Chapter 7

　　Iris's POV

　　It's finally the dreaded Friday. I was standing in front of my closet, staring at the armor I'd carefully selected: high-necked black blouse, long sleeves, trousers that buttoned at the waist instead of anything that flowed or teased, when my phone buzzed on the dresser.

　　A text from Marcus: "So sorry, babe. Deal's going sideways. Dad says go ahead without me, he'll keep you company. I'll be there as soon as I can. Love you."

　　I read the message three times.

　　Dad will keep you company.

　　Those were the exact words I should have run from. The exact moment I should have called Maya, claimed a migraine, done literally anything other than walk into that house alone.

　　Instead, I typed back: No problem. See you when you get here.

　　Then I stood there, heart pounding, and wondered what the hell was wrong with me.

　　I changed anyway. The armor stayed on, and I pulled my hair back in a tight ponytail, scrubbed my face of anything that could be interpreted as effort, and told myself this was fine.

　　I was in control.

　　I was having dinner with my fiancé's father. It is normal, safe and completely ordinary, but I knew how big a lie I was telling myself.

　　Victor's house loomed at the end of the driveway, all warm light and dark windows. I parked behind his car and walked to the door with my pulse hammering in my throat.

　　He opened it before I could knock.

　　"Iris." His voice wrapped around my name like a hand closing around something precious. "Come in."

　　His eyes traveled down, then up. Lingering, approving and Taking in the high neckline, the covered arms, the armor I'd so carefully constructed.

　　A small smile played at the corner of his mouth, like he found my efforts adorable and completely futile.

　　"Marcus called," he said, stepping aside to let me enter. "He'll be late. An hour, maybe two."

　　I should have left. Should have made an excuse, fled to my car, driven everywhere, but here.

　　Instead, I stepped inside. The door closed behind me with a soft, final click.

　　He led me through the house to a sitting room I hadn't seen before, cozier than the formal spaces, with a deep leather couch and a fireplace that crackled softly despite the mild evening. A bottle of wine waited on the low table, already breathing, two glasses catching the firelight.

　　"Sit." He gestured to the couch. "Please."

　　I sat on the couch, and he sat beside me. Close. Too close for comfort that I could smell him. He must have used pheromones because something made me want to lean closer to him and breathe deeper.

　　He poured wine, handed me a glass, and settled back on his own. His knee was inches from mine. If I shifted, we'd touch.

　　"You look lovely tonight," he said. "Though I suspect you dressed for battle."

　　My fingers tightened on the glass. "I don't know what you mean."

　　"Don't you?" His eyes found mine. "High neck, long sleeves and everything covered. Like you're afraid of what might happen if I saw too much."

　　"I'm not afraid of anything."

　　"Liar."

　　The word was soft, almost affectionate. It landed in my chest and stayed there.

　　He took a slow sip of wine, watching me over the rim. "Tell me about your writing. Marcus said, You've been working on something new."

　　I seized the topic like a lifeline, although I should have known better. "Yes. My editor wants me to go darker and write about more dangerous heroes."

　　"Dangerous, how?"

　　"Possessive and obsessive. The kind of man who doesn't take no for an answer." I really don't know why I'm telling him this, but my brain ceased to function around him.

　　Victor's lips curved. "And you're struggling with that?"

　　"I'm struggling to make him believable." I set my wine down, needing my hands to do something other than shake. "Men like that don't exist in real life. It's fantasy."

　　"Is it?"

　　The question hung between us.

　　"I think," he said slowly, "that you've been writing about the wrong men. Men who ask permission." He leaned closer. "What would happen if you wrote a man who simply... took what he wanted?"

　　My throat closed.

　　"Sometimes," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "you have to live the scene to write it."

　　The double meaning settled on my skin like heat. I felt it everywhere: my cheeks, my chest, the space between my thighs where a pulse had started beating that had nothing to do with fear.

　　I should have stood. Should have walked out. Should have done literally anything except sit there, frozen, while he looked at me like I was already his.

　　"Iris." His hand moved, not touching me but close. So close I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "Look at me."

　　I did.

　　Mistake.

　　His eyes were dark, knowing and hungry. The kind of hunger that didn't get satisfied, only fed. He looked at me like I was the meal and the feast and the last bite he'd save for the end.

　　"You feel this too." This was not a question but a statement. "I see it every time you look at me. The way your pulse jumps when I'm near. The way you press your thighs together when you think I'm not watching."

　　"I'm engaged to your son."

　　"I know."

　　No apology.

　　"This is wrong." My voice came out thin. Pleading like I was begging him to agree, to push me away, to save me from myself.

