Elsie arrived at Le Bernardin fifteen minutes early. Her mother had personally selected her attire: a conservative, cream-colored Chanel dress designed to broadcast an aura of pure, untouched innocence.
She sat in the private dining room, the silence amplifying the frantic beat of her heart against her ribs. She rehearsed opening lines in her head, her palms growing damp.
At precisely seven o'clock, the door opened.
Duke Blake was taller than he appeared in photographs. His presence was a physical force, sucking the air from the room. He wore a bespoke black suit, but the top button of his shirt was undone, a small, deliberate crack in his perfect, corporate armor.
He sat down opposite her. There were no pleasantries, no small talk. He simply watched her, his dark eyes assessing her with an unnerving intensity, like an appraiser examining a priceless work of art for flaws.
Elsie forced herself to meet his gaze. This was her interview. The results would determine the length of her leash.
A waiter appeared. Duke ordered for both of them without consulting her, selecting a series of light, hypoallergenic dishes.
A jolt went through her. How did he know her dietary restrictions? Was her file that detailed?
He saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes but offered no explanation.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy. It was a weapon, and he was wielding it expertly.
She decided she had to be the one to break it.
She lifted her chin, her voice soft but clear. "Mr. Blake. Are you satisfied with your choice of bride?"
It was a bold, direct question, stripping the pretense from their meeting and laying the raw transaction bare on the table.
A flicker of something-surprise? amusement?-crossed his face. He leaned forward slightly, and the space between them seemed to shrink, charged with a sudden tension.
"Miss Sutton," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly sound that vibrated in the air. "On what criteria should I base my 'satisfaction'?"
His gaze traveled deliberately from her eyes, down the column of her throat, to her hands resting on the table. It was an inventory. A claim.
Heat flooded Elsie's cheeks. She felt like prey, pinned by the gaze of a predator.
She held her ground. "Her commercial value. Her family's name. Or... her suitability as a wife." She delivered the line like she was reading a product specification, a desperate attempt to keep it impersonal, to test his boundaries.
He leaned back, and for the first time, a smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes.
"You're clever," he said. "More interesting than your file suggests."
The words sent a chill down her spine. Was it a compliment, or a warning? A sign that he saw through her carefully constructed facade?
The waiter arrived with their first course, the clink of silverware a welcome interruption to the silent battle of wills.
Elsie picked up her fork. To her horror, she saw that her hand was trembling.
The food looked exquisite, a miniature work of art on the plate. A pity she wouldn't be able to taste any of it. To her, it was just texture and temperature, a pantomime of enjoyment she had long perfected.
She had underestimated him. This man was a thousand times more dangerous than she had ever imagined.
Duke saw her tremor. He said nothing, simply began to eat his meal with an unhurried grace.
He was enjoying this. Enjoying her struggle to maintain her composure. This fragile little bird had sharper claws than he'd expected. It only made the game more exciting.
Elsie took a sip of water, the cool liquid doing nothing to calm the fire in her nerves. She had to know. She had to ask the next question, the most important one of all.
