Chapter 3 - The Deed on the Table
Claire did not sit down immediately. She stood beside the velvet curtain, her arms folded tightly over her chest, watching Adrian slide back into his seat with the smooth, terrifying grace that made everyone in the room look clumsy by comparison.
Two waiters appeared instantly, moving like ghosts to pour sparkling water into her glass and place a linen napkin across her lap the moment she finally dropped into the chair.
"Leave the bottle," Adrian told the head waiter without looking up.
The waiters vanished behind the curtain.
Claire reached out, picked up her wine glass, and took a long, deliberate sip of the Barolo. It was velvety, rich, and probably cost more than her shop's electric bill for the month.
"Where is the deed, Adrian?" she demanded, setting the glass down with a sharp clack.
Adrian reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a heavy cream envelope sealed with red wax. He laid it flat on the white tablecloth, directly between her cutlery.
"It’s registered under Bennett Custom Tailoring LLC," Adrian said neutrally. "Zero mortgage. Zero municipal liens. The property tax for the next three years has been pre-paid into an escrow account at Commerce Bank."
Claire stared at the envelope. Her fingers trembled slightly against her napkin.
For three years, she had stayed awake until two in the morning, staring at her ledger, calculating how many dresses she needed to alter just to keep Henderson from locking the doors. That shop was her grandfather’s legacy. It was the place where her mother had taught her how to hold a darning needle when she was seven years old.
And now, sitting beside a plate of handmade tagliatelle, it was completely hers.
"Why?" Claire asked, her voice losing its angry edge, dropping into something quiet and vulnerable that seemed to make Adrian uncomfortable.
Adrian looked down at his glass, turning it slowly between his long fingers.
"Because Henderson was a parasite," Adrian said flatly. "He was charging you three thousand dollars a month for a building with a leaking roof and thirty-year-old plumbing. It irritated me."
"You bought a three-story brick building in South Philly because my landlord irritated you?"
"I bought it because you were working fourteen hours a day to pay for his third divorce," Adrian corrected, his gray eyes locking onto hers with sudden, piercing intensity. "You spend your life fixing things for other people, Claire. Your mother's medical bills. Bride's gowns. Ethan Hayes’s broken studio equipment. You fix everyone except yourself."
Claire felt a lump form in her throat. She looked away, staring at the candle flame flickering between them.
"I don't need a savior, Adrian," she whispered. "I've taken care of myself since I was twenty."
"I know," Adrian said softly. He reached across the table—a slow, deliberate movement—and placed his hand over hers. His palm was warm, rough, and completely steady. "That’s why I bought the building. Not to save you. But to give you a floor that doesn't shake."
Claire looked down at his hand covering hers. The contrast was stark—her small, pale fingers with faint pin-pricks on the thumb, held beneath his large, scarred hand that carried the quiet weight of an entire city’s underworld.
"This doesn't mean I'm your date for the Mid-Winter Ball," Claire said, trying desperately to sound stern, though her voice lacked any real conviction.
Adrian’s lips twitched. "The Mid-Winter Ball is tomorrow night, Claire."
"I know when it is."
"And you don't have a gown."
Claire raised her chin proudly. "I am a dressmaker, Adrian. I can make a gown in four hours."
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Adrian leaned back in his chair, taking a slow sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving her face.
"Then make something green," he murmured, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety tone that made her skin prickle with heat. "To match your eyes when you're telling me to go to hell."
