BEATRICE'S POV
I don't know how long the drive lasts.
Theodore's man — the same one from before — drives in silence through the woods. I'm still on Theodore's lap, his coat draped over my shoulders, making me feel small and oddly protected. His large hand pats my back in a slow rhythm. My sobs have faded into quiet shudders that surface without warning.
The past week has been dismantling me piece by piece. I've known something was building inside my body since the night of the gala — since the moment I ran barefoot into a ballroom full of kerosene. I just never let myself fall. Or more accurately, I was never allowed to.
His body is warm against mine. Those muscles that feel like marble somehow manage to be comforting. The car stops. My pulse kicks up involuntarily.
Theodore looks down at me. His long fingers slide through my messy curls with a gentleness that doesn't match anything the world says about him.
I look up. Those violet eyes — which I once thought cold and emotionless — aren't exactly violet. Up close, they shift between ultramarine blue and magenta depending on how the light hits them.
"We're at my place. Hold on to me."
He steps out of the car, my legs still wrapped around his waist. He tucks my face into his neck, shielding me — as if he doesn't want anyone to see me like this.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
His heartbeat is fast and loud against my ear. His throat bobs each time he swallows. A bead of sweat trails down his neck onto my skin. I am acutely aware of how my chest presses against his, how my legs are wrapped around him like a vine, how his arms haven't loosened once.
Something is happening. And I'm not hating it.
A soft electronic chime. The door opens.
"Keep eyes on the perimeter. Any breach — you know what to do." Theodore's voice is calm. Authoritative. Like the man carrying me and the man issuing orders are two different people sharing the same body.
The door closes behind us.
"I'm going to set you down. Is that okay?"
I nod. Though letting go of him feels like surrendering the only warm thing in a cold world.
He sets me on a deep sectional couch. I blink, adjusting to the light, and look around.
This is not what I expected.
No grand marble lobby. No museum-grade displays of wealth. The space is warm — low ambient lighting, floor-to-ceiling glass doors opening to a pool that glows faintly in the rain. Dark stone and wood. Soft furnishings. Books stacked on surfaces, not displayed behind glass. A kitchen visible through an open archway that looks like it's actually been used.
A massive portrait hangs on one wall, draped in black silk. Hidden. Private.
And on the coffee table — a bouquet of freshly trimmed red roses in a black vase.
He likes red roses.
The house smells like him. Agarwood, leather, something warm underneath. Like his cologne grew walls and a roof. Paperwork sits neatly arranged beside the vase. This is a home someone lives in — not a showpiece designed to impress.
I have a feeling I'm the first person outside his inner circle to see this place.
"Wait for a moment." He pats my head and walks away.
My fingers curl tight in my lap. My phone sits dead beside me. A long exhale shudders through my chest.
Everything from the past week cycles through me in a single wave. The arson. The promotion. The oil deal. Meeting Theodore. The boardroom. Adrien's silence. Theodore's flowers. Sarah Ashcombe. Adrien at my door in the rain. Theodore at the café the next morning. The steakhouse. Adrien hurting me. Rain. Theodore. Today — Adrien's apology, then dragging me into the woods without warning. And once again, Theodore.
Every time things spiral, Theodore Schweitzer appears.
A man who approached me on a bus and declared he wanted to marry me on our first meeting. Who said he'd pursue me for six months and meant every word.
I rub my cold palms over my face. What did Adrien think when he turned around and found the car empty? It could have been anyone who took me. Anyone. And he didn't even lock the door before he left.
My chest tightens. Tears build again. The crawling fear returns — loud, acidic, rising in my throat.
What would I have done if Theodore hadn't come?
My head starts ringing. Something sour climbs above my stomach. Despite every breathing technique I know, my body wants to reject the last twelve hours entirely.
Then I hear soft footsteps on the hardwood floor.
The air changes. Warm. Spiced. Garlic.
I look up.
Theodore is carrying a tray. My eyes widen as he kneels — right at my feet, matching my eye level. He sets the tray on the side table beside the couch.
Not beside me. Not above me. At my feet. On his knees.
"What are you —" My voice cracks.
He looks into my eyes. Not hovering. Not towering. Just level. Equal. Present.
"I made tomato soup and toasted garlic bread. You like them, don't you?"
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. He knows my favorite cuisine. My favorite flowers. And my comfort food.
I lick my lip slightly. "You know a lot about me."
His eyes catch the warm light and spark like amethyst. The soft glow from the corner lamp finds the edge of his mouth.
"Stalker," I mumble, staring at the soup — rich, creamy, impossibly red, radiating warmth that begs me to surrender every remaining wall I have.
A soft chuckle rumbles through his chest.
I go still.
This is the first time I've seen Theodore Schweitzer genuinely smile.
A dimple. Left cheek. Completely out of place on a man rumored to have killed his own family. Too soft. Too disarming. Nothing about this man is harmless — but that dimple makes you want to believe otherwise.
My fists curl in my lap. His smile is like sun breaking through a week of storms, and I can't pretend the warmth spreading through my chest is just the soup.
"I'd like to know even more about you."
"You aren't even denying the stalking."
"Would you prefer I lied?"
I should be angry. Any rational woman would be furious that a man has been surveilling her schedule, her preferences, her habits. Instead, I feel thrilled. And the realization hits me like a slap to every ounce of logic and sanity I've ever claimed to possess.
Wasn't I judging women for chasing men from the five families just days ago? And here I am — sitting on the couch of arguably the most eligible man among them, being fed soup by a kneeling patriarch, and enjoying every second of it.
"Open." He blows gently on the spoon and holds it in front of my lips.
"I can feed myself."
"I know." His gaze traces my face — chin, jaw, lips — like a soft caress. "Let me."
Rain begins hammering the glass. Loud. Violent. Lightning illuminates the pool outside in sharp white flashes. I hold my breath.
I open my mouth.
The soup is a burst of warmth — tomato, spice, the perfect edge of sourness that makes every remaining defense inside me lower itself willingly. Then comes the garlic bread. Crispy. Dipped in soup. Fed to me by hands that have signed deals worth billions and are currently trembling almost imperceptibly with the effort of being gentle.
Our eyes don't break contact. Under his gaze, I feel exposed — not physically. Something deeper than that. Like he can see the architecture of who I am beneath every performance I've ever given.
He finishes feeding me. Sets the tray aside. "Feeling better?"
I nod. Yes, I'm feeling better. So much better that my mind is drifting to places it has no business going. But when a man who looks like a walking Greek myth kneels before you and looks at you like you're the most precious thing in his world — tell me you'd stay sane.
He reaches out. Slowly. Giving me time to pull back.
I don't.
His fingers slide into my hair, scratching my scalp with exactly the right pressure — and I'm gone. A purr escapes me before I can catch it, my head tilting into his hand like a cat surrendering to the one person it trusts.
Head scratches have always been my weakness. My one absolute vulnerability. And this man — this impossible, infuriating, persistent man — somehow knows.
He fed me. Warmed me. And now this.
I am losing every shred of composure I own.
"You were scared." His voice sounds like honey poured over something dangerous.
My throat tightens. I have never been this vulnerable in front of anyone in twenty-six years of life.
My lips tremble. "Yes. It was terrifying." My eyes well up again. I don't hold them back. I'm too exhausted to perform strength anymore.
"I've always been the strong one. The one who jokes, who fights, who never shows fear." I choke on the words. "And today, sitting in that car alone — I felt truly alone. For the first time." A breath. "I don't like being in pain."
"I know." He whispers it like he understands exactly what it costs to say those words out loud.
I look at him. Almost childlike. "Have you ever been scared?"
His eyes darken with something old. "A few times. But I had to be the strong one too."
"Sounds like me."
"It does."
Neither of us speaks. Rain fills the silence — violent against glass, thunder rolling through the walls. Lightning strikes the pool outside. I flinch, heart leaping into my throat.
"You hate lightning," he murmurs. Filing it away.
"Of course. It's terrifying."
A soft breath escapes his nose. Almost a laugh. "You're scared of a lot of things, Sonnenschein."
I don't correct him. He's right.
But something about Theodore shifts.
His fingers still against the back of my neck. His eyes darken. The smile fades. His breathing deepens — heavier, slower, like a man holding himself back from the edge of something he's been approaching for days.
Like he doesn't want to hold back anymore.
Before I can process the change, his weight presses me into the couch cushions. One hand braces beside my head. The other cups my jaw.
And his mouth finds mine.
Everything stops.
Thoughts. Tension. Fear. Anxiety. Adrien. The woods. The gun in my hand. The empty car. All of it — silenced by the pressure of his lips against mine. He kisses me like his survival depends on the taste of me. Like a man who's been wandering through years of cold and finally found fire.
I open my mouth. Let him in.
His tongue meets mine and the sound that leaves my throat is something I'll never admit to making. My arms wrap around his back, pulling him closer. His hand slides beneath my waist, pressing me harder against him — like he wants me to dissolve into him completely.
Rain hammers the windows. Lightning splits the sky. Neither of us notices.
He pulls away slowly. Panting. Chest heaving. Those violet-blue eyes stare down at me like I've given him something he doesn't know how to hold without breaking.
"Psychí mou."
My soul.
I inhale sharply.
This man.
I feel like I've just woken something that was never meant to sleep. And I am terrifyingly, recklessly, completely thrilled about it.