The waiter slid new glasses of wine onto the table, the quiet clink of crystal punctuating the silence that hung too thick for comfort.
Vincent, ever the eager host, leaned forward with that boyish grin. "So, Liam, I heard you're acquiring a new property out of town. Quite the venture. Mia was telling me earlier she might even be helping finalize the deal."
Mia's fork froze against her plate, her pulse stuttering. Vincent. Not now.
Liam's eyes flicked to her, sharp and deliberate. His smirk was subtle, lethal. "Ah. Yes. That's correct." His gaze lingered on Mia as he took a slow sip of wine. "Though I hadn't realized she'd already started discussing our business with others."
Mia's head snapped toward him, her sweet smile curdling at the edges. "I didn't discuss anything confidential," she said lightly, though her voice dripped with restrained fury. "I was simply answering a question."
Vincent blinked between them, clearly missing the undercurrent. "Well, I think it's great," he said warmly, his hand brushing Mia's as though to reassure her. "A woman like Mia deserves recognition for her work."
Liam's jaw flexed. His voice came out smooth as velvet, but sharpened with steel. "Recognition has never been her problem. Discipline, however..." His eyes cut to her, gleaming with challenge. "That's another matter."
Mia's cheeks flushed, though whether from anger or the heat in his gaze, even she couldn't tell. She leaned closer to Vincent, her laugh too bright, too sharp. "Discipline? Please. If I survived working with men who underestimate me, Mr. Alcaraz, I think I'll be fine."
Glydel laughed lightly, patting Liam's arm as if to diffuse the rising sparks. "Oh, Mia, Liam isn't underestimating you. He's just... demanding. He expects the best from everyone."
"Is that what we're calling it now?" Mia murmured, her voice low enough that only Liam heard.
His lips curved into a dangerous smile. "Call it whatever you like," he whispered back, his words brushing her ear like a forbidden caress.
Vincent, oblivious, raised his glass. "To new beginnings!" he toasted, his eyes lingering on Mia with open admiration. "And to extraordinary women who make life brighter."
Mia smiled at him, touched in spite of herself. But before she could thank him, Liam lifted his own glass, his gaze locked on hers.
"To extraordinary women," he echoed smoothly, his voice deep, intimate, meant for her alone. "And the men who are lucky enough to have them—at least for as long as they can keep them."
Mia's breath caught, her heart slamming against her ribs. The air between them crackled, sharp as lightning, and for a second she forgot Vincent, forgot Glydel, forgot everything except the man across from her and the dangerous promise in his eyes.
Her laugh was light, brittle at the edges. "Funny thing," she said, tilting her glass toward him, "some men are experts at throwing away what others would give anything to keep.
Liam's smirk deepened. He didn't flinch. Didn't break. He simply leaned back, watching her like she was the only person in the room, the only battle worth fighting.
And across the table, Glydel and Vincent smiled and sipped their wine, blissfully unaware they were sitting in the middle of a warzone disguised as dinner.
Liam's smile deepened, slow and deliberate, his gaze never breaking from hers. He raised his glass in a smooth, deliberate toast.
"And some women," he murmured, voice low enough to curl around her spine like smoke, "forget that what's truly theirs always finds its way back."
The words hit her like a spark to dry tinder.
Mia's breath stuttered, though her smile didn't falter. She lifted her own glass in return, the crystal trembling just enough that only she felt it. On the surface, she looked composed, amused even—her lips curving in a polite smirk. But her pulse was racing, her chest tight with the weight of everything unspoken.
She forced out a light laugh, airy and laced with disdain. "Then perhaps," she said sweetly, her eyes narrowing, "some men need to stop mistaking persistence for destiny."
Vincent chuckled softly at her wit, clearly charmed, and reached to brush his fingers lightly against hers. "Brilliant," he whispered, clearly thinking she'd won the exchange.
But Mia didn't look at Vincent.
She couldn't.
Her eyes were locked on Liam's—on the fire simmering there, the dangerous curl of his smile that promised this war was far from over.
And though she hated herself for it, her heart betrayed her.
One erratic, unsteady beat told her exactly what she didn't want to admit.
She was still his battlefield.
And maybe, deep down, she still wanted to be.
Plates were cleared, fresh wine poured, and the faint clink of silverware accompanied the hum of conversation around them. At their table, though, the air was taut—charged with the kind of silence that felt louder than words.
Vincent, still riding the high of his "perfect date," leaned forward with a grin, breaking the quiet. "So, Mia," he began, his voice bright and casual, "how do you know Liam?"
Mia froze, her fork hovering over the untouched dessert. Her chest tightened, the practiced smile on her lips faltering for just a heartbeat.
Liam's gaze sharpened instantly, flicking to her before settling back on Vincent with cool indifference. "That's a story for another time," he said smoothly, reaching for his glass.
But Vincent only laughed, oblivious to the sudden crackle of tension. "Oh, come on. Don't be mysterious. I'd love to know. I mean, it's obvious you two... know each other."
Mia's eyes cut to Liam, a storm brewing in their depths. She could almost hear his warning in the way he arched a brow, silently daring her to speak.
