Chapter 102
Chapter 102:
“I handled it,” Eliza said quickly. “I threatened him with a lamp. And I kneed him in the stomach. He left p>
Dallas stared at her, his eyes glittering with a dangerous, calculating light — the look of a man working out exactly how many bones in Anson’s body he intended to break.
Then a corner of his mouth ticked up. It wasn’t a smile. It was the baring of teeth.
“Good girl,” he said, his voice low and dark.
The words sent a shiver down Eliza’s spine that had nothing to do with the cold. The tone was primal — possessive and proud.
He plated the food. They ate at the patio table in the dark, and it was the best steak she had ever tasted — perfectly charred on the outside, tender on the inside. Or perhaps she was simply starving.
They finished the beers. The alcohol hit Eliza’s empty system quickly, leaving her lightheaded and pleasantly floaty.
Be 𝗍h𝗲 𝗳ir𝘀𝘁 𝘁o 𝘳𝘦а𝘥 𝗈𝗇
“It’s 2 AM,” Dallas said, checking his watch. “Don’t drive back p>
“I have to be at Hyde Manor by seven for Victoria’s medication,” she said, rubbing her temples.
“I’ll drive you,” he said. “Stay p>
“Okay,” she agreed. She didn’t have the energy to argue. And truthfully, she didn’t want to leave.
He led her inside. The house was modern and minimalist — all wood and stone — but it felt warm. It felt lived-in, unlike the penthouse, which sometimes had the feeling of a very expensive museum.
At the bottom of the stairs, he pointed. “First door on the right p>
“Where do you sleep?” she asked, pausing.
“Across the hall,” Dallas said. He leaned against the banister, watching her. “If you need anything.” He let the word linger, his eyes dropping to her lips for just a fraction of a second.
Eliza nodded, her throat suddenly dry. She turned and walked up the stairs, feeling his gaze on her back with every step.
Eliza opened the door to the room Dallas had indicated.
She gasped.
It wasn’t a guest room.
The walls were painted a soft, pale sage green — her favorite color. She had mentioned it once, in passing, years ago at a gala where they had barely spoken.
By the floor-to-ceiling window, which offered a panoramic view of the moonlit lake, stood a professional easel. Beside it was a cart stocked with high-quality oil paints, brushes of every size, and blank canvases.
A bookshelf in the corner held art history books, rare restoration guides, and monographs of her favorite painters.
On the nightstand sat a bottle of perfume. A niche Italian brand — one she used to wear before the Solomon bankruptcy, one she hadn’t been able to afford in five years.
“He prepared this,” she whispered.
Anson’s cynical words from that morning echoed briefly in her mind — does he know something you don’t? — but she pushed them away. This wasn’t business. This was something else entirely.
She walked to the easel and touched the frame. There was no dust. This room hadn’t been set up yesterday. It had been waiting.