　　He leaned closer. Close enough that I could feel his breath on my lips. "Is it? Or is it the most honest thing you've felt in years?"

　　I had no answer.

　　Because he was right.

　　The most honest thing I'd felt in years was this moment. This fire, this terrifying, electric pull toward a man who should have been off limits in every possible way.

　　His hand lifted. I watched it move toward me in slow motion, knowing I should stop it, knowing I wouldn't.

　　His fingers brushed my cheek.

　　I shivered.

　　"You're freezing," he murmured. "Or burning. I can't tell which."

　　"Both."

　　The word slipped out before I could catch it.

　　Something shifted in his eyes. It became darker and hungrier.

　　"Iris..."

　　The front door slammed.

　　We broke apart like teenagers caught under the bleachers. I grabbed my wine, pressed it to my lips, tried to look casual. Victor rose smoothly, composed, no trace of the heat that had been in his eyes seconds ago.

　　"Marcus!" His voice carried, warm and welcoming. "We were just talking about you."

　　Marcus appeared in the doorway, slightly flushed, still in his work clothes. "Sorry, sorry, the deal was a nightmare. Dad, you're a saint for keeping her company." He crossed me, kissed my forehead, dropped onto the couch beside me. "Are you okay, babe?"

　　"Fine." I smiled. The performance came easily now. "Victor and I were just discussing my book."

　　Marcus grinned at his father. "She's being modest. Her books are incredible. You should read one."

　　"Perhaps I will," Victor's eyes found mine over Marcus's head. "I have a feeling I'd recognize more than I expected."

　　Dinner was torture.

　　We moved to the dining room: Victor at the head, Marcus and me across from each other. Marcus dominated the conversation, as he always did when nervous or excited, filling the silence with stories about the deal, the office, his plans for the company.

　　I nodded, smiled and made all the appropriate noises.

　　And every time I looked up, Victor was watching.

　　His eyes would find mine and hold for a beat too long, then slide away. Each glance a secret and a promise.

　　Under the table, I pressed my thighs together and hated myself for it.

　　By the time dessert came, I'd stopped pretending I was in control. I was surviving. Minute by minute. Breath by breath.

　　Marcus scraped the last of his tiramisu and leaned back with a satisfied groan. "Best dinner in weeks. Dad, you have to give me your chef's number."

　　Victor's smile was warm, paternal and completely convincing. "I'll text it to you." His eyes flickered to me. "Iris, did you enjoy the meal?"

　　"It was lovely." I responded politely.

　　"I'm glad." He rose, and we followed. "Let me walk you out."

　　At the door, Marcus hugged him quickly. "Thanks for keeping her company. Sorry I was late."

　　"Not at all." Victor clasped his shoulder. "Drive safe, son."

　　Then I stepped past him, and his hand found my lower back. Briefly, with just enough pressure to remind me he was there.

　　"Goodnight, Iris." His voice dropped, meant only for me. "Sweet dreams."

　　I didn't look back. I couldn't.

　　In the car, Marcus reached for my hand. "Are you okay? You were quiet tonight."

　　"Just tired. Long week."

　　He squeezed my fingers. "I know, babe. Get some rest tomorrow."

　　I smiled. Nodded. Played the part.

　　That night, I lay beside him in the dark, listening to his breathing even out into sleep. My body hummed with a tension that wouldn't fade. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Victor's hungry eyes and wondered what would have happened if Marcus's arrival hadn't interrupted us.

　　I pressed my thighs together, hard, and felt the ache bloom.

　　He was right. He was in my head, in my blood, in the spaces between breaths. And the worst part was that some part of me didn't want to fight it anymore.

　　I turned onto my side, away from Marcus, and stared at the wall.

　　You're already lost, a voice whispered. The only question is how much more you'll lose before it's over.

　　I closed my eyes.

　　And dreamed of him.

　　I always dreamed of him now.

　　---

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　　Victor's POV

　　She left with my son, and I stood at the window watching them drive away. I should have felt guilty because he is my son, the only good thing I ever made in this life, the boy I held when he cried and the man I watched grow into someone decent and kind and nothing like me. I should have felt guilty, but instead I felt nothing but hunger.

　　I watched the taillights disappear around the curve at the end of the long driveway. The red glow faded and then there was nothing but darkness and the reflection of my own face in the glass. I did not recognize the man staring back at me.

　　I turned away from the window and walked back to the sitting room. The wine glasses still sat on the table where we left them. Hers was half full because she barely drank, the smart girl knowing she needed to keep her head clear around me. I picked up her glass and held it, thinking about the rim where her lips touched and the warmth that had long since faded, though I imagined I could still feel her there. I brought the glass to my mouth and drank what was left. It tasted like nothing and everything all at once.

