Chapter Seven — The Dinner

Dianne Blake stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror, twisting the strap of her emerald-green dress nervously. The color was bold, confident, and just enough to make a statement without screaming for attention.

Her phone buzzed on the counter — a message from her older sister, Maya, who was away on a business trip in Paris.

Maya: You look amazing, Di. Don’t let him intimidate you. And remember — he’s just a man. You’ve got this.

Dianne smiled faintly, typing back quickly.

Dianne: Thanks, Maya. I don’t know why he keeps getting under my skin…

Maya: Because he’s Roy Sinclair, and no one makes him look like he’s losing control. Just breathe, little sis. Professional first.

Dianne set her phone down, trying to steady her nerves. “Just a meeting. Professional. Nothing more,” she whispered to herself, though she already knew she was lying.

The restaurant in Mayfair was buzzing with London’s elite — low chatter, clinking glasses, and soft jazz filling the air. She spotted the table reserved under Sinclair Group, and immediately, her stomach twisted.

Roy Sinclair was already there, leaning back in his chair, his eyes scanning the room like a predator. The moment he saw her, his smirk appeared — slow, deliberate, infuriating.

Dianne swallowed hard, straightened her posture, and walked toward him.

“Miss Blake,” he greeted, standing, his tone smooth as silk. “You made it.”

“Of course I did,” she replied, her voice clipped. “I take my work seriously.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So serious you almost look scared.”

She bristled. “I’m not scared of you, Mr. Sinclair.”

“You’re lying,” he murmured, eyes flicking to hers with that unnerving intensity that made her pulse stutter.

She ignored him, sliding into the chair across from him. The air between them was charged, a delicate tension that made her hands tremble slightly as she adjusted her skirt.

The first course arrived — delicate salmon with a citrus glaze — and the dinner began in a flurry of polite conversation. But every glance, every subtle lean from Roy felt like a test, a challenge, a dare.

“So,” he said finally, leaning in just enough that she felt the heat radiate from him, “your reputation precedes you, Miss Blake.”

She froze mid-bite. “I don’t follow.”

He smirked. “Oh, come now. Even in Mayfair, people are talking about you. You have a knack for turning heads… and headlines.”

Her stomach tightened. “I’m here to manage your image, not discuss mine.”

“Exactly,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “And yet, here we are, talking about both.”

Dianne’s jaw clenched, her fork hovering over her plate. Why is he so infuriatingly charming? Why can’t I just focus on the dinner?

She remembered her sister’s warning — don’t bite him — but couldn’t help the flare of annoyance that surged through her.

“Mr. Sinclair,” she said, voice sharper now, “if this is going to be a professional dinner, perhaps we should stick to the agenda.”

He chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. “Professional? That word seems so… stiff. I prefer honest. I like honesty.”

Dianne’s eyes narrowed. “I’m being honest.”

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head, “so you admit you’re already irritated by me?”

She pressed her lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reply. But her heartbeat betrayed her, fast and uneven.

The dinner progressed, but neither of them could escape the tension simmering between them. Every brush of his hand against the table, every deliberate glance, every soft-spoken comment carried weight.

At one point, he leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “You know, you don’t have to pretend you’re unimpressed by me.”

Dianne’s fork dropped, clattering against her plate. “I’m not pretending anything,” she said, though her voice wavered just slightly.

“You are,” he murmured, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You think I don’t notice how quickly your pulse races when I’m near?”

Her eyes widened, a flush creeping up her neck. What is wrong with me?

“I…” she began, but stopped. There were too many people around, too many witnesses, and yet she could feel the magnetic pull of him, undeniable and dangerous.

Roy sat back, watching her with that familiar intensity. “Miss Blake,” he said softly, almost a purr, “you’re fascinating. And maddening. I think I might just enjoy making this… interesting.”

Dianne’s hands clenched in her lap. “I’m not here to be interesting. I’m here to do my job.”

He leaned closer, tone dropping to a whisper. “And yet, every time I look at you, it’s hard to remember that.”

Her heart skipped. She wanted to stand, to leave, to scream. But she stayed, biting her lip, forcing herself to focus.

