Page 23 of Trained In Sin

Seb

A slow smile spreads across my face. Perfect. She's not fighting it anymore. She's participating.

"The cologne goes out tonight," I tell Danny when I call him. "Same delivery service, her home address. Make sure it arrives after seven, when she's settled in for the evening."

"Already arranged, Mr. Blackwood."

After Danny disconnects, I lean back in my chair, satisfaction coursing through me. The campaign is working exactly as planned. Where before she threw my gifts away in fear, now she's keeping them. Wearing them. Thinking about me every time she looks in the mirror.

But it's not enough to simply send gifts. I need to be visible, present in her world. Not lurking in shadows like some common stalker but appearing at the right moments to remind her that I'm real, that what happened between us was real.

That I'm not going anywhere.

I check my watch, 4:30. She'll be leaving work within the hour. Time to position myself where she'll see me without it appearing deliberate. The art of the strategic encounter .

"Matthew," I call through the intercom. "Bring the car around."

He appears in my doorway within minutes, car keys in hand. But instead of his usual efficient nod, he's studying my face with that look I've learned to recognize, the one that means he has opinions he's considering whether to voice.

"Something on your mind?" I ask, straightening my cufflinks.

"Your schedule's been... irregular lately," he says carefully. "Three meetings cancelled this week. You missed the call with the Belgrade contacts yesterday."

"I had other priorities."

"Ms Jenkins."

It's not a question, and I don't treat it as one.

Matthew shifts his weight slightly. "Seb, I've worked for you for five years. In that time, you've never missed a business call. Never cancelled meetings without rescheduling. Your focus has always been absolute."

"Your point?"

"My point is that you're distracted. Unfocused. This level of... investment in one person isn't like you."

I stand, moving to the window that overlooks the city. Somewhere out there, Saphy is sitting at her desk, wearing my lipstick, looking at my roses. The thought sends a familiar heat through my chest.

"Perhaps my priorities are evolving," I say finally.

"Are they? Or are just obsessed? "

The question hangs in the air between us. Matthew is the only person alive who would dare ask it, and we both know it. Five years of loyalty has earned him certain privileges, including the right to speak truths I don't want to hear.

"Would it matter if I was?" I turn to face him. "Would you try to talk me out of it?"

"I'd try to understand it. This woman, Saphy, she's not like the others. She's not impressed by your money or your power. She's been actively avoiding you for weeks. Most people would take that as a sign to move on."

"I'm not most people."

"No," Matthew agrees. "You're not. Which is why this concerns me. You've built an empire by being calculating, strategic, emotional removed from your decisions. This feels... different."

He's right, and I hate that he's right. Every choice I've made in business has been based on logic, probability, return on investment. Emotion has never entered the equation because emotion makes you weak, makes you vulnerable.

But Saphy isn't a business decision. She's something else entirely, a need I can't quantify or explain.

"She kissed me back," I say quietly. "Friday night, in that alley. I challenged her to prove she felt nothing, and instead she proved the opposite. She wants this as much as I do. She's just too afraid to admit it."

"And if you're wrong? If she really doesn't want this?"

The question hits something dark in my chest. "Then I'll deal with that when it happens. "

Matthew nods slowly, but I can see the concern in his eyes. "Where are we going?"

"The café on Mill Street. She goes there sometimes after work." I move toward the door, already planning the encounter. "I want to be visible, but not obviously waiting for her. Like I'm there for my own reasons."

"And if she doesn't show?"

"Then we try again tomorrow. And the day after that. Until she realizes that avoiding me is futile."

The drive across the city gives me time to think, to plan.

The gifts are working, softening her defences, keeping me in her thoughts.

But they're only one part of the strategy.

She needs to see me in person, to remember what it feels like to be in the same space as me.

To recall the electricity that sparked between us.

The café is busy with the afternoon crowd, professionals grabbing coffee before heading home, students with laptops sprawled across every available table.

I choose a seat with a clear view of the entrance and the street beyond, positioning myself where I'll be visible but not obviously lying in wait.

I order an espresso I don't particularly want and open my phone to review emails, creating the appearance of a man conducting business rather than conducting surveillance.

At 5:15, I see her.

She's walking down Mill Street with purpose, her burgundy coat bright against the grey autumn afternoon. But she's not heading for the café, she's walking past it, toward the tube station.

Perfect .

I leave money on the table and exit through the side door, timing it so that I emerge onto the sidewalk just as she passes. Not following her, not chasing her, simply occupying the same space at the same moment.