　　I poured myself something stronger from the decanter by the fireplace and lowered myself onto the couch in the same spot where she had sat. The leather still held a faint warmth from her body, so I spread my hand over it and closed my eyes. She smelled like flowers, so clean, young and untouched that I wanted to ruin her for everyone else. I wanted to cover that clean smell with my own and mark her so deep that she would never wash me off.

　　The first moment I saw her, I knew. She stood at my door with my son beside her, and she looked up at me with those hazel eyes, and something in my chest cracked open. Not broke but cracked, like ice on a frozen lake when the thaw comes. I took her hand and felt her pulse jump under my thumb, fast and scared and excited all at once, though she did not know which one it was either. But I knew everything in that single touch.

　　I have had women, plenty of them. After my wife died, I filled the emptiness with bodies, soft curves and warm mouths and names I forgot by morning. They wanted my money, name and attention. I gave them what they wanted and took what I needed and walked away feeling nothing.

　　But Iris looked at me and she saw me, not the empire or the money or the power but me, the man underneath all of it. She looked at me like I was a character in one of her books, like she wanted to write me. No one has looked at me that way in twenty years.

　　I finished my drink and poured another. The house was too quiet. It was always too quiet, but tonight the silence felt like a living thing pressing against my ears. I pulled out my phone. Her number was saved under a name even she would not recognize. I typed a message asking if she got home safe, and my thumb hovered over send, but I knew it was too soon and too desperate. She would see it and build higher walls, making me lose the ground I had gained tonight. So I deleted it.

　　I thought about my son Marcus. He called me tonight with that easy warmth in his voice, trusting me with his woman and never imagining what his father was thinking while he sat across from her.

　　He is a good kid, soft in ways I never was. His mother raised him right before the cancer took her. She would hate what I am doing and hate what I am becoming. But it does not matter because 'want' has never cared about 'deserve'.

　　I wanted his mother back when we were teenagers. We were both young and sure that love was enough. I wanted her, wooed her and I got her to marry me. I was so sure I have found my forever until she died in my arms, and that nearly destroyed me.

　　My desire for Iris transcends all reasonable thoughts. I know fully well what it cost me but the knowledge does nothing to dampen my desire.

　　I went to bed at midnight and lay in the dark staring at the ceiling. Her face was there every time I closed my eyes, her smile and the way she bit her lip when I asked about her writing and the way her breath caught when I moved closer.

　　I dreamed of her coming to me willingly with no Marcus and no engagement, just both of us in this bed, her body soft and warm beneath mine.

　　She said my name the way I had been hearing it in my head for days, not Victor like everyone else says it but Victor like she meant it, like it was just for her.

　　I woke up with a wood hard enough to cut diamonds. The clock said 4:47, and gray light was starting to creep through the curtains. I lay there with my heart pounding and my hand wrapped around myself, and I hated how desperate I felt and how much I needed her. I have not needed anyone in twenty years.

　　I got up and showered cold until my body stopped screaming. I stared at myself in the mirror while water dripped down my face, and I did not recognize the man staring back. He looked hungry and feral, like something that had been caged too long and finally found the door open.

　　I have not felt this alive since my wife died, and that is the truth. For twenty years I have been walking through life numb and empty. I was totally fine with not feeling and not wanting. Now I just had to take candy from my son's mouth.

　　After I dressed, I made coffee and watched the sun come up over the gardens she admired at dinner.

　　I picked it up my phone and typed her number, those ten digits I had memorized after one text. I wrote that I hoped she slept well, simple and casual and not desperate, and I sent it before I could stop myself.

　　Then I sat there with my coffee growing cold and stared at the screen waiting for three little dots to appear. They did not. She was probably still asleep or awake and ignoring me, but either way she had seen it and either way she was thinking about me now. That is what matters, the only thing that matters. She is in my head now, and soon I will be in hers.

　　I finished my coffee and went to the window. The driveway was empty and the world was quiet. I thought about what it would cost, my son and his trust and his love and the family name and everything I built. Then I thought about her face when she looked at me across the couch, the way her lips parted just slightly and the way her pulse jumped in her throat.

　　I do not care what it costs or who gets hurt or if Marcus never speaks to me again or if the world calls me a monster. I have been a monster for twenty years, and at least now I have a reason.

　　The woman who looked at me like she saw me. I will make her see me every day for the rest of her life, whatever it takes and whatever it costs.

　　She is mine now. She just does not know it yet.

　　But she will. I will make sure of it.