpose. He knew I was a saboteur.
This was the real game.
I let the silence hang before picking up my water glass, my movements slow, deliberate. I took a small sip, recalibrating my entire strategy. My cover wasn't just blown; he’d ripped it to shreds and was demanding to see the woman underneath.
So, I decided to give him a piece of her.
"Let's just say," I began, setting the glass down with a soft click, my voice dropping to the confident register of Blair Davenport, "that I believe your company's culture of sterile, monochrome ambition could use a little… disruption."
"Disruption," he repeated, savoring the word. "You're risking your career for corporate interior design?"
"I'm not risking anything," I corrected smoothly. "I'm experimenting. I wanted to see how the great Sterling Prescott reacts to a variable he can't predict. An element of chaos." I leaned forward, mirroring his posture, our eyes locked. "And so far, the results have been fascinating."
His smile vanished. He was no longer looking at an employee. He was looking at an adversary.
"And what do you hope to gain from this 'experiment,' Miss Davis?" he challenged.
Before I could answer, the waiter arrived, a jarring return to normalcy. We ordered in near silence, the tension between us thick enough to be cut with a steak knife.
When the waiter left, Sterling regarded me with a new, calculating light in his eyes.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he said. Not a threat. A statement of fact.
"The best ones always are," I replied.
He nodded slowly. "Fine. You want to play. Let's play." He picked up his wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid. "But know this. I don't lose. And when I find out what you're truly after… I will collect."
The unspoken promise in that word—collect—hung between us, charged with a meaning that went far beyond business. It was a promise of victory, of possession, of utter conquest.
As I looked at the most powerful, ruthless man I had ever met, now fully, dangerously focused on me, a single thought echoed in my mind.
He thought he was the predator.
He had no idea what a starving wolf looked like.
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