She sees me immediately. I watch her step falter, her eyes widen slightly, that telltale flush creep up her neck. She's remembering. Remembering the taste of me, the feel of my hands on her skin.

"Saphy," I say, my voice carefully neutral. A pleasant surprise, nothing more.

"Sebastian." Her voice is breathless, and I can see her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. "What are you doing here?"

"Coffee meeting," I lie smoothly. "You?"

"Just... heading home." Her eyes dart to the café behind me, then back to my face. She's trying to determine if this is coincidence or calculation, and I let her wonder.

We stand there for a moment, traffic flowing around us, neither moving to leave. The tension between us is thick enough to cut, sexual, electric, dangerous. I can see her fighting it, see her trying to maintain distance even as every line of her body tells me she wants to step closer.

"You look beautiful," I tell her, because it's true and because I want to see that flush deepen. "That shade suits you."

Her hand flies unconsciously to her lips, my lipstick, the one she chose to wear after I sent it to her. The gesture is telling, and we both know it.

"I should go," she says, but she doesn't move .

I step slightly closer, noting how she doesn't step back. "You should, or you want to?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning. She could walk away right now. Could end this conversation, this encounter, this entire dangerous game we're playing. But she doesn't.

"Sebastian..." My name on her lips sounds like a warning and an invitation all at once.

"I know," I say quietly. "You have a life. Obligations. Safe choices that make sense." I let my eyes travel over her face, memorizing every detail. "But knowing something and wanting something are different things entirely."

She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again. I can see the war playing out in her expression, duty battling desire, fear fighting want.

"Think about it," I tell her, then step back, giving her space. "Think about what you really want, not what you think you should want."

Before she can respond, I turn and walk away, leaving her standing on the sidewalk with her lips parted and her chest rising and falling rapidly.

The encounter lasted less than three minutes, but it achieved exactly what I intended. She'll think about it all evening, the way I looked at her, the way her body responded to my proximity, the question I posed that she couldn't answer.

Back in the car, Matthew is waiting with his usual patient expression.

"Successful encounter?" he asks as we pull away from the curb .

"Very." I check my watch. "The cologne should be delivered within the hour. By the time she receives it, she'll be thoroughly unsettled."

"And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow we let her process. Let her think about the choice I've given her." I lean back against the leather seat, already anticipating her reaction to the final gift. "She's fighting herself now, not me. That's always easier to win."

Matthew navigates through traffic while I plan the next phase. The gifts have served their purpose, establishing my presence in her daily life. The strategic appearances will reinforce that I'm not going away, that this isn't a fantasy she can dismiss.

But eventually, she'll have to choose. And when she does, I intend to be ready.

My phone buzzes with a text from Wilson about the riverside development project. Business continues, of course. Deals need to be closed, meetings need to be attended, the empire needs to be maintained.

But for the first time in years, business feels secondary to something else. Something more important than profit margins and property acquisitions.

"Matthew," I say as we approach Syren. "Clear my schedule for tomorrow afternoon."

"All of it?"

"All of it. I have a feeling I'm going to need the flexibility. "

He doesn't ask for details, but I can see his concern in the rearview mirror. He thinks I'm losing focus, becoming dangerously obsessed with one woman at the expense of everything I've built.

He might be right.

But as I picture Saphy standing on that sidewalk, wearing my lipstick and fighting her own desires, I find I don't particularly care.

Some things are worth the risk. Some people are worth changing your entire world for.

And Saphy Jenkins is definitely one of them.

*

The confirmation of the cologne delivery comes at 7:23 PM. I watch my phone as the notification pops up: "Package delivered. Signature confirmed."

I can picture her surprise. The first two gifts were workplace deliveries. Professional, relatively safe. But this one is personal, intimate. Delivered to her home, her private space, where she can't maintain professional distance.

By now she'll have opened it. Read the message. Maybe even sprayed a small amount, breathing in the scent that will remind her exactly what it felt like to be pressed against me in that alley.

The thought sends heat through my veins, and I have to resist the urge to drive to her building, to see her reaction for myself. But that would be pushing too hard, too fast. The art of seduction requires patience, timing, the perfect balance of advance and retreat.

Tomorrow I'll give her space to think. To remember. To want.

And then we'll see just how strong her resolve really is.

Because I'm betting it's not nearly as strong as she thinks it is.

And I'm rarely wrong about these things.