Chapter Thirteen: A Game of Words

The candlelight flickered between us, casting warm shadows over the table. The hum of the restaurant faded into the background, drowned out by the quiet intensity of Lawrence's gaze.

I wasn't sure if it was the Château d'Yquem warming my veins or the way his presence seemed to take up all the air in the room.

"Tell me, Ivanna," he said, swirling his wine lazily. "Did you agree to this dinner out of curiosity, obligation, or something else entirely?"

I arched a brow, taking a slow sip of my drink. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

His lips quirked. "I don't entertain obligations."

"Neither do I."

His eyes darkened slightly, amusement flickering beneath the surface. "Then curiosity?"

I set my glass down, tracing the rim with a fingertip. "Let's just say I prefer to know who I'm dealing with."

"Dealing with?" He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the table. "That sounds transactional."

I smiled. "Isn't everything?"

A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest. "I suppose that depends on what's being exchanged."

The waiter returned with our appetizers—a delicate foie gras terrine for him, and an artfully plated burrata with heirloom tomatoes for me.

Lawrence picked up his fork, his movements effortless, controlled. "And what exactly did your research tell you about me, Miss Sterling?"

I matched his posture, cutting into my burrata with precision. "That you're successful. Powerful. Mysterious." I took a bite, letting the flavors settle before continuing. "But also careful. Too careful."

He raised a brow. "And what does that mean?"

"It means your wealth has no traceable origin." I set my fork down, meeting his gaze head-on. "And that kind of mystery? It's never innocent."

For the first time tonight, something flickered behind his eyes—something unreadable.

Then, he smiled.

A slow, deliberate smile.

"You're bold."

I took another sip of my wine, unaffected. "You invited me to dinner. Surely, you knew that already."

He exhaled softly, shaking his head. "You're different from what I expected."

"Good," I said, dabbing my lips with the linen napkin. "I hate being predictable."

Our entrees arrived, the rich aroma of butter-poached lobster mingling with the deep, earthy scent of Wagyu steak.

But as I picked up my fork again, I realized something.

I might have done my research on Lawrence Winston.

But this wasn't just a dinner.

This was a test.

And I wasn't sure whether I was passing… or playing right into his hands.