Chapter Four: Dinner with the Devil

Amelia

By the time seven-thirty rolled around, I was half-convinced I was making a colossal mistake.

Not just taking this job — but agreeing to whatever the hell this dinner was.

The thing was, Dominic Blackwood didn’t ask. He ordered. And something about the way he’d looked at me before disappearing this afternoon made it clear this wasn’t going to be some polite work dinner.

I could still feel his eyes on me hours later.

The ones that used to tease, now sharp enough to cut.

I stood in front of my hotel mirror, trying to settle the nerves twisting in my stomach. Marissa’s text had been brief.

Wear black. No exceptions.

I didn’t have much. Most of my wardrobe was back in Melbourne, shoved into boxes in my old apartment. But I’d packed a little black dress for job interviews — something safe, plain, not meant for men like Dominic to look at me twice.

Now it felt criminally short.

The fabric clung to my hips, dipping low enough in the back that it skimmed my spine, and when I turned sideways, I swore it revealed more than it hid.

I should’ve changed.

Should’ve gone for something safer.

But some reckless part of me — the same part that agreed to work for him in the first place — liked the way it made me feel. A little dangerous. A little defiant.

I swiped on some lipstick, rolled my shoulders back, and grabbed my clutch.

Let’s dance, asshole.

---

The restaurant was one of those places you couldn’t get into without a month’s notice or a billionaire’s last name.

Candlelight, low music, leather booths that swallowed you whole. Every server moved like they belonged on a runway, and the host didn’t even blink when I gave Dominic’s name.

“He’s waiting for you,” she said, leading me through the maze of tables.

I spotted him before she could even gesture.

Dominic was already seated in a private corner booth, a glass of dark liquor in hand, his suit jacket discarded and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. That dark hair slicked back like he just stepped off the cover of some ridiculously overpriced magazine.

And when his eyes lifted to mine, something in them flickered.

Not annoyance. Not the dismissive indifference he wore so well.

No — this was darker.

He didn’t stand when I approached. Just let his gaze move down, slow and unapologetic.

He looked at me like a man starving.

“Carter,” he said, voice like smooth, expensive whiskey. “You’re late.”

I wasn’t.

I knew it. He knew it.

But this wasn’t about time.

I slid into the booth across from him, keeping my chin high even though my heart was hammering.

“You dragged me here without an explanation. You don’t get to lecture me about punctuality.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything.

“Still got that mouth, I see.”

I flushed. “Is this actually work, or are you just trying to piss me off for sport?”

He sipped his drink, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “A bit of both.”

Our waiter appeared then, rattling off specials. I barely registered a word. My focus was entirely on Dominic — the way he watched me while pretending not to, the way his thumb toyed with the rim of his glass.

It wasn’t fair.

That he could look at me like this. Like I was something new. Something dangerous.

And worse — that it made my stomach twist in ways it shouldn’t.

By the time our drinks arrived, the air between us was thick enough to suffocate.

“This job,” I said, leaning in, my voice low. “You hired me for a reason. And it’s not because I’m the most qualified.”

“No,” he agreed, eyes locked on mine. “I hired you because I wanted to see if you could handle it.”

“Handle what?”

He smiled then. A slow, dangerous thing that made my pulse stutter.

“Me.”