Chapter 8 - Reading Between the Lines

Marcus

Rosetti's is exactly the kind of place I would have expected Sophia Sterling to choose, if I believed for one second that Sophia Sterling was her real name.

It's intimate without being romantic, upscale without being too pretentious, and positioned perfectly for someone who wants to have a conversation without being overheard. The kind of place where serious business gets discussed over excellent wine, where handshake deals worth millions happen between the antipasti and the entrees.

Tonight, I'm going to figure out what Sophia is really after by paying attention to what she doesn't say and what her body language accidentally gives away.

She walks in at exactly seven PM, and I have to admit, the woman knows how to make an entrance. Her dress is professional enough for a board meeting but fitted enough to remind me that underneath all that armor, she's still very much a woman. Her hair is pulled back in a way that shows off her neck, and she's wearing just enough makeup to look polished.

She's also scanning the room like she's memorizing every face, every exit, every potential threat. It's subtle, but I've been trained to notice these things.

"Marcus," she says when she reaches the table, and there's something almost challenging in the way she says my name. Like she's testing whether I'll react to it.

"Sophia," I reply, standing to pull out her chair. "You look beautiful."

She pauses, just for a second, and I catch something that might be genuine surprise in her eyes before she recovers. "Thank you. Though I have to say, flattery seems a little transparent for someone of your... sophistication."

There it is. The first needle. I can't help but smile as I sit back down. "Would you prefer I lie and tell you, you look terrible?"

"I'd prefer you tell me why you really asked me to dinner." She picks up her menu, but her eyes stay on me. "Because we both know this isn't about my disappointing performance with Richard Pemberton III."

"Maybe I'm just curious about the woman who managed to make one of Manhattan's most eligible bachelors question his entire approach to relationships in the span of two hours."

"Or maybe you're trying to find out why someone like me needs a matchmaking service in the first place." She sets down the menu without looking at it. "Someone with my supposed background, my supposed connections, my supposed trust fund."

I lean back in my chair, studying her. She's good. Really good. But there's something almost reckless about the way she's pushing, like she's testing how far she can go before I push back.

"I'm wondering," I say slowly, "Why someone who's clearly intelligent enough to see through most people's bullshit would sign up for a service that's built on the premise that she can't figure out her own love life."

Her laugh is sharp, but there's something genuine underneath it. "Maybe I'm just bad at trusting people."

"Or maybe you're very good at not trusting people."

We stare at each other across the table, and I can practically feel the electricity crackling between us.

"So," she says, reaching for her water glass, "Tell me about your business partner. Elena, was it? You two seem close."

The question catches me off guard, though I probably shouldn't let it. "We've been friends since we were kids. Why?"

"Just curious. It's unusual for childhood friends to go into business together and have it work out. Usually there's too much history, too many complicated dynamics."

"Are you speaking from experience?"

"I'm speaking from observation." She takes a sip of water, and I notice her hand is perfectly steady. "People who've known each other that long usually have secrets. Things they've never told anyone else."

"Is that what you think Elena and I have? Secrets?"

"I think everyone has secrets, Marcus. The question is whether they're the kind that destroy lives or the kind that strengthen friendships."

The waiter appears before I can respond, and we order. She gets the salmon, I get the steak, and we both opt for the wine pairing. Standard choices that tell me nothing about her real preferences and everything about her desire to keep this conversation moving.

"Your turn," I say once the waiter leaves. "Tell me about your family."

"There's not much to tell."

"Everyone has family. Even if it's not the kind you're born into."

She seems to pale ever so slightly. "What makes you think I have any family at all?"

"Because nobody learns to read people the way you do without having to survive somebody else's chaos first." I lean forward slightly. "The question is whether you're still running from it or whether you've learned to use it."

She's quiet for a long moment, and I think I might have pushed too hard. But then she smiles, and it's the first genuinely warm expression I've seen from her.

"You're dangerous, Marcus Blackwood."

"So are you, Sophia Sterling. If that's even your real name."

"It's not." The admission comes out so casually that it takes a moment to register. "But then again, I'm guessing Marcus Blackwood isn't exactly the whole truth either."

We're both lying, and we both know it, and somehow that makes this the most honest conversation I've had in months.

"So what do we do now?" I ask.

"Now," she says, raising her water glass in a mock toast, "We see who's better at pretending to be someone they're not."

I raise my glass to meet hers. "Game on."