Chapter 4

~Emily POV~

The silence in the car was deafening.

After I emptied my stomach and Alexender panic subsided, neither of us spoke.

I folded into myself, cheeks burning with embarrassment. The bitter taste still lingered on my tongue and so did the memory of his face… unguarded, stricken with something that looked dangerously like worry.

For the first time, he  didn’t look like the cold, untouchable billionaire.

He looked like a man.

The car slowed, pulling into a secluded lot. My brows pinched as I stared through the windshield.

A restaurant. Secluded. Elegant. Hidden behind hedges and a wrought iron gate. The kind of place where whispers replaced conversation, and power dined quietly in dark corners.

“Why are we here?” I asked.

“You haven’t eaten.”

“That didn’t seem to bother you when I nearly threw up on your dashboard.”

His jaw tensed. “That was my fault.”

My heart stuttered.

He cut the engine and stepped out without another word. I followed, more out of confusion than willingness.

Inside, the restaurant was bathed in candlelight. Tables lined the walls in soft alcoves, the air thick with the scent of wine and quiet money. It was intimate. Almost too intimate.

The waiter approached the moment we sat. He looked to me, then back at Alexander, who placed both orders without hesitation.

The food came quickly. Elegant portions. Rich aromas. He pushed a plate toward me.

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not expecting me to eat all this, are you?”

He folded his arms and stared at me with unreadable interest, like I was a puzzle he didn’t mind solving slowly.

I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the plate was empty.

As the meal continued, I noticed something odd: Alexander’s knowledge of food and wine surpassed even Ethan’s. Ethan, who always prided himself on being a connoisseur.

The wine was smooth, the food decadent, the service quiet and flawless. I leaned back as coffee and brandy were served, warmth settling in my chest like a soft blanket.

“This place feels like a whisper,” I murmured, trailing my finger around the rim of the brandy glass. “Like I’m supposed to talk in secrets.”

He glanced at me. “Why?”

“You can’t really see anyone else. It feels… private. Like a place where people have trysts or make deals in the dark.”

He leaned in slowly, too close. His breath brushed my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

“If you have a secret to confide, ma belle, consider me your confidant.”

I flinched.

Startled, I jerked back and knocked my hand against a glass. It toppled and rolled across the table before landing on the carpet with a soft thud.

A waiter appeared instantly, replacing it with a new one. My face flamed with heat.

He did that on purpose.

Why? To get under my skin?

I wished the night would end. But… maybe it was me who didn’t want to admit how affected I was.

I closed my eyes briefly. When I opened them, he was still watching me. His expression unreadable.

A moment later, he signaled to the waiter.

Thank God, I thought. I’ll be done with this soon.

But instead of heading home, the car turned down a broad boulevard, weaving through the West End.

To my surprise, he didn’t offer any sharp comments as we drove. In fact, he seemed… relaxed.

“I’ve reserved box seats,” he said casually. “I thought you might enjoy it.”

I blinked. “A play?”

He nodded.

“That’s wonderful,” I said before I could stop myself. “I’ve been wanting to see this for ages.”

I had begged Ethan more than once, but he’d always dismissed theater as “too slow,” preferring noisy clubs and cabarets.

But this, this was different.

---

The theater was breathtaking.

Warm lighting. Crystal chandeliers. Velvet curtains.

And for once, I didn’t feel like a burden or a placeholder bride.

We talked during the intermission..

about the plot, the characters, the emotion behind the final scene of Act I. Somehow, we were arguing in that enthusiastic, hungry way people do when they're enjoying themselves.

And I realized something: for ten full minutes, I forgot how much I hated him.

I faltered mid-sentence, catching the way he looked at me.

He was laughing.

Actually laughing.

My stomach twisted. Could he read my thoughts?

“Have another drink,” he said, handing me a glass. “We’ve got time before the bell.”

He paused, then gestured toward the young actress playing the daughter. “That one has a future, don’t you think?”

I nodded, sipping my vodka and tonic. “Absolutely.”

“Do you go to the theater much in Paris?” I asked, surprising myself.

“Very little,” he replied. “Most of my time there is spent at my country house. My mother’s an invalid, and I prefer to be near her.”

That made something in me shift.

Then, unexpectedly, he turned to me again.

“Tell me,” he said. “Does your English reserve and conventionality require all this formality? Or can you manage to call me Alex?”

I nearly choked on my drink.

It was on the tip of my tongue to remind him that he was the one who insisted on walls. But I swallowed the retort.

“I’m not as prim and conventional as you think,” I said, offering a small smile. “I’ll call you Alex.”

“Splendid,” he said. “And may I call you Emi?”

I hesitated. “It’s Emily. Short for Emilia. My mom was feeling poetic.” I said, talking nonsense to cover my embarrassment as he gave me another of his searching looks

I rambled to hide how flustered I was under his gaze. It was too intense.

I was saved by the bell, literally. The chime echoed through the theater, calling us back to our seats.

---

During the second act, I could feel him watching me.

Not constantly.

But enough to make my pulse flutter and my fingers grip the armrest a little tighter.