Chapter Five
Jeffrey didn't end the call immediately.
His mind swirled and let Damon's laugh roll through the speakers a second longer, like background music to a thought he wasn't ready to name.
"So?" Damon prodded, voice lazy, surfer-smooth. "Rate the dinner, big bro. One to ten."
Jason's tone cut in, dryer. "Don't answer that. We're not rating people. We're assessing risk."
Jeffrey leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. "Relax. It was dinner, not a merger." A beat. "Seven for the food. Nine for the conversation."
Damon let out a low whistle. "Nine? For conversation? That's basically an engagement ring from you."
Jason chuckled. "Translation: she challenged him. Good. Someone needs to."
Jeffrey's mouth tugged at one corner. "She didn't flinch. Not at the room, not at me, not at the name. That's… unusual."
"Unusual isn't a strategy," Jason said. Papers rustled on his end, of course he was still at the office. "Mother will ask for progress tomorrow. Set expectations before she sets them for you."
"Already handled," Jeffrey replied. His gaze slid to the window, the city a map of electric veins. "I dropped Diane at her parents' door. She walked like she knew they'd watched the whole drive from a window."
Damon snorted. "The Daltons always watch. Ocean's got nothing on that undertow."
Jason's voice softened a notch. "Jeff, don't do the thing where you test people until they break. If you want out, say it clean. If you're in, act like it."
Jeffrey tapped the rim of his glass, the sound crisp. "Who said anything about out?"
A brief silence. Then Damon: "Oh, he's cooked."
Jason's laugh was audible this time. "Then be deliberate. Start with neutral ground tomorrow. No entourages. No games."
Jeffrey ended the call with a soft click, Damian's "text us updates, lover boy" still echoing, and set the glass down untouched. Across the dark pane, his reflection stared back, composure carved into bone. He picked up his phone and typed without overthinking:
Jeffrey: Breakfast. 8 a.m. Neutral spot. Your pick. (Unless you're afraid I'll charm the staff.)
Delivered.
He didn't wait for dots. He didn't need them. He had already decided what came next.
---
At the Dalton estate, Diane paused on the landing before her bedroom, shoes dangling from one hand. Her mother had left the lights on in the hallway, a small long island of light. The moment she stepped into her room, her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Breakfast. 8 a.m. Neutral spot. Your pick. (Unless you're afraid I'll charm the staff.)
Her lips curved despite herself. "He did not," she murmured, dropping the stilettos on a plush ottoman. She typed back before she could second-guess it.
Diane: I'm not afraid of your "charm." The Glasshouse, 8:15. If you're late, I leave.
Jeffrey: Noted. Wear whatever makes you feel dangerous.
Diane: That would be anything I own. Goodnight, Mr. Black.
Jeffrey: Sweet dreams, Miss Dalton. Try not to plan my defeat in your sleep.
A laugh slipped out, small, unguarded. She set the phone down and caught her reflection: no makeup, hair loosened from pins, the kind of tired that comes from thinking too hard. And yet she felt… awake.
A knock. Elsa peeked in, already in a silk robe. "You're smiling," her mother said, half teasing, half relieved.
"I'm smiling at my pillow, you know how much I love my sleep," Diane replied, too quickly.
Elsa leaned against the doorframe. "He dropped you off. We… noticed."
Of course you did. "He's polite when he remembers to be. And impossible the rest of the time."
"Impossible can be interesting," Elsa said gently. "Just make sure it's also respectful."
"It will be," Diane said, and surprised herself by believing it. "Breakfast tomorrow. Neutral ground."
Elsa's brows rose. "Good. Then wear the power you built, not the armor you borrow."
Diane's laugh warmed. "That was almost poetic, Mother."
"Almost?" Elsa huffed, then smiled, kissed her daughter's forehead, and slipped out, gently closing the door behind her.
Alone, Diane dropped onto the edge of the bed and thumbed open another chat.
Diane: Emergency. Outfit consult.
Chelsea: It's midnight. Fabulous emergencies only.
Diane: Breakfast with the royal catastrophe.
Chelsea: OH. So he survived your spine. Time?
Diane: 8:15. The Glasshouse.
Chelsea: Bold. Sunlight + glass = no hiding. Wear white. Clean lines. Hair down. Make him work to keep his train of thought.
Diane: I am not a weapon.
Chelsea: You are the weapon! Also, send live updates or I'll fake a fire drill.
Diane rolled her eyes, but the smile held as she crossed to her wardrobe. Racks of crisp tailored and liquid silks gleamed like a promise. She ran a hand along a column-cut ivory dress, simple on the hanger, lethal on a body that knew how to move.
"I don't need armor," she told the dress. "I am the storm."
Her phone buzzed once more. Not Jeffrey. Her father.
Dad: Proud of you. Your pace, your rules. Sleep.
Her chest eased. She set the device face down and plugged it in, an habit that has formed through years of waking up to work, laid the dress across a chair, and finally slid beneath the duvet. The house quieted. The city didn't. Somewhere across town, another light burned.
---
Across the river, Jason shut his case file and rubbed his eyes. Damon tossed a tennis ball at the ceiling and caught it again, restless by nature.
"You believe him?" Damon asked, not looking over.
Jason considered. "About what?"
"About not playing games with her."
Jason's mouth slanted. "Jeff never plays games. He runs them. But, " He paused. "He listens to the person who refuses the board."
Damon snorted. "Then she's the person."
"Maybe." Jason capped his pen. "If she is, he'll surprise Mother. And himself."
Damon caught the ball, sat up, grinning. "Good. I'm bored."
---
Jeffrey stood on his balcony, phone in his palm, the city's night air cool against his collar. The Glasshouse. A bright, exposed space, steel, sunlight, no shadows. Brave choice.
He typed and deleted a dozen impulses he would never send, then settled for one instruction to his PA: "No morning meetings before 10. And find out who designed The Glasshouse uniforms."
He slipped the phone into his pocket and exhaled. Morning wasn't a battle. It was a test of velocity: who could accelerate without losing control.
He smiled to no one. "See you at 8:15, Miss Dalton."
---
Diane woke before her alarm, the way she always did on days that mattered, she felt like her body was gearing up for battle. Shower. Serum. Hair down in glossy waves. The ivory dress skimmed like a secret; a thin belt cinched power at her waist. She laced minimalist heels and slid on a pair of white diamond studs small enough to whisper, bright enough to remind.
Chelsea's text landed like confetti.
Chelsea: Send photo or I call the paparazzi.
Diane: Over my beautiful, weaponized body.
Chelsea: That's my girl. Go be dangerous.
Diane laughed, grabbed her clutch, and headed downstairs. As the front door opened, morning light spilled across the marble. Her parents weren't in the hall, but she felt their attention the way sailors feel the wind, unseen, undeniable.
"Your pace," she murmured, echoing her father, and stepped into the day.