The drive back was quiet, but the silence between us was anything but empty. It crackled, charged with the weight of unspoken words, unsaid thoughts.
Lawrence sat beside me in the back of his black Rolls-Royce Phantom, his posture relaxed, one arm draped casually over the seat. But his eyes… his eyes were anything but casual.
"Did dinner meet your expectations?" he asked, his voice smooth, measured.
I turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze in the dim glow of the city lights. "It exceeded them."
His lips twitched in satisfaction. "Good."
The car glided through the streets, the luxury of it sinking into my skin—the buttery leather seats, the soft hum of the engine, the tinted windows that separated us from the outside world.
A world that didn't know who he really was.
A world that didn't know who I was sitting next to.
He shifted slightly, turning toward me, his fingers tapping against the armrest. "Ivanna," he murmured, "have you ever been tempted by something you knew you shouldn't want?"
The question sent a slow shiver down my spine.
I exhaled, steady. "Temptation is easy. Discipline is harder."
His gaze flickered, as if amused by my answer. "And yet, some things are worth the risk."
I swallowed. "Like what?"
He leaned in slightly—not close enough to touch, but close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the quiet dominance in his presence.
"Like the thrill of crossing a line," he said, voice low. "Like stepping into something that isn't meant for you… but taking it anyway."
My pulse quickened.
There it was again—that edge, that quiet danger.
This wasn't just a man flirting.
This was a man used to owning, consuming, possessing.
I lifted my chin, refusing to be affected. "That sounds like recklessness, not thrill."
His gaze darkened slightly. "Sometimes, they're the same thing."
I let the silence stretch, waiting. "Are you trying to tempt me, Mr. Winston?"
He chuckled, deep and quiet. "I don't try, Ivanna."
The car slowed to a stop outside my building.
I reached for the door handle, but his voice stopped me.
"One more thing."
I paused, glancing back.
His fingers traced the rim of his glass—the last sip of Macallan Rare Cask still untouched.
"I have a proposition for you," he said, his tone unreadable.
A slow exhale. "And what exactly are you offering?"
He smiled—slow, deliberate. "Not offering. Inviting."
I arched a brow. "To what?"
His voice dropped slightly, rich and velvety in the dark.
"To step into my world."
I stared at him, pulse drumming. "And what if I say no?"
He leaned back, smirking. "Then I'll have to make you want to say yes."
The challenge hung between us, heavy, intoxicating.
I should have walked away.
But instead, I found myself wondering…
What exactly would it mean to step into his world?