By the end of the evening, the professional pretense had begun to crack, leaving both of them with something unspoken and heavy between them.

As she stepped into a taxi outside, the cool night air hit her face. She exhaled shakily, gripping her bag tightly.

Why does he affect me like this?

Her mind replayed every glance, every whisper, every subtle movement. That smirk, that confident gaze — it haunted her.

Back in her Notting Hill apartment, she poured herself a glass of wine and sank onto her sofa.

Damn him, she thought, swirling the liquid. He’s arrogant, infuriating… and somehow, impossibly magnetic.

She took a long sip, then another. Her eyelids grew heavy.

As the night deepened, her thoughts finally began to drift, Roy’s aura lingering even as sleep claimed her.

And somewhere between the exhaustion and the unresolved tension, Dianne Blake realized — whether she liked it or not — her world was changing, and Roy Sinclair was at the center of it.

Dianne slipped into the passenger seat of Roy’s sleek black car, her mind still buzzing from the dinner. Normally, she would have refused a ride, insisting on taking a taxi. But something about tonight — maybe the unspoken truce during dinner, or the subtle acknowledgment that they were both navigating the same precarious professional battlefield — made her relent.

Roy started the engine without a word, and the car glided silently through the quiet streets of Notting Hill. The city lights reflected in the windows, painting their faces with fleeting shadows.

Dianne stared straight ahead, gripping her bag tightly, trying not to look at him.

Roy, ever observant, let his hand rest lightly near the gear shift, but his eyes kept finding hers in the rearview mirror. Occasionally, their glances met — fleeting, charged, electric — before she quickly looked away.

Why is he like this? she thought, her pulse hammering. Every glance feels like it’s stripping me bare, and I hate that I notice.

“You’re quiet,” he finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of amusement.

“I’m… thinking,” she replied, keeping her voice steady, though she knew it sounded brittle.

“About work?” he asked, though he didn’t sound convinced.

“Partly,” she muttered, forcing herself to focus on the passing streetlights.

He smirked, but his gaze softened. “Partly about me, I imagine.”

Dianne’s stomach flipped. She clenched her fists in her lap, pretending not to notice the faint tension in her chest. “You really like to overestimate your importance, don’t you?”

“And yet,” he said quietly, leaning slightly closer, “here you are, sitting beside me instead of walking home alone.”

She swallowed hard, words catching in her throat. Why does he make simple things feel so… intimate?

By the time they reached her building, the air between them was thick with unspoken tension. Dianne fumbled for her keys, suddenly feeling exposed under his steady gaze.

Roy, to her surprise, stepped out of the car first. “Here,” he said smoothly, holding the door open for her — a small gesture that felt monumental. She blinked at him, speechless. He had never done that before.

“Thanks,” she whispered, stepping out.

He followed her up the short flight of steps, and when she reached the door, he bent slightly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Dianne froze. Her heart skipped. She was awe-struck, caught between admiration and confusion. That simple touch — gentle, unassuming, yet deliberate — sent a ripple through her chest.

“I… um…” she stammered, suddenly aware of the nearness of him. Her hands gripped the door handle like an anchor.

Roy’s eyes softened, a rare vulnerability breaking through his usual arrogance. “Goodnight, Dianne,” he said, voice low.

Her lips parted, but no words came. She just nodded, unable to tear her gaze away from him.

He straightened, giving her a brief, faint smile before stepping back. Dianne fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking ever so slightly, and finally entered her apartment, heart still racing.

Once inside, she leaned against the door, exhaling shakily.

What just happened? she thought, pressing a hand to her chest. He’s infuriating, impossible… and yet, that small gesture — that hair…

Her mind replayed it over and over. That moment — brief, silent, electric — had thrown her completely off balance.

She sank onto the sofa, burying her face in her hands. Her pulse was frantic, thoughts spiraling.

This man… I hate him, I hate him, I hate him… and yet…

The last thought lingered as she let herself collapse, exhausted and exhilarated. Her body and mind refused to settle, yet eventually, sleep claimed her — uneasy, restless, and filled with the memory of his fingers brushing against her hair.