Chapter 4

SHIFT SCENE —

The day began the way he wanted, not the way I planned.

By the time I’d showered and dressed, Dorian was already downstairs, sitting at the head of the long dining table like a king in his own castle. His suit was charcoal, crisp, paired with a dark tie that made his eyes look sharper, colder.

“You’re late,” he said, glancing at the watch on his wrist.

 “It’s eight in the morning,” I muttered, sliding into the chair farthest from him.

 “And yet, I’ve been waiting thirty minutes for my wife.”

I almost reminded him we weren’t married in the way that mattered, but I bit my tongue. That argument would only feed his smugness.

A maid appeared, setting a plate in front of me. Eggs, toast, fresh berries — the kind of breakfast that looked better than it tasted, because it reeked of control.

“So where exactly is this ‘date number one’ happening?” I asked, stabbing a strawberry.

 He took his time answering, sipping his coffee like it was the most important decision he’d ever made. “We’re going shopping.”

I raised a brow. “Shopping? That’s your big plan?”

 His lips curved. “Not just shopping. I want to see you in red.”

Something in my chest tightened. “We’ve been over this.”

 “And yet,” he said, leaning forward, “I always get what I want.”

The ride into the city was silent, except for the faint hum of the engine. Dorian sat beside me in the back seat, one arm draped casually along the leather seat, but I could feel his attention like a shadow pressed against my skin.

Outside, the streets shifted from quiet neighborhoods to gleaming storefronts. The car stopped in front of a boutique so polished it looked like it belonged in a magazine spread. A doorman stepped forward, opening the door as if we were royalty.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of perfume and expensive leather. Dresses hung like art pieces, each on its own pedestal. A tall saleswoman approached, her smile too wide to be genuine.

“Mr. Vale,” she greeted smoothly, her eyes flicking to me in silent curiosity. “We’ve prepared the selections you requested.”

Requested? My brows pinched together.

 Dorian just offered his signature smirk. “Show my wife to the fitting room.”

Before I could protest, I was ushered into a private space lined with mirrors. Dress after dress appeared, all in shades of crimson — silk, satin, chiffon.

“Try this one first,” Dorian’s voice called from outside, his tone making it sound less like a suggestion and more like a command.

I stepped into the gown, its fabric whispering against my skin. It fit perfectly — of course it did. When I stepped out, Dorian was leaning against the wall, his gaze slow and deliberate as it traced from my shoulders to the hem.

“Turn around,” he said.

I did, but my jaw tightened. “Why red?”

 “Because,” he said simply, “it’s the color you’ll be wearing the day you finally stop running from me.”

I swallowed hard, heat rising in my cheeks. I wasn’t sure if it was from anger… or something far more dangerous.

EVENING 

By evening, the city had softened under a dusky violet sky. Dorian led me to a restaurant on the top floor of a glass tower, the kind of place where the air smelled faintly of wine and the view stretched endlessly over the glittering streets below.

We were seated at a table near the open terrace. The night breeze carried the hum of distant traffic and the scent of jasmine from the potted plants lining the balcony. Tiny golden lights draped overhead, turning the space into something out of a dream.

Dorian leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on me like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve. “Alright, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “Your turn to ask first.”

I raised a brow. “Why me?”

His lips curved slightly. “That’s the second time you’ve asked that today. You’ll get the real answer on the fifth date. Your turn.”

I studied him for a moment, fingers tracing the rim of my glass. “Fine. What’s the one thing you want that money can’t buy?”

His gaze didn’t falter. “Loyalty,” he said without hesitation. “Your turn.”

“My turn?” I asked.

 He nodded. “Tell me why you’re still here instead of running like you did yesterday.”

I gave a small laugh, though it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Because you still have my brother.”

Something in his expression darkened, but he didn’t push. “Alright, my turn,” he said after a beat. “What’s your biggest fear?”

I hesitated, the answer sitting on the tip of my tongue. “Losing the people I care about.”

Dorian leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on the table. The glow from the overhead lights caught in his eyes. “Then stop caring about anyone who can’t protect themselves. Simple.”

The breeze lifted a strand of my hair, and I found myself caught between irritation and curiosity. He was infuriating… but he was also peeling away my walls one question at a time.

I sipped my drink, letting the fizz settle on my tongue before asking, “Alright… my turn. What exactly is it that you do, Dorian?”

His fork paused halfway to his mouth. For a second, the night air seemed heavier, the hum of the city quieter.

“That depends,” he said finally, setting the fork down with deliberate care. “Do you want the polite answer or the real one?”

I tilted my head. “The real one.”

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “I make problems disappear.”

“That’s not a job description.”

“It is in my world.” He leaned in, voice dropping just enough that I had to meet his eyes to catch the words. “You’d be surprised how many people pay well for silence. For obedience. For fear.”

I felt a shiver crawl up my spine, but my curiosity only sharpened. “So… you hurt people for a living?”

He didn’t blink. “I protect what’s mine. And sometimes, that means someone else doesn’t get to walk away.”

The glow of the terrace lights caught the edge of his jaw as he leaned back again, the moment gone as quickly as it had arrived. “Your turn.”

“How long have you been keeping an eye on me?” I asked, half teasing, half wary.

His gaze didn’t waver. “A long time.”

I leaned forward, my voice dropping. “How long, Dorian?”

He drew in a slow, measured breath, as if deciding whether to say it. “At least… fifteen years.”

I froze, blinking at him. “Fifteen years?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed deadly serious.

“You stalker,” I accused, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.

That broke him. A deep, rich laugh rolled out of him — not embarrassed, not defensive, just amused, like I’d said something ch

ildishly obvious. “Hah… if that’s what you want to call it.”