Chapter 7

The next day, Hope sat cross-legged on her narrow bed, her laptop burning hot against her thighs. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. She had spent the last six hours frantically tailoring her resume and firing it off to dozens of mid-level finance firms on LinkedIn.

Outside her locked door, Belva was waging a psychological war. She was deliberately slamming cabinet doors, dropping heavy pots onto the stove, and muttering curses loud enough to bleed through the walls. Hope had her noise-canceling headphones clamped over her ears, but the vibration of the slamming doors still rattled her teeth.

Her phone, resting on the mattress beside her, buzzed.

Hope pulled one headphone off. She picked up the phone, expecting a rejection email. Instead, it was a text message from an unsaved number.

I believe you're still owed a proper meal after our last... interruption. Le Bernardin. 7:00 PM tonight. - Corbin Mullen

Hope stared at the screen, her heart executing a violent flip in her chest. She remembered the disastrous date at the cafe, the way she had fled through the back alley, leaving him sitting there. The memory of his intense gaze sent a fresh wave of heat through her veins.

Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. She wanted to type: I quit my job. I'm a mess. Leave me alone.

But the walls of her windowless room felt like they were closing in. Another crash sounded from the kitchen. The air in the apartment was toxic, suffocating. And beneath her panic, the memory of Corbin's intense, protective gaze sent a shiver of pure heat down her spine.

Before her rational brain could stop her, she typed: Okay.

She hit send. Her stomach swooped with a terrifying mix of dread and anticipation.

Hope threw open her small closet. Her wardrobe consisted entirely of cheap, sensible office wear. She dug to the very back and pulled out the only nice thing she owned-a simple, black silk slip dress she had bought on clearance three years ago. She paired it with a beige trench coat to hide the fact that she was wearing a cocktail dress on a Tuesday.

At 6:50 PM, Hope emerged from the subway station in Midtown. She stood on the pavement outside Le Bernardin, the world-famous Michelin three-star restaurant. The facade was intimidatingly elegant. Wealthy patrons in designer clothes glided through the golden doors. Hope tugged at the belt of her trench coat, feeling incredibly small.

She took a deep breath, pushed through the heavy doors, and walked up to the maître d'.

"Spence. I'm meeting Corbin Mullen," she said, her voice slightly shaky.

The maître d's polite smile instantly transformed into a look of deep reverence. "Of course, Ms. Spence. Mr. Mullen is waiting for you in the private alcove. Right this way."

Hope followed him through the hushed, dimly lit dining room. The air smelled of truffles and expensive wine.

In the back corner, secluded by a frosted glass partition, sat Corbin. He had shed his white coat. He wore a bespoke charcoal-grey suit. He had pulled his tie loose, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt. He looked relaxed, powerful, and devastatingly attractive.

He stood up as she approached. His icy blue eyes swept over her, taking in the trench coat and the sliver of black silk visible at her collarbone. A flash of dark appreciation flared in his gaze before he masked it.

He stepped around the table and pulled out her chair. As Hope sat down, Corbin's large hands brushed against the fabric of her coat resting on the back of the chair. The brief, accidental contact sent a jolt of electricity straight through her shoulders.

Corbin sat down opposite her. He reached across the table, his long fingers smoothly sliding the leather-bound wine list toward her.

Hope reached out to take it.

Just as her fingertips touched the textured leather, Corbin's hand moved. He placed his index and middle fingers firmly over the menu cover, trapping her hand beneath his.

Hope gasped softly, trying to pull her hand back. Corbin didn't grip her, but the weight of his fingers was an immovable anchor. His skin was incredibly warm.

"Day one of unemployment," Corbin said, his voice low, blending perfectly with the soft cello music playing in the background. "How does it feel?"

Hope's cheeks flushed. She looked down at his hand covering hers, then up into his eyes. "Like I'm free-falling without a parachute," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. She gave a firm tug, and he smoothly released her hand. She quickly pulled her hands into her lap, her heart racing.

Corbin didn't ask her what she wanted to eat. He simply nodded to the waiter, ordering a multi-course tasting menu of the lightest, most delicate seafood. "Easy on the kidneys," he murmured, a brief, teasing smirk playing on his lips.

As the first course arrived, Corbin shifted the conversation. He didn't ask about her job or her health. He asked about Queens. He asked about her childhood.

He was a master interrogator, but he didn't use force. He used genuine, undivided attention. His eyes never left her face. He didn't check his phone. He listened to her as if her words were the most important data he had ever collected.

Under the warmth of the restaurant lights and the steady, grounding presence of the man across from her, Hope's defenses began to melt.

She found herself talking about how hard she had studied to get a scholarship, the crushing pressure of being her mother's only hope, and the constant fear of failure. Without realizing it, her fingers were nervously shredding the edge of her linen napkin.

Corbin watched her hands, then looked up. The main course arrived-a perfectly seared piece of halibut.

Before Hope could pick up her fork, Corbin reached across the table with his own knife and fork. He smoothly transferred the most tender, perfectly cooked center cut from his plate directly onto hers.

The intimacy of the gesture shocked her into silence. She stared at the fish, then at him.

"Eat," Corbin commanded softly, his eyes dark and intent. "You need your strength for the battles you're going to fight."

Hope's heart hammered against her ribs. She picked up her fork, her hand trembling slightly, and took a bite. It tasted like heaven, but she could barely swallow past the sudden, overwhelming lump of emotion in her throat.

In this ridiculously expensive restaurant, sitting across from a man who had seen her at her absolute worst, Hope realized her ice-cold walls weren't just cracking. They were shattering.

Corbin lifted his wine glass, taking a slow sip of the dark red liquid. He watched her eat, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slow, triumphant smile. The trap was set, and she was walking right in.