Chapter 16: The Line Drawn

Harper paced her Brooklyn apartment Friday afternoon, the hardwood creaking under her restless steps, her nerves a tight knot she couldn't unravel. Last night's return from Paris had left her reeling—Zane's whiskey-warmed confession, his hands framing her face, his growled You're still mine echoing in the elevator as she'd fled to her own space. She'd barely slept, her body humming with the memory of his touch, her mind wrestling with the messy truth of them. Today, 3 p.m., office updates at the penthouse, then dinner—his promise to "really talk"—loomed like a storm on the horizon, and she wasn't sure if she was ready for the crash.She dressed with defiance: a deep red blouse that hugged her curves, black leather skirt, heels that clicked like a challenge. No blazer, no softening—just her, bold and unapologetic, a mirror to the fire he'd lit in her. Her tablet held the office specs—dark wood shelving, a minimalist desk, brass accents—but they felt secondary, a flimsy excuse for what this day would become. She grabbed her bag and headed for Manhattan, her pulse a steady drumbeat, the city's hum a backdrop to her churning thoughts.The penthouse elevator felt like a cage, each floor ticking up her anticipation. When the doors opened at 3:02 p.m., Zane stood in the living room, leaning against the sectional, a tumbler of whiskey in hand—dark jeans, white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his gray eyes tracking her entrance with a hunger that made her stomach flip. The space was quiet, no jazz, just the faint buzz of the city beyond the windows, and the air thickened as she dropped her bag on the island, kicking off her heels."Late again," he said, his voice a low tease, setting the glass down as he crossed to her. "Habit now?""Two minutes," she shot back, spreading her sketches on the counter, her tone sharp to mask the tremor in her hands. "Office specs. Let's get it done."He smirked, stopping beside her, too close, his arm brushing hers as he picked up a sketch. "Dark wood, huh? Matches the mood."She ignored the jab, tapping the tablet to pull up a 3D render. "Shelving here, desk there—clean, functional. Your style. Thoughts?""Looks good." His eyes weren't on the screen, but on her—the red blouse, the skirt, the bare stretch of her legs. "You look better.""Focus, Zane," she said, stepping back, needing distance from his heat, his scent—cedar and whiskey, a drug she couldn't quit. "Work first.""Work's easy." He followed, his hand brushing her hip, lingering. "You're the challenge."She glared, shoving the tablet at him. "Approve it, and we're done here."He took it, his fingers grazing hers, a spark that made her breath catch, but he nodded, swiping the screen. "Approved. Now—dinner."Her chest tightened, the real battle looming. "Where?""Here." He gestured to the dining slab—still cold, still his—already set with takeout boxes, chopsticks, a bottle of sake. "No crowds. Just us."She hesitated, then nodded, settling at the table as he poured sake into small cups, the liquid clear and sharp. They ate—sushi, dumplings, silence stretching taut between bites, his eyes on her like a predator sizing up prey. The sake burned her throat, loosening her edges, and she set her chopsticks down, meeting his gaze head-on."Talk," she said, her voice steady despite the buzz in her veins. "You promised."He leaned back, sipping his sake, his jaw tightening. "You first. What do you want this to be?"She laughed, sharp and dry, pushing her plate aside. "Not doing this again. You've been calling the shots—'mine,' 'yours,' all that possessive bullshit. I need to know what's behind it."His eyes darkened, a storm brewing, and he set his cup down with a clink. "Behind it? You. You're behind it. I told you—Lauren fucked me over, left me raw. You're different, Harper. You're real. But I don't know how to let go of control."Her chest ached, his honesty cutting deeper than she'd expected. "I'm not asking you to. I'm asking you to trust me—not just with your penthouse, but with this." She gestured between them, her voice rising. "I'm not her, but I'm not a puppet either.""I don't want a puppet," he snapped, standing abrupt, pacing to the window, his back rigid. "I want you—stubborn, fiery, all of it. But trust? That's a fucking minefield.""Then we're screwed," she shot back, rising too, her heels forgotten as she stalked toward him. "Because I'm not here to beg for it. I've given you everything—my work, my body, Paris—and you're still holding back."He turned, his face a mask of frustration and want, closing the gap in two strides. "Holding back?" His voice dropped to a growl, his hands grabbing her arms, pulling her against him. "I've given you more than anyone—my bed, my secrets, my goddamn soul. What else do you want?""Truth," she hissed, shoving at his chest, but he didn't budge, his grip tightening. "Not half-answers. Are we just fucking, or is this real?"His breath hissed out, his eyes blazing, and he backed her against the window, the glass cold against her spine, his body hot against her front. "Real," he rasped, his hands sliding to her hips, digging in. "Too fucking real. That's the problem."Her pulse roared, his heat drowning her senses, and she glared up at him, defiance warring with the want pooling low. "Then act like it. Stop controlling every move.""I can't," he growled, his forehead pressing to hers, his breath ragged. "Not with you. You drive me insane—every look, every fight. I want to own you, Harper, and I hate myself for it."Her breath caught, his rawness stripping her bare, and she felt the shift—their argument tipping into something darker, hotter. "You don't own me," she whispered, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer despite her words. "But you've got me.""Fuck," he groaned, his mouth crashing down—not a kiss, not yet, just a hard press of lips, hovering, testing her. His hands slid up her skirt, gripping her thighs, lifting her against the glass, her legs parting instinctively as he pressed between them. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, the city sprawling below, a dizzying backdrop to their chaos."Tell me to stop," he muttered, his voice wrecked, his lips brushing hers, his hands trembling with restraint. "Or I'll take you right here."Her body screamed yes—her hips rocking, her skin burning where he touched—but her mind clung to the fight, the need for clarity. "Not like this," she panted, shoving him back, her legs shaky as she slid down, the glass steadying her. "Not until you trust me."He stepped back, chest heaving, raking a hand through his hair, his eyes wild with frustration and hunger. "I do trust you," he said, rough and low. "More than I should. That's what scares me."Her throat tightened, his words a lifeline she hadn't expected, and she smoothed her skirt, her hands trembling. "Then show me," she said, quieter, stepping past him to grab her bag. "Tomorrow, 2 p.m. Living room updates. No games.""No games," he echoed, watching her go, his silhouette framed by the window as the elevator doors closed—shirt rumpled, eyes burning, a promise unspoken.Back in her apartment, she collapsed onto the couch, sake and his scent clinging to her, her body a live wire of unmet need. They'd drawn a line tonight—not crossed, but teetering—and the tension, the trust, the truth of them hung in the balance, ready to ignite or break.