Lena didn't expect him to agree.
But he did.
That made him more dangerous.
By noon, the entire house had changed.
A new driver.
A new assistant.
A schedule waiting for her on the table.
Precise. Controlled. Calculated.
Just like him.
Lena glanced at the paper.
Meetings. Lunch. Charity event.
Every hour accounted for.
She smiled faintly.
So this was his version of "not controlling."
"Mrs. Carter."
She looked up.
The assistant stood beside her.
"Mr. Carter asked me to deliver this."
A black box.
Elegant. Expensive.
Of course.
"What is it?" Lena asked.
"A dress for tonight's event."
Lena didn't open it immediately.
Instead—
"Did he pick it himself?"
"Yes."
She let out a soft breath.
Then finally opened the box.
A deep black gown.
Silk. Smooth. Dangerous.
Beautiful.
And very intentional.
"He has good taste," Lena said calmly.
Then she closed the box.
"Send it back."
The assistant froze.
"I'm sorry… what?"
"I said," Lena repeated,
"send it back."
Silence.
Uncomfortable. Tense.
"No," a voice cut in.
Low. Familiar.
Ethan stood at the doorway.
Watching.
The assistant immediately stepped back.
"I'll leave you two."
The door closed.
Lena didn't turn around.
"You have a habit of listening at doors?"
Ethan walked in slowly.
"I have a habit of fixing mistakes."
That made her smile.
Finally, she turned.
"And what mistake is that?"
His gaze dropped briefly—
to the unopened dress.
Then back to her.
"Rejecting a gift from your husband."
Lena tilted her head.
"No," she said softly.
"I'm correcting it."
