The restaurant was the kind of place that whispered power.
Soft jazz hummed through the air, crystal chandeliers cast liquid gold across marble floors, and every table seemed to host someone whose name could move markets.
Amelia walked in, her pulse thrumming beneath the silk of her blouse. The maître d' greeted her by name — of course he did — and led her to a secluded booth near the back, where Christopher King was already waiting.
He didn't rise when she arrived. He never did.
Just looked up slowly from his phone, eyes sweeping over her like a measured evaluation.
"Miss Jones," he said, voice low and unreadable. "You're on time."
She forced a smile. "You said eight. It's eight."
His lips curved faintly — not warmth, but something that almost resembled it. "You're learning."
She slid into the seat across from him. The table between them felt both too small and too wide all at once. A candle flickered between them, its flame dancing in the reflection of his cufflinks.
"You didn't tell me why we're meeting here," she said, keeping her voice steady.
He closed his phone, folding his hands neatly on the table. "I find business discussions go better in a neutral environment."
"Neutral," she echoed. "With wine lists that cost a week's salary?"
That earned her a slight glance — half amusement, half reprimand. "You're free to order water."
She arched a brow. "Tempting."
The waiter appeared, all politeness and perfect posture. Christopher ordered for both of them — steak, medium rare, and a bottle of Bordeaux older than either of them cared to admit.
Of course he did. Control was his favorite language.
When the waiter left, silence settled between them — comfortable for him, suffocating for her.
Amelia broke it first.
"So, is this about the investors' summit?"
He looked at her then, really looked. "Partly. But mostly, I wanted to see how you handle pressure."
"Pressure?"
He leaned back, eyes like ice in candlelight. "This isn't a nine-to-five, Miss Jones. You work in my orbit now. People will watch you. Judge you. Question how you got this position — especially after the launch."
Her stomach tightened. "If you're implying—"
"I'm not implying," he cut in smoothly. "I'm warning."
That should've stung. But something about the way he said it — calm, factual, with no malice — made her realize it wasn't an attack. It was strategy.
He was teaching her the rules of survival in his world.
Still, she met his gaze squarely. "Then I guess I'll just have to prove them wrong."
His jaw twitched — the closest thing to a smile she'd ever seen from him. "I expected you to say that."
The food arrived then, saving her from replying.
For a while, there was only the quiet rhythm of fine dining — the soft scrape of silverware, the clink of glasses, the murmur of other conversations blending into background static.
Amelia tasted the wine. It was smooth, rich, expensive — a flavor that belonged to a world she was never supposed to enter.
"You don't like it," Christopher said, watching her.
She blinked. "What?"
"The wine. You're pretending to enjoy it."
"Maybe I am," she said lightly. "Maybe I just don't have billionaire taste buds."
He tilted his head slightly. "You should learn. You're sitting at tables like these more often now."
There was no arrogance in his tone, just certainty — the kind that made her both irritated and intrigued.
"Do you ever stop commanding people?" she asked finally.
His eyes glinted. "Only when they stop needing direction."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "You really believe the world runs better under your control, don't you?"
"It does," he said simply.
There it was again — that quiet dominance, the gravity that made people orbit him even when they wanted to escape.
And somehow, instead of shrinking under it, she found herself leaning forward.
"You weren't always like this," she said. "No one's born a control freak."
He didn't flinch, but his expression shifted — a subtle flicker, gone as soon as it appeared.
"Everyone becomes what they need to survive."
The words hit her harder than she expected. She looked down at her plate, pushing a piece of steak around with her fork.
"Maybe," she murmured. "But some of us are still learning how."
His gaze softened for half a heartbeat — so quick she almost doubted it. "Then learn fast, Miss Jones. This city eats the slow."
For a while, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt charged — not romantic, not yet, but tense in a way that made her chest ache.
When the waiter cleared the plates, Christopher poured her another glass of wine.
"To second chances," he said suddenly.
She hesitated before clinking her glass lightly against his. "To not wasting them."
Their eyes met over the rim of their glasses — a collision of fire and frost.
And for the first time, Amelia wasn't sure who was winning.
---
Later that night, as she walked out of the restaurant, the cool air wrapped around her like a question she couldn't answer.
Her phone buzzed — a message from Lydia.
> Lydia: How's dinner with the devil? Still alive?
Amelia typed back, smiling faintly.
> Amelia: Barely. But I think I just learned how the devil negotiates.
She pocketed her phone, glanced back once at the restaurant windows — and there he was, still inside, still watching her leave.
Christopher King didn't believe in coincidences.
If he'd invited her here, it wasn't just dinner. It was the beginning of something calculated.
And maybe… something dangerous.
---