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A smile beams on her face.

I glare at her in return.

I’m supposed to be the master manipulator.

The one in charge.

Not this butterfly-loving woman who wants to save the world.

She isn’t supposed to be bringing me to my knees like this.

Genesis pours the sauce over the spaghetti and scoops it into a serving bowl, and my cock jerks as I watch her move around the kitchen like she owns it.

Like it’s hers and she’s here to stay.

I follow her with the bread to the dining room. Just like cooking in the kitchen, I’ve never eaten a meal in here. The dinner table seats eight, like it belongs in a home where home-cooked meals are served regularly.

The walls are an earthy green—a must that I gave the interior designer. It was my mother’s favorite color. Tall windows line one wall, and rain pings against them as a roll of thunder echoes around us.

As Genesis situates everything, I return to the kitchen for the wine bottle and glasses. Realizing the bottle is only half full, I snag another from the wine fridge and uncork it.

When I return, Genesis dims the lights and sits. She’s created this intimate, romantic ambience that’s melting all the unhappiness of the day off me.

I take the chair beside her at the head of the table. My focus stays on her as she makes herself comfortable, and the candles flicker between us.

She’s so damn breathtaking.

I’m not speaking just physically beautiful either.

Her beauty radiates from the inside out. I’ve never witnessed such a compassionate heart.

Here she is, having dinner with a man who’s the complete opposite.

Granted, she didn’t have much choice, but she hasn’t tried to run once.

In fact, she’s done nothing but try to get closer through the years we’ve known each other. I don’t know if the good person in her thinks she can rub that humanity off on me, but she’s wrong. She could cut out half her heart and hand it to me, and it still wouldn’t be enough to fill the void in my chest.

I’m ruined.

I’ve been that way since childhood, when my future was decided for me.

I tip my head forward, motioning for her to serve herself. She fills her plate with spaghetti and grabs a slice of bread as I fill our glasses.

“Thank you,” I say as she grabs my plate and does the same. “No one has ever done something like this for me.”

Not that I’ve given anyone the chance to.

She’s the first woman I’ve ever let step foot into my home.

“You’re welcome.” She smiles, wrapping a noodle around her fork. “No one has ever paid a million dollars for me before. It’s kind of hard to pay someone back for that, but food is a nice start.”

I take a bite, moaning as I swallow it down, and point at my plate. “This right here makes up for that and more.”

The small taste test I did earlier didn’t do the sauce justice.

It has the perfect ratio of tomatoes, garlic, and seasoning with a touch of sweetness. My mother always added a dash of sugar to everything.

She grins, just like she did in the kitchen when I broke down and declared this a dinner date.