When Dexter arrived the next evening, Hina was ready. She had chosen a sleek black dress, simple but elegant, with a modest slit along the side. The fabric hugged her figure just enough to command attention but remained tastefully understated. It wasn’t a dress that screamed for validation. It whispered power.
Tonight, she wasn’t just dressing for herself. She was dressing for him, but not in the way most women did. This wasn’t about seduction. This was strategy. She wanted to see if Dexter Volkov, the man who walked into her life like a storm, could be shaken.
When the knock came at her door, her heartbeat quickened, but she took a slow, deliberate breath before answering. He won’t see me flustered.
Dexter stood on the other side, dressed in a sharp black suit, his broad shoulders framed by the soft glow of the hallway light. No tie, just the first two buttons of his dress shirt undone, revealing a hint of his chest. Power radiated from him, not loud but steady, like a constant hum in the air. His eyes moved over her slowly, his gaze dragging from her face to her feet and back up.
“Black suits you,” he said, his deep voice sending a ripple of warmth down her spine.
“Doesn’t it always?” she replied with a slight tilt of her head. Her confidence was unshaken, and that seemed to amuse him.
Without a word, he extended his arm. She hesitated for a fraction of a second before accepting it. His arm was firm under her touch, his strength evident in every subtle shift of his muscles. Their steps echoed softly as they descended to the car waiting outside. A sleek, jet-black Mercedes with tinted windows. The kind of car that told people everything and nothing at the same time.
The drive was quiet, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a charged silence, each of them keenly aware of the other’s presence. Hina glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He looked out the window, his fingers tapping an idle rhythm on the armrest. He wasn’t impatient—he was calculating.
“Do you always rent out restaurants for dinner?” she asked, breaking the quiet.
His gaze shifted to her, calm and steady. “Privacy has its price.”
“Privacy or control?” she pressed, her tone laced with subtle challenge.
He didn’t answer immediately, his eyes lingering on hers for a moment longer than necessary. Then he leaned in, his lips tugging into a slow, knowing smirk. “Both.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t argue. At least he’s honest.
---
The Restaurant
The car rolled to a stop in front of an inconspicuous building on a quiet street. No grand entrance, no flashing lights—just a simple, elegant exterior. But Hina knew better than to judge a place by its cover. This was the kind of place that didn’t need to prove itself.
Leonid, Dexter’s right-hand man, stepped out of the front passenger seat and opened her door. He didn’t say a word, just nodded in acknowledgment. She nodded back, stepping out with poise.
“Ms. Lee,” he said with a hint of respect.
“Leonid,” she replied, her eyes sharp but polite.
Dexter was already at her side, his presence a wall of calm authority. He placed a hand lightly on the small of her back, guiding her toward the entrance. She stiffened at the touch but didn’t pull away. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
Inside, the atmosphere was warm but elegant. Dim lighting, soft amber glow from hanging fixtures, and the faint hum of classical music. The air smelled of seared meat, fresh herbs, and wine aged to perfection. The kind of place where men in suits and women in designer gowns shared whispered conversations over candlelit tables.
The maître d’ greeted Dexter by name, his smile tight but deferential. They know him here. She glanced at Dexter, watching the way he barely nodded in return. He didn’t need to speak to be acknowledged. Power like his was silent but absolute.
They were led to a private section near the back, separated by a subtle partition of frosted glass. A single table waited for them, adorned with candles that flickered gently. No other patrons in sight.
"Did you rent out the whole place?" she asked as she took her seat.
"Just this section," he replied, removing his suit jacket and draping it over his chair. He rolled up his sleeves slowly, revealing the tattoos on his forearms—symbols she didn’t recognize but knew held meaning. She wanted to ask, but she knew better. Not yet.
“Why the privacy?” she asked, watching him carefully. “Afraid of being seen with me?”
His gaze lifted, sharp but amused. “No, solnishko. I just don’t like to share.”
Her heart betrayed her with a small skip, but she masked it with a sip of water. “Possessiveness is a dangerous trait.”
“Only if it’s unwarranted.”
Their eyes met, an unspoken battle of wills. She didn’t blink. Neither did he.
---
The Dinner
The waiter arrived, offering them menus, but Dexter waved it away. “Two chef’s specials,” he ordered without hesitation.
Hina arched a brow. “Ordering for me now?”
“You’ll like it,” he said simply, his eyes never leaving hers.
Her gaze didn’t falter. “You seem very sure of yourself, Volkov.”
His smile was slow, calculated. “That’s because I’m rarely wrong.”
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her chin lightly balanced on her hands. Her eyes met his, unwavering. “What happens when you are?”
The air grew heavier. His jaw ticked once, his fingers curling loosely on the table. “I fix it,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.
Of course, he does. She didn’t expect any other answer.
---
The Conversation
Halfway through their meal, Hina set her fork down and leaned back. Her eyes studied him, not as a man, but as a subject to be analyzed. “You’re not used to being questioned, are you?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t mind it from you.”
“Why?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “Why me?”
Dexter wiped the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin, his gaze thoughtful. “You’re not afraid of me.”
“Should I be?” she challenged.
His eyes darkened. Not with anger, but with something heavier. “Yes.”
Her breath caught, but she didn’t look away. “If I was afraid, I wouldn’t be here.”
For the first time, she saw it. Not power. Not pride. Vulnerability. It was subtle, barely there, but she caught it. He wasn’t used to being challenged, but he wasn’t used to being understood either.
---
The Exit
Dinner ended. Dexter paid in cash, an envelope handed discreetly to the maître d’ without a single word exchanged. Hina watched it all. He didn’t just control a room—he controlled perception.
As they exited, the cool night air hit her skin, and for a moment, she felt the weight of his gaze on her again.
“You could have chosen anyone,” she said as they stood on the sidewalk, waiting for the car. “Why me?”
“Because you see me,” he replied, his voice quiet but firm.
Her eyes flickered with something unspoken. She understood more than she wanted to. Danger doesn’t just wear masks. It wears vulnerability too.
The car pulled up. Leonid opened the door. She moved to step inside but paused, turning to look at him over her shoulder.
“Careful, Volkov,” she said, her eyes sharp. “You might start to think I belong to you.”
His eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, she swore she saw something raw flicker beneath his calm exterior.
His reply was a low, quiet promise. “Solnishko, I already do.”
Her heart stopped, then kicked back into a rhythm far too fast for her liking. She slid into the car, hands gripping her coat as she stared out the window. Her reflection stared back, lips pressed into a tight line.
Don’t fall for it, Hina.
But her heart didn’t listen. Not that night. Not ever.
End of Chapter 4
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