Eva froze for a heartbeat — just long enough for the silence to hum between them. Then she let out a light chuckle, scratching the back of her head in what she hoped looked casual.
"Oh… Switzerland," she said slowly, her smile faint, practiced. "Right. My father moved there for a short time — business expansion. We lived between both places for a while."
Alexander didn't blink. He simply watched her, eyes steady, calm in that unnerving way that made the air itself feel heavier.
"I see," he said at last, voice deceptively soft. "And yet you said you were born here in London."
Eva hesitated — just slightly — before replying, "Technically, yes. I meant I was raised here. You know how memory plays tricks when you've moved around as much as I have."
He tilted his head, the faintest trace of a smile curving his lips — not one of warmth, but of someone noting a flaw in an otherwise convincing mask. "Fascinating. Most people remember where they first opened their eyes to the world."
Eva's stomach twisted, but she forced herself to meet his gaze head-on. Her chin lifted, posture unyielding, confidence stitched into every motion. "You seem very interested in my birthplace, Mr. Thorne. Is that how you start all your dinners — with interrogation?"
Alexander's gaze didn't waver. "Only when I sense something worth uncovering," he replied, his tone smooth as glass, his meaning sharp as a blade beneath.
The waiter arrived with their wine, interrupting the tension like a fragile thread snapping. The man poured silently, the ruby liquid glinting in the low light, before disappearing as swiftly as he'd come.
Eva reached for her glass first, letting her fingers brush the stem with composure she didn't fully feel. "You must spend a great deal of time observing people," she said, swirling the wine slowly. "Do you ever tire of dissecting every move they make?"
Alexander took his glass, eyes fixed on her over the rim. "Observation isn't tiring when the subject is intriguing," he murmured, taking a slow sip.
Her lips curved. "And what exactly makes me intriguing?"
"The inconsistencies," he said simply. "People tell stories with their mouths. But the truth," — he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping low — "the truth always hides in what they don't say."
Eva felt her pulse quicken. She smiled again, this time a little too bright. "Then perhaps you should stop listening to my words and start enjoying your dinner."
Alexander's gaze lingered for a long moment before he leaned back, the faintest smirk touching his mouth. "Perhaps I will. But you see, Miss Whitmore… I don't eat in silence."
Her laughter came soft, poised — but her hand tightened imperceptibly around her glass. "Then talk," she said lightly, crossing her legs with elegant defiance. "I'm listening."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Only the clink of distant silverware filled the space between them. Then Alexander's lips curved again, the smile slow, assessing.
"Very well," he said quietly.
He set his glass down with slow precision, the crystal ringing faintly against the marble tabletop. His gaze never left her face.
"So you see…" he began, his tone deceptively calm, "I made my findings before coming here. About Jasmine Whitmore."
Eva's fingers went rigid around the stem of her glass.
Alexander's next words were quieter — colder. "And I can say with certainty… you're not her."
The world seemed to still. The air, the music, even the soft murmur of diners blurred into silence.
Eva froze — utterly motionless. For a long, trembling moment, her mind went blank.
"I—" she began, but the word broke apart before it reached coherence.
Alexander leaned back, eyes fixed on her like a man watching a flame dance too close to the edge of a curtain. "Now you're quiet," he said softly. "Curious. You had so much confidence a moment ago."
She tried to speak again — but her throat refused her. The practiced poise, the false ease — all of it faltered beneath the weight of his stare.
Finally, she pushed back her chair and stood abruptly"Please…" she whispered, voice breaking. "I—I can explain."
Alexander didn't move. His voice remained even, but there was steel beneath it. "Then explain."
Eva swallowed hard. "Jasmine—" her voice cracked; she steadied it with effort. "Jasmine is my friend. She begged me to come here in her place. She said she couldn't… she hated dates. I didn't want to do this, I swear I didn't."
She took a hesitant step closer, eyes pleading now, composure unraveling. "She said it was just dinner. Just dinner, that's all. Please… I didn't mean to lie."
Alexander's expression didn't change — not a flicker of shock, not even anger. Just that quiet, unnerving stillness that made him harder to read than any man she'd ever met.
"You impersonated the daughter of a business partner," he said slowly, his voice calm — too calm. "Sat across from me, lied to my face, and thought I wouldn't notice."
Eva's knees wobbled, her strength faltering. She dropped to her knees before him, the hem of her dress brushing the marble. "Please, Mr. Thorne," she whispered, voice shaking now. " I didn't have a choice. I was just trying to help her."
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the faint clinking of a nearby glass.
Alexander's eyes lowered to her — the woman kneeling before him, trembling, desperate, yet still holding onto the last threads of dignity.
He exhaled softly. "Get up," he said, voice quiet but commanding.
She hesitated, her breath catching.
"I said, get up," he repeated, colder this time.
Eva obeyed, rising shakily to her feet. Her hands fidgeted at her sides, her eyes glistening under the restaurant's dim light.
Alexander studied her for a long moment, then leaned back against his chair, his expression unreadable.
"You're not very good at lying," he said finally.
Eva's lips parted, but no words came.
He turned his gaze slightly toward the window, his tone dropping to something softer — something she couldn't quite read. "But you're even worse at choosing who to deceive."
A pause. Then his eyes returned to hers. "Sit down."
She hesitated again.
"Sit," he said once more, and this time, the quiet authority in his tone left no room for refusal.
Eva slowly sank back into her chair, her pulse still frantic.
Alexander watched her in silence, the faintest flicker of something — amusement? intrigue? — crossing his features before vanishing again.
"Now," he murmured, his voice like silk wrapped around a blade, "let's start over, shall we? You're not Jasmine Whitmore. Then who exactly are you?"
Eva swallowed, her throat tight, and finally spoke, her voice quieter than before. "My name is Eva Bennette," she said, lifting her gaze briefly. "I'm a college student… and I work at a coffee shop."
The waiter appeared just then, placing their dish before them with careful precision. Steam rose from the food, mingling with the warm candlelight, but Eva barely noticed, her nerves still taut.
Alexander's dark eyes flicked to the dishes for a moment, then back to her. "Go on," he said smoothly, voice even, almost coaxing — though there was no warmth behind it.
Eva hesitated, then shook her head. "That's… that's all," she admitted, a faint tremor betraying the calm she was trying to project.
Alexander let out a long, measured sigh, the sound carrying both frustration and curiosity. He leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on the table. "So," he murmured, voice low, deliberate, "you risk sitting here, impersonating someone else, knowing the consequences if discovered… for a friend who couldn't face an evening of dinner herself?"
Eva nodded, biting her lip. "Yes… she begged me," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "She hates these… formal dinners. She was sure it would be some older man — middle-aged, I think… and she didn't want to go."