Switzerland – Private Dining Room, 8:25 P.M.
The Carrington estate might have been on fire with tension, but in Geneva, the night moved slower. Too smooth. Too dangerous.
A private dining room sat high above the lights, sealed off from the world. Jace and Jane faced each other across a table dressed in silver and glass. One candle flickered between them, throwing gold across his sharp features.
He'd bought out the entire floor. No staff. No interruptions. Just jazz, and her.
Jane shifted in her red dress, tugging at the strap as if the fabric itself burned her skin. Her glass was half-empty, her laughter softer than usual, her pulse a little too quick. Jace noticed everything.
Her eyes skimmed the view but never stayed there. Her fingers lingered too long on the stem of her glass, turning it slowly. "Beautiful," she murmured.
Jace's gaze caught the restless motion. "And?"
She stilled the glass, then lifted it deliberately, lips brushing the rim. "And dangerous. Quiet can be dangerous."
His eyes moved—slow, deliberate—from her bare shoulder down to the line of hervdress. "You look dangerous in red."
Her breath hitched. "You handed me the option."
He leaned in, the candlelight cutting across his jaw. "I knew where your hand would land before you did."
She leaned in, arching a brow. "Manipulative."
"Strategic." His gaze didn't move from her mouth. "Tell me something real."
"Real?"
"Not on your résumé."
She smirked, swirling her wine. "Since when does my CEO want personal questions?"
"It's not business tonight," his tone was firm, almost daring. "Unless you'd rather discuss stock reports."
She laughed, shaking her head. "God, no. Fine. Awkward questions it is."
"What makes you feel safe?"
Her fingers froze mid-swirl, wine bleeding close to the rim. She set the glass down carefully, as though safety itself might crack in her hands.
"That's not the kind of thing you ask over candlelight."
His voice didn't shift. "That's exactly when you ask it."
Silence stretched. Finally, she whispered, "Quiet mornings. Coffee. Walks where no one expects me to talk. People who don't try to fix me. And…" Her throat caught. "My mom. Always my mom."
Jace's eyes softened, though his body stayed unreadable. "That makes sense."
She reached for the wine bottle to refill her glass. He steadied her wrist before the wine could spill. His thumb brushed her pulse. "Easy, that's enough." he said, quiet, claiming.
Her eyes dropped to his hand covering hers. Heat shot through her chest. "You're always this careful?"
"Only when it matters."
"You've barely touched your food," she began to pull back slightly.
"You don't like yours either," he countered.
She leaned closer, lips curving. "Honestly? I don't even know what half this is. Who eats this for dinner?"
Jace's laugh was low, smooth. "Not me."
"This whole night feels strange."
"How so?"
"You're not just my boss," wiping off her wine-stained lips with a napkin, she continued. "You're my boss's boss. I should be calling you 'sir'."
"Yet here you are." His eyes held hers as he pressed a button under the table. A waiter appeared, received a quick order in French, then vanished again.
Jane blinked. "You just ordered the whole menu?"
"You said you didn't like the food."
She laughed again, softer this time, her guard cracking.
When she reached for the bottle, Jace stopped her, fingers wrapping around her wrist. Firm. Warm. "No more." He set the wine on the floor, never breaking her gaze.
Flushed, she leaned in, her elbow on the table. "Bossy."
"I'm responsible for you tonight."
The words were gentle, but the weight in his tone made her breath hitch.
His eyes searched hers. "You never talk about your father. Do you know him?"
Her laughter faded. She looked down. "Mom says he wasn't the kind of man who stuck around. I used to ask, but… she always changes the subject."
Jace's jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.
"Eventually, I stopped wanting to know," Jane whispered. "Like maybe the truth would be worse than the mystery."
The silence grew thicker, heavier, charged. She forced a shaky laugh. "I should probably stop talking. I'm drunk. Or sentimental."
"Both," Jace said, voice low, unflinching. His eyes lingered on her mouth too long.
"Charming," she muttered, her pulse racing.
He stood, slow, deliberate, his chair scraping against the floor. The candlelight caught the hunger in his eyes as he held out his hand.
"Come," he said softly. "I'll take you back."
NEXT MORNING
Jane woke to warm sheets and the smell of coffee. Sunlight ran over the wood floors. The bed was cozy and empty.
Then it hit: the dinner, the wine, the kiss.
Jace.
A soft clink came from the open kitchen. He stood at the counter in a navy shirt, sleeves rolled, hair damp. He didn't turn when he said, "You snore."
"I absolutely do not."
"A little," he said, setting two mugs down. "Almost charming."
She groaned, covering her face. "This is my nightmare."
He finally looked at her, amusement in his eyes. "Relax. You didn't burn the place down."
She peeked through her fingers. "I kissed you."
"You did."
"And I stayed?"
"You did."
She swallowed. "Did anything else happen?"
"Yes."
Her eyes went wide.
"You passed out on my arm... and drooled on my shirt."
Her mouth dropped open. "No!"
He laughed. "Flattering, actually. No one's ever fallen asleep mid-flirt with me."
She fell back, dragging the sheet over her head. "Erase me."
He walked over, close enough for his cologne to find her. His fingers brushed her wrist as he set the mug on the nightstand. "I'd rather not."
She peeked out again. His face was closer now, smile gone and voice low. "I didn't bring you here to cross any lines. You looked exhausted. I thought maybe you needed a safe space to fall apart."
Her chest tightened.
"I've seen you hold yourself together like your life depends on it," he added. "Like if you let go, even a little, it all collapses."
She sat up, clutching the mug with both hands. "I don't let people see that."
"I know."
"You weren't supposed to." A beat.
"Sometimes, it feels like there's a whole part of my life that doesn't belong to me. Like someone else lived it and I'm just... filling the gap."
He paused. "Well... you let me in anyway."
They sat in silence for a moment. Not awkward—just thoughtful.
She sipped. "Do I still have a job?"
"You never lost it."
"Even after I trashed your wine choices?"
"Especially after that."
She chuckled, then glanced out of the window. "We should start packing. The conference is over."
"I was thinking we leave tomorrow," he said. "There's a place I visit here. I want to take you."
She hesitated. "I haven't seen my mom in a week. I should go home."
Before he could say anything, his phone rang. John.
"I'll be back," Jace said, stepping into the hall as he answered. His voice dropped. "Update."
"Got into one of the daughters' phones," John said. "There's someone in the family who's been erased. Not sure if it's Jane or someone else. Paper trail wiped. Either removed or rewritten."
"Fallon Hayes?"
"No romance with him. That part's clear. But her role's still off."
Jace stared at nothing. The feeling he'd had for weeks sharpened.
"Sir, did you see my messages last night," John's voice cut through his thoughts. "About the interview... the daughter."
Jace blinked, realizing he hadn't checked his work phone since the night before. He pulled it out, scrolling quickly through missed calls, headlines and social media updates.
Carrington Heiress Exposes Family Secrets In Shocking Interview.
Seraphina Carrington: Whistleblower Or Reckless Rebel?
John's voice cut through. "She's public now. Dangerous, but useful. We could engage her directly. Give her an endorsement deal, maybe even pitch her as the new face of Arkos. That could draw him out or shake something loose."
Jace's eyes narrowed. "Do it."
A beat.
"I want to know why she's doing this." He looked back toward the bedroom, toward Jane and felt the ground shift.
He ended the call.
For a moment he stood there, phone heavy in his hand, heartbeat louder than the silence. Then his gaze slid back to the bedroom door. To Jane. Sunlight tangled in her hair, her laughter still lingering in the room like an echo.
And something inside him narrowed.
Not curiosity.
Not strategy.
Fear.