Her lips curved into a slow, too-sweet smile. "Yes," she said at last, her voice dripping with feigned lightness. "We know each other very well." She tipped her wineglass in Liam's direction, her gaze never wavering. "Unfortunately."
Vincent chuckled, clearly mistaking her venom for playful banter. "Ah, so you've worked together before?"
Mia's laugh was brittle, sharp enough to sting. "You could say that. Though I'm not sure he ever appreciated my contributions at the time."
"On the contrary," Liam cut in, his voice like velvet over steel. He leaned back, swirling the wine in his glass with deliberate calm, his gaze locked firmly on hers. "I appreciated them more than you'll ever admit. Perhaps too much."
The air between them sizzled, heavy with things unsaid.
Mia's throat tightened, her composure wobbling, but she forced a smirk. "Funny. I don't recall gratitude being one of your talents."
Glydel, sensing the edge in Mia's tone but still missing the undercurrent, laughed lightly. "Well, that's Liam. Demanding, impossible, but he always gets results."
"Demanding," Mia repeated, her smile all teeth. "Yes. That's one word for it."
Liam's lips curved, his eyes glittering with dangerous amusement. "Careful, Mia. You almost sound like you miss it."
Her fork clinked too hard against the porcelain plate, betraying her tension. "I'd rather starve."
Vincent burst out laughing, slapping the table in delight. "God, you're both hilarious. I feel like I'm missing half the joke."
Liam's smirk didn't waver, but his gaze burned across the table, pinning Mia in place. "You're not missing anything, Vincent. Some things... only make sense to the people who lived them."
And Mia—despite every wall she'd built—felt her heart stumble against her ribs, because in that moment she knew he wasn't just talking about business.
The rest of dinner blurred, the courses arriving and vanishing without either Mia or Liam truly tasting them. Conversation ebbed and flowed—Vincent chattering cheerfully, Glydel laughing at his stories—but under the table, the real war waged in stolen glances, tightened grips, and half-smiles sharpened into blades.
When the bill finally came, Vincent reached for it with a flourish. "This one's on me," he insisted, boyish pride in his voice.
Mia smiled at him, warm, grateful, but her chest was still thrumming with the weight of Liam's stare. She could feel it even when she refused to meet it, like a heat pressed against her skin.
They rose together, the four of them, lingering in the golden glow of the restaurant's chandeliers. Vincent, ever the gentleman, offered Mia his arm. She took it without hesitation, forcing her smile wider, her laughter sweeter.
But Liam was already moving.
He crossed the short space between them, Glydel still on his arm, and leaned just close enough that Mia caught the clean scent of his cologne—sharp cedar, warm smoke, infuriatingly familiar. His lips brushed so near her ear that anyone watching would think it a polite farewell.
Only she heard the words.
"Keep playing, Mia. But you and I both know..." his voice dropped lower, silk over steel, "...he's not the man you burn for."
Mia froze, her breath catching in her throat, heat flooding her cheeks. She gripped Vincent's arm tighter than necessary, praying he wouldn't notice the tremor in her hand.
By the time she found the strength to turn, Liam was already leading Glydel toward the door, his posture perfect, his mask flawless. But just before he stepped into the night, he glanced back.
One look. One devastating, knowing look.
And Mia hated how her heart betrayed her.
How it skipped, stumbled, ached.
Vincent squeezed her hand, mistaking her silence for shyness. "You okay?" he asked softly, smiling down at her with boyish warmth.
Mia forced herself to nod, her lips twitching into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Of course," she lied.
But as the door closed behind Liam, her pulse still raced with the echo of his words—burning, undeniable, dangerous.
The shrill buzz of Mia's alarm cut through the silence of her condo, but she only stirred after the third snooze. When she finally blinked at the clock, panic bolted through her chest.
She overslept.
Less than an hour until the private jet was set to depart. Her sleek condo unit, usually pristine, looked like chaos had erupted—clothes flung across the sofa, heels scattered on the floor, her suitcase still sitting empty by the glass wall that overlooked the skyline. She scrambled, tossing random outfits in without thought.
Her hair was mussed from sleep, her nightgown clung carelessly to her body. She didn't notice—or refused to care—that the thin white fabric revealed the lace of her panties beneath and the bare curve of her breasts. All that mattered was time.
Until a knock came. Sharp. Impatient.
Her stomach dropped. Oh God, not now.
She pulled the door open, expecting a neighbor or delivery.
Instead—Liam Alcaraz.
Jeans. White t-shirt. Casual. Devastating. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, his stance exuding irritation and control, but his eyes—dark, cutting—burned with something else.
"I was right," he drawled, his voice edged with smugness, irritation curling beneath it. "You weren't ready."
Before she could snap back, he stepped inside without waiting, brushing past her. The casual graze of his shoulder against hers sent a jolt through her like static.
Mia stiffened, clutching the edges of her nightgown. But it was useless.
Because Liam had noticed.
His stride faltered just enough for her to see the truth in the tight set of his jaw, the way his eyes—sharp, hungry—dragged down her frame. That flimsy gown left nothing to imagination, and it hit him like a blow.