CHAPTER 5—THE DINNER SCENE

Ivy’s POV

The red dress clings to my body like sin.

Not a soft, fluttery red. No. This is a fuck-me red. Deep. Bold. Slick like blood on silk. The slit runs up my thigh like a promise. The neckline dips low enough to silence angels. And I don’t wear a bra.

I know exactly what I’m doing.

When I walk down the grand staircase, I can feel Alexander’s eyes snap to me before I even reach the bottom step.

I don’t look at him.

Not right away.

No, I give my full attention to the mirror in the hallway as I adjust the strap slightly, letting the fabric fall just a little lower. My reflection is pure wickedness. Hair curled and teased. Lips a dark, sultry red. Skin glowing like I’m bathed in candlelight.

Then I look at him.

He is standing near the dining room entry, hands in his pockets, jaw clenched so tight I can feel it across the fucking room. His eyes lock on me like a predator that just realizes his prey has grown fangs.

“Too much?” I ask sweetly as I step closer, letting my heels click deliberately against the marble floor.

“Ivy,” he warns, voice a low gravel.

“It’s just a dress,” I say, blinking up at him innocently. “You don’t like red?”

He says nothing, but his eyes drop to my chest before jerking back up to my face like he’s punishing himself for the thought.

I smile.

That is all I need.

Dinner is formal—something about some contract and business deal with his associates. The table is long, the lights dimmed, and the wine already poured when I sit down at Alexander’s right side.

Across from me sits him—Noah. A young business partner with a charming smile and the kind of jawline that screams boy-next-door with a side of "I’ll ruin you."

Perfect.

“Pleasure to finally meet you, Ivy,” Noah says, reaching out for a handshake. His grip is warm, firm. His eyes don’t leave mine. “Your father’s talked about you.”

I smirk, letting my fingers linger just a little too long in his. “Stepfather.”

Noah blinks. “Right. My mistake.”

Alexander doesn’t speak. But I can feel his stare drilling into the side of my face like a loaded gun.

“You’re prettier than he described,” Noah adds, smiling as he picks up his wine glass.

I lean in, cleavage front and center. “That’s ‘cause he never looks at me properly.”

Noah chuckles. “Then he’s missing out.”

“Or avoiding temptation,” I whisper, loud enough for only two men at the table to hear.

Alexander’s jaw flexes. He lifts his glass and drinks. Silently. Slowly. The amber liquid swirls, and I swear his grip on the glass tightens with every sip.

Perfect.

Halfway through dinner, I let my foot slide under the table and brush against Noah’s leg.

He glances at me, surprised, a slow smile pulling at his lips. “You okay?”

“Mmhm,” I say, brushing up higher.

I know Alexander sees it.

I feel the tension shift in him like a thunderclap.

His fork hits the plate just a little too hard. “Ivy,” he says calmly. “Eat.”

I turn to him, my lashes fluttering. “I am.”

His stare is deadly. Heat and fury wrapped in velvet. Noah, oblivious, just laughs softly.

“You have a wicked sense of humor,” he says.

“I know,” I whisper, letting my tongue trace the rim of my wine glass.

Inside, I am a fucking storm.

Every glance from Alexander lights me up like fireworks beneath my skin. He hasn't touched me. Hasn't kissed me. But the look in his eyes? That low, simmering rage he tries to bury under professionalism?

It makes me wet.

God, I want to ruin him.

Not out of cruelty. No. I want him to break. To drop the act. To grab me, bend me over the table, and show me that all this coldness is just a mask for the man inside—the one who burns for me.

Every time he refuses to look at me, it drives me insane.

Every time he does, it nearly undoes me.

I want to see him lose it.

When dessert comes, I lick a bit of cream off my spoon slowly, and I see it.

The slip.

The crack.

Alexander’s hand tightens on his wine glass so hard I think it might shatter. His eyes—those steel, storm-dark eyes—are locked on my lips. His tongue darts out, just barely, like he’s tasting something forbidden.

And then he stands up.

“Excuse me,” he says tightly. “I need air.”

I wait a few seconds. Count to ten.

Then I stand up, too.

“Sorry,” I say to Noah. “I should check on him.”

He smiles. “That’s sweet of you.”

Sweet?

No, Baby.

I am anything but sweet.

And tonight?

I am going to make Daddy crack.

I find him out on the balcony, both hands gripping the marble railing like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. The night air is cool, crisp, but the heat rolling off him? Scorching.

He doesn’t turn around when I step out.

I don’t speak either—not yet. I let my heels echo softly behind me, one slow, teasing step at a time. I want him to feel me coming. I want him to anticipate me.

“Is it the wine?” I ask finally, stopping just close enough to touch him. “Or the dress?”

His jaw shifts, the muscle ticking. “Don’t start with me, Ivy.”

“Too late,” I whisper, reaching forward and gently tugging at the collar of his shirt. “I think I already did.”

He spins—fast. One hand grips my wrist. Not hard. But firm. Possessive.

“You think this is a game?” he growls, low and guttural.

I smile up at him, heart hammering. “It’s whatever you make it.”

His eyes burn into mine, and I swear his chest rises like he’s barely holding himself together.

“You embarrassed me in there,” he says. “Flirting with that boy like some—”

“Like some what?” I challenge, stepping closer until our bodies nearly touch. “Say it.”

He leans down, his face inches from mine. His breath is hot. His voice? Lethal.

“Like a fucking brat who doesn’t know when to stop.”

My lips part, my breath hitches.

But I don’t back down.

I never do with him.

“Maybe I want to see what happens when you do stop pretending to be so damn in control.”

His fingers tighten on my wrist. Just a flicker. Just enough.

And then he lets go.

“You’re a little girl playing with fire.”

I laugh, soft and dangerous. “You’ve raised me long enough to know I’ve never been little. Not really. Not with you.”

A silence stretches between us. Heavy. Filthy with the unsaid.

I take one step back. Just one.

But my eyes never leave his.

“I saw the way you looked at me tonight,” I say. “And you didn’t blink when my dress dipped lower. You stared, Alexander.”

He says nothing.

His silence is louder than a scream.

I turn to walk back inside, my heels clicking again, slow and deliberate. But just as my hand reaches the door, he grabs my arm and spins me around.

Presses me against the glass.

Not touching.

Not yet.

Just caging me in with his body.

“I swear to God, Ivy…” he whispers, voice raw, “If you keep doing this…”

“What?” I breathe, chin tilted up. “You’ll bend me over this railing?”

He growls—actually growls.

His hand slams beside my head, fingers curling into a fist.

“I’ll fucking break, Ivy,” he hisses. “And when I do, there won’t be any going back.”

I feel it.

The tremble in his body.

The war raging behind those steel eyes.

“I’m counting on it,” I whisper.

He doesn’t kiss me.

Doesn’t touch me.

But fuck, it is worse.

Because he steps back.

Walks away.

Leaves me standing there with my heart thundering and my panties soaked.

And it only makes me want him more.

To Be Continued...