The dinner ended hours later, but Amelia's heartbeat hadn't slowed.
The echo of champagne glasses and polite laughter still rang in her ears as she followed Christopher out of the Grand Sterling.
The night air hit cold and sharp — the kind that smelled like rain and expensive cologne.
Thomas was waiting beside the car, but Christopher waved him off. "I'll take it from here."
Amelia blinked. "You're driving?"
He didn't answer. Just opened the door for her, that usual mix of formality and authority.
"Get in, Miss Jones."
Her instincts whispered a warning, but her feet disobeyed.
The car's interior was all black leather and silence.
City lights blurred by as he drove — one hand on the wheel, jaw set, eyes fixed ahead.
She tried to speak, but his voice came first. Low. Controlled.
"You handled yourself well tonight."
"Thank you, sir."
"Elena tried to rattle you. You didn't give her the satisfaction."
Amelia glanced sideways. "Was that a test?"
"Everything is a test," he said simply.
They fell into silence again. The soft hum of the engine filled the air.
Until she noticed something — the streets weren't leading toward her neighborhood.
"Mr. King," she said slowly, "this isn't the way to—"
"I know."
Her pulse spiked. "Then where are we going?"
He didn't answer immediately. Just turned down a quieter road — the kind lined with trees and silence.
When he finally stopped, they were parked overlooking the city skyline, lights shimmering below like a sea of stars.
Amelia turned toward him. "Why bring me here?"
Christopher rested his hands on the steering wheel, gaze fixed on the horizon.
"Because I needed to think. And you—" he hesitated, eyes flicking to hers — "you make me think in ways I shouldn't."
Her breath caught. "That sounds like something a boss shouldn't say to his employee."
"Probably," he admitted. "But honesty has a way of slipping out when I'm tired."
She looked away, heart thundering. "You could've just gone home."
He gave a quiet, humorless laugh. "Home's just walls and silence. At least this view fights back."
Amelia studied him for a moment — the perfect billionaire finally cracked open under moonlight.
He looked… human. Lonely, even.
"Do you ever stop pretending?" she asked softly.
His head turned sharply. "Pretending what?"
"That you're unshakable. That nothing touches you."
For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the quiet hum of the city below.
Then he said, "If I ever stopped pretending, Miss Jones, I'd break."
Her chest tightened — not out of pity, but understanding. She'd been there too.
She reached for the door handle. "You should drop me off, sir. Before someone starts another rumor."
His hand shot out — not touching her, just hovering close, stopping her movement.
"Amelia."
She froze.
He looked at her — not the way a CEO looks at an assistant, but like a man seeing something he can't unsee.
His voice dropped, raw. "You really don't fear me, do you?"
She met his gaze steadily. "Fear you? No. Understand you? Maybe."
A muscle worked in his jaw. Then, with visible effort, he pulled back, leaning against his seat.
"You should. Fear me, I mean."
"Then stop giving me reasons not to."
He almost smiled — that dangerous, fleeting curve that made her forget how to breathe.
---
The drive back was silent, charged.
When they reached her apartment, he didn't say goodbye. Didn't even look at her.
Just said quietly, "Goodnight, Miss Jones."
But when she stepped out, her knees felt weak — because she knew what she'd seen in his eyes.
For the first time, Christopher King wasn't fighting her.
He was fighting himself.
---