Olivia had told herself all night she wouldn't go.
She wasn't the kind of woman who let a stranger—no matter how dangerously magnetic—dictate her plans.
And yet, as the clock struck seven, she found herself standing in front of Seven Oaks, her pulse drumming in her ears. The restaurant glowed with soft golden light, every detail exuding wealth and exclusivity.
She should have turned around.
Instead, she walked in.
The hostess led her to a private corner, where Raymond sat alone at a table draped in white linen. A glass of deep red wine swirled lazily in his hand.
"You came." His eyes swept over her, slow and deliberate, as though committing every detail to memory. "I was prepared to send someone to fetch you."
Her brows lifted. "You make it sound like I didn't have a choice."
"You didn't." The faintest smile touched his lips, but his gaze never softened.
Dinner passed in a blur of polished silverware, flickering candlelight, and questions that felt more like assessments. He asked about her childhood, her work, the books she read—yet gave nothing of himself away except for the occasional, unreadable glance.
Halfway through, she set her fork down. "Why me? You don't know anything about me."
He leaned forward slightly, the shadows catching in his eyes. "I know enough. And I always get what I want."
Her breath hitched.
It wasn't just arrogance—it was certainty.
By the time dessert arrived, she realized two things:
First, Raymond Greg was far more dangerous than she had imagined.
Second, some part of her didn't want to escape.
When he finally rose and offered his hand to help her from her seat, her fingers hesitated—just for a second—before slipping into his.
His grip was warm, firm. Possessive.
And she knew, with a sinking feeling, that this was the beginning of something she might not survive untouched.