“Touché.”
The sea bass arrives, providing a natural break in the conversation. We eat in relative silence for a few minutes—her carefully, me with the efficiency of someone who views food as fuel rather than pleasure.
Halfway through dinner, she sets down her fork.
“I have another question.”
“You’re on a roll.”
“Why me?”
I look up.
“You could have made me disappear. I was a liability. I heard something I shouldn’t have. The logical response was elimination.”
“Maybe I like having leverage.”
“Leverage for what? I have nothing.” She shakes her head. “Keeping me alive is a risk. A loose end. You don’t seem like someone who tolerates loose ends.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why?”
The question deserves an honest answer. I’m not sure I have one.
“You were useful,” I say. “More useful alive than dead. The calculation was simple.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment. I expect her to back down. To pick up her fork and let the subject drop.
She doesn’t.
“You want to sleep with me.”
I go still.
“That’s… a theory.”
“It’s the only one that makes sense. You keep me close. You send me dresses. You bring me to candlelit dinners and tell meit’s about ‘assessment.’” She tilts her head, watching me with those sharp eyes. “So, why haven’t you?”
“Why haven’t I what?”
“Tried. Made a move. Whatever men like you call it.” Her voice hardens slightly. “Is it some sick fantasy? Making regular girls beg to join your bed instead of just taking what you want? Is that why you rejected the hooker? Too easy? Not enough of a chase?”
Now I do pause.
“You heard that.”
“I thought it was my job,” she counters. “To listen. To observe. To remember details that might prove useful later. Isn’t that what you said?”
Silence stretches. The restaurant hums with quiet conversation, silverware against porcelain, the soft clink of glasses. None of it reaches our table.
She’s pushed further than anyone has in years. Further than most people would dare.
I lean back in my chair. Let her wait.
“You want to know why I haven’t touched you?”
She just holds my gaze.
