[Dorian’s POV]
Rae shows up at my door looking like she's survived a war—the kind fought with words rather than weapons, though the casualties appear equally devastating.
Her eyes are too bright, jaw clenched tight enough to crack diamonds, every line of her body radiating wound-up energy that screams she's running from something.
I don't ask questions. I've learned when to deploy charm and when to deploy silence—tonight is clearly the latter.
"Wine," she says instead of hello.
"Good evening to you too." I step aside, letting her sweep past. "I have a Château Margaux that's been feeling neglected, or there's a very presumptuous Pinot Noir that thinks it's better than it is."
"Whichever one gets me drunk faster."
I pour the Margaux because it deserves better than being rushed, but I fill her glass generously. She accepts it, drinks half in a single pull that would make sommeliers weep, and stands in my living room like she's not sure whether to stay or bolt.
I settle onto my sofa, giving her space. Waiting.
"Beatrice compared me to my mother today," she finally says. "My mother. The woman who abandoned me when I was fifteen. Apparently I'm destined to repeat her greatest hits of emotional unavailability and fear-based decision making."
I refill her glass without comment.
"I don't want to talk about it," Rae continues, which is ironic given she's absolutely talking about it. "I just don't want to think. For one night, I want my brain to shut up about inheritance drama and whether I'm genetically programmed to destroy everything I care about."
"Thinking is overrated anyway. I've built an entire personality around avoiding it." I sip my wine with studied casualness. "Some of us call it charm. Others call it a defense mechanism. The line is blurry."
She almost smiles—a crack in the armor.
I recognize this play. I've been someone's distraction before, the convenient escape from problems too large to face directly. There's a role here I know how to perform: the uncomplicated option, the temporary relief, the person who doesn't require anything too real.
But with Rae, it's different. Inconveniently, irritatingly different.
I actually like her—not just her sharp tongue or refusal to perform the simpering heiress routine. I want her to be okay, even knowing I'm not the solution. Even knowing that whatever she's seeking tonight, I'm a placeholder for someone else.
"You're staring," she observes, settling onto the opposite end of my sofa.
"I'm admiring. There's a difference." I angle toward her, letting silence stretch comfortable between us. "Though I'm curious what Beatrice said that sent you fleeing to my questionable company."
"She called me a coward. Said I'm choosing safety over love because I'm too afraid to risk actual vulnerability." Rae laughs—sharp, brittle. "She's not wrong, though. I am afraid. I am running. I'm just not sure what I'm running toward anymore."
I could push, ask the obvious questions about Miles. But pushing requires her to think, and she specifically requested a thinking-free evening.
So when I suggest, she doesn’t decline.
The second night is nothing like the first.
She kisses me like she’s starving, teeth scraping my bottom lip, tongue sliding hot and filthy into my mouth while her hands fist my shirt hard enough to rip the buttons free.
I drag her zipper down; the dress pools at her feet and she steps out of it, and I take my time, getting rid of her bra and panties.
I back her into the hallway wall, mouth on her throat, one hand palming her breast, rolling her nipple until she gasps my name.
My other hand slips between her thighs—she’s soaked, slick coating my fingers the second I push two inside her. She clenches around them, riding my hand shamelessly while I bite down on her collarbone.
“Bed,” she pants, but we only make it three steps before she drops to her knees, yanks my belt open, and takes me deep into her mouth in one slick slide. I curse, hips jerking as she sucks me hard and messy, eyes locked on mine the whole time.
I haul her up before I lose it, spin her around, and bend her over the ottoman. She braces her hands on the leather, arches her back, and I drive into her in one brutal thrust. She’s tight, dripping, perfect. I grip her hips and fuck her hard, skin slapping skin, her moans echoing down the hall.
When we finally reach the bedroom I throw her onto the sheets and crawl over her. She wraps her legs around my waist, heels digging into my ass, urging me deeper. I give it to her exactly how she needs—rough, relentless, until she’s shaking, clawing at my back, begging in broken whispers.
She comes with my name tearing out of her throat, pussy clamping down so hard my vision whites out. The sound she makes is raw, half pleasure, half pain, like she’s finally letting something crack open.
I follow seconds later, pulling out at the last second and spilling across her stomach in thick pulses, groaning into her neck as she drags her nails down my spine.
We collapse in a tangle of limbs, chests heaving, her skin hot and slick under mine.
The silence that follows is different from comfortable.
Rae stares at my ceiling, chest rising and falling as her heartbeat slows. I wait, because waiting is a skill I've perfected over twenty-nine years of family dinners where saying the wrong thing could tank stock prices.
"I don't know what I want," she finally admits, the words small in my expensive bedroom. "I keep thinking I should know by now. I'm twenty-six. I run a business. I should be capable of basic emotional clarity. Instead I'm sleeping with someone who isn't—"
She stops, catches herself, but we both heard where that sentence was heading.
"Someone who isn't Miles," I finish for her. No point in pretending.
She turns to look at me, something like apology in her expression. "I'm sorry. That's horrible. You deserve better than being someone's avoidance strategy."
"Probably." I prop myself on one elbow. "But here's a secret: certainty is overrated. I've watched my parents be absolutely certain about their merger-marriage for thirty years, and they're miserable.”
She looks away, possibly ashamed. Almost adorable. “Maybe not knowing what you want just means you're still figuring it out in real time. That's not failure. That's being human."
"That's surprisingly philosophical for someone who lists 'competitive golf' as a personality trait."
"I contain multitudes. Also, my therapist charges three hundred dollars an hour—some of it was bound to stick."
"Why are you being so understanding about this?" Her voice carries genuine confusion. "I basically showed up, used you for distraction sex, and admitted I'm thinking about someone else. Most men would be at least mildly offended."
The honest answer sits in my throat. "Because I've spent my entire life being chosen for strategic reasons. The right family. The right portfolio. The right merger potential. Everyone who's wanted me has wanted what I represent, not who I am." She's watching me with something like recognition.
"At least with you, there's something real underneath the strategy. Even if I'm not your first choice—even if I'm not your choice at all—you're here because you actually like spending time with me. That's rarer than you'd think in my world."
Rae goes quiet at that, and I don't push.
I see how she looks when Miles's name comes up. How her whole body changes frequency—shoulders tensing, breath catching, eyes distant with something that looks like longing.
I don't tell her I notice. Some truths are better discovered than declared.