The restaurant was everything I expected—exclusive, discreet, and absurdly luxurious.
A single valet greeted me as I stepped out of the car, his expression neutral but his posture perfect. Trained.
I adjusted my silk dress, ignoring the appreciative glances from bystanders as I walked up the polished marble steps. The entrance doors were tall, sleek, and manned by security that wasn't just for show.
Lawrence Winston didn't do ordinary.
And neither did I.
The hostess recognized my name immediately. "Right this way, Miss Sterling."
I followed her through the dimly lit dining area, my heels clicking softly against the floor. The air smelled of aged wine and decadence, murmured conversations blending seamlessly with the soft hum of a grand piano.
Then, I saw him.
Seated at a private table near the glass-paneled terrace, Lawrence Winston looked completely at ease—one arm resting on the chair beside him, his fingers idly tapping against the rim of a crystal glass.
Dark, fitted suit. Sharp-cut features. Eyes that immediately found mine the second I stepped into his line of sight.
My stomach tightened. Why did he have to look at me like that?
Unmoved. Unshaken. Unbothered.
Like he had known, without a shadow of a doubt, that I would be here.
The hostess pulled out my chair, and I sat down smoothly, keeping my expression unreadable.
Lawrence didn't speak at first. Instead, his gaze traveled—unapologetically slow—over the curve of my shoulders, the delicate arch of my collarbone, the way the silk draped over my figure.
Heat crept up my spine.
Finally, he leaned back, a faint smirk touching his lips. "Ivanna Sterling."
His voice was rich, low, laced with something that sent a thrill through my skin.
I picked up the menu, unfazed. "Lawrence Winston."
He chuckled, the sound deep and knowing. "You did your research."
I flicked my gaze to his, holding it. "You expected otherwise?"
His smirk widened. "Not at all."
The waiter arrived, pouring a deep red Château Margaux 2005 into his glass before turning to me with an expectant nod.
"Miss?"
"Château d'Yquem 2011," I said smoothly. A rare, exquisite Sauternes. Sweet, but with a bite.
The corners of Lawrence's lips curled as he studied me.
"Interesting choice."
I tilted my head. "I like what I like."
The waiter took our orders, and again, Lawrence didn't bother with the menu. "For me, A5 Wagyu steak, medium rare, with truffle butter and a side of asparagus."
Decisive. Predictable.
I let my eyes skim the menu before setting it down. "I'll have the butter-poached lobster with saffron risotto and a side of roasted heirloom carrots."
A beat of silence. Then, a slow smirk spread across his lips.
"Refined taste."
I took a sip of my wine, meeting his gaze. "Did you expect anything less?"
He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Not at all."
The waiter disappeared, leaving us alone in the charged silence.
This wasn't a simple dinner.
It was a game.
And the first move had just been played.