I sent the dress up with a note and waited.
It was petty, yes. Deliberate? Absolutely.
After that disaster with Sia—after hearing Floris throw words like “maybe I’m different” like a lit match into a powder keg—I needed to remind her who held the script.
But when I checked the camera feed and saw her open the box, hesitate, then slip into the green silk anyway?
I felt something I hadn’t in years. Victory laced with dread.
Because I knew, with a sick twist of certainty, that she was about to walk into a night I hadn’t planned to weaponize.
And yet, I still needed it to happen. Not for control. Not for dominance.
Just for… proof. That maybe she could handle all of me.
At exactly 7:00 PM, I knocked.
She opened the door in that dress like she’d been born for silk. The neckline, the way it pulled against her waist—effortless and yet perfectly measured.
I almost forgot my line.
But I held out the bouquet instead. White lilies. Her mother’s favorite. I remembered that detail from a single, throwaway sentence she’d muttered while half-asleep weeks ago.
She stared down at them. “How did you know?”
“You mentioned them once,” I said. “When you were talking about your parents’ garden.” I paused. “They suited you. Elegant but resilient.”
Her fingers trembled as she took them, but she didn’t pull away.
“This is very… normal,” she said slowly, gesturing to the flowers, the suit, the whole charade I’d curated.
“I’ve never done this before,” I told her.
“Done what?”
“Taken someone on an actual date.”
She blinked like I’d told her the sky was red. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“All those women? Your assistants?”
“Those weren’t dates.” I took a step closer, letting her feel the weight of it. “They were exercises in control.”
“And this?” she asked.
“This is different.”
“Because I’m different.”
“Because you make me different.”
That admission felt like bleeding in front of her.
But I didn’t care.
***
I took her to Jordaan. Candlelight. Jazz. A menu that changed by instinct more than planning. I’d reserved the corner table—most private, most isolated. Not to trap her.
To give her the illusion of safety.
She was silent as we ate. Observing. Thinking. She always had too many thoughts behind her eyes.
“So,” she said finally. “Sia thinks I’m going to end up dead.”
I didn’t flinch. I’d seen the footage. Her and Sia screaming like feral creatures near a desk covered in my fingerprints.
“I saw the argument,” I said evenly.
“Of course you did. And?”
“She’s jealous.”
“Jealous? She’s not wrong though. About your pattern. About what you do to women who work for you.”
“She’s not telling you the full story.”
“Which part is she lying about?”
“Sia wasn’t like the others.” I set my wine glass down carefully, controlling every movement. “The others left when their time was up. Most left richer. Smarter. Grateful.”
“Grateful?” she repeated, eyes narrowing.
“For the financial security. For what I taught them. For the power they learned to wield.”
“You’re not a professor, Eric. You’re a storm.”
“And some women learn to sail through storms.” I looked her dead in the eye. “But Sia didn’t want to learn. She wanted to anchor herself in me.”
“She thought she was special.”
“Yes. She stayed long after her contract ended. Shifted roles, convinced herself it was career ambition.”
“It wasn’t?”
“It was obsession. It was hope.” I shrugged. “She waited fifteen years for me to love her back.”
“And now she hates me because you brought me flowers.”
“She hates you because you’re doing what she never could.” I let my voice drop. “Getting under my skin.”
She stared at her plate for a long time. “What if I become her? What if I turn into Sia?”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
I leaned forward, took her hand.
“Because if you were going to lose yourself to me, it would’ve happened already. You don’t surrender. You resist. Every fucking time.”
She didn’t move her hand.
“Everyone else starts to perform for me. Start mimicking what they think I want. You? You elbowed me in the face last night.”
She laughed under her breath. “Fair.”
“This is still fucked up,” she whispered. “The contract, the surveillance, my brother’s life…”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
“So what happens now?”
“Now we find out if you can love someone broken without needing to fix him.”
She looked up, eyes glassy. “And if I can’t?”
“Then Sia was right,” I said, voice quiet. “And you’ll end up hating me too.”
She studied me like she was trying to memorize a map through a war zone.
“I already hate you a little,” she said.
“Good.” I smirked. “That means you’re still thinking clearly.”
And when she laughed—truly laughed, like something inside her hadn’t broken yet—
I knew I was in trouble.