Chapter 7: Dinner with a View

Thirty minutes later, Mia Collins stepped out of her car in front of a rooftop restaurant that didn't even have a sign—just a velvet rope, a polished host, and a view that could steal your breath.

Typical Liam.

She was greeted and escorted straight to the top, where the city unfolded like a glittering jewel beneath her. The sky had turned dusky purple, the stars just beginning to pierce through the haze of city lights. Fairy lights wrapped around the terrace, casting a warm, dreamy glow. Smooth jazz drifted from the speakers, blending with the quiet clinking of glasses and murmured conversations.

And there he was.

Liam Bennett stood at the far end of the rooftop in a dark grey suit that clung to his tall frame like it had been sewn onto him. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his jaw sharp, his eyes locked on her the second she appeared.

"You're early," he said as she approached.

"So are you," she returned, arching a brow.

He pulled out her chair for her. "I didn't want to risk you changing your mind."

She smirked. "You think I'm that easy to scare off?"

"I think you're the hardest woman in Manhattan to get to say yes."

"Then congratulations," she said, sitting, "you have 30 minutes to impress me."

The server appeared almost instantly, offering wine that Liam had apparently already selected. Mia lifted the glass to her lips, took a sip, and hummed in approval. "Cabernet Sauvignon from Bordeaux. 2005?"

His eyes sparkled. "Impressed?"

"I said you had 30 minutes. Don't waste it gloating."

He chuckled, settling into his seat. "You're dangerous, Mia Collins."

"And you're persistent."

There was a silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It pulsed between them like an electric current, something unsaid but unmistakably there.

He leaned forward. "So, tell me. What are you really afraid of?"

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You don't do casual. You don't flirt just to flirt. You don't let people in unless you want them there. And yet, you didn't delete my number. You came here. You let me get to you."

"I didn't let you do anything."

"Then why are you here?"

She paused, watching him. "Maybe I wanted to see if the city's most spoiled billionaire had more to offer than charm and designer suits."

"And?"

"You're trying," she said softly, "and that scares me more than I'd like to admit."

For a moment, the teasing slipped away. Liam reached across the table, his hand brushing over hers. Warm. Gentle. Steady.

"You don't have to be scared of me, Mia," he said. "I know you've been burned. So have I. But I'm not playing games with you. When I say I want to know you, I mean every piece—flaws, fury, ambition, all of it."

She stared at him, heart hammering. No one had ever said that to her before. Not without expecting something in return.

She didn't pull her hand away.

"You're serious?" she asked.

"I've never been more."

Their fingers laced for a moment, soft and tentative, like a truce.

The rest of the evening unfolded slowly, like a song. They talked—really talked. About dreams, regrets, the loneliness that sometimes came with power. About how she lost her mother young and never let herself need anyone since. About how his father's empire never once felt like his until he broke away to build his own.

They laughed over childhood memories, debated over art and architecture, and fell into a rhythm that felt so natural it startled them both.

And by the time dessert came—a shared plate of dark chocolate mousse—Mia found herself leaning in, closer than she'd meant to.

Liam's voice dropped to a murmur. "You know what I keep thinking about?"

"What?"

"That night at the gala. You, in that red dress, telling me no with a smile that made it sound like yes."

Mia flushed. "That was not a yes."

"No?" He leaned in, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "Then what's this?"

And then his lips met hers.

Soft at first, like a question. Testing. Asking.

She didn't answer with words. She kissed him back.

His hand slipped to her waist, anchoring her to him, and her fingers curled into his jacket. The kiss deepened, hungry, electric, a tangle of unspoken need and weeks of dancing around it.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Mia stared at him with wide eyes.

"I—" she began, then stopped.

"Yeah," Liam said, voice rough. "Me too."

She glanced at her watch, startled to find it had been nearly two hours.

"I was only supposed to stay thirty minutes," she whispered.

"Guess I'm good at negotiating."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. "This doesn't mean I trust you."

"I'm not asking for that yet," he said. "Just a chance to earn it."

And for the first time in years, she felt the walls inside her shift—not fall, but crack. Enough for the light to peek through.

Enough to consider the possibility of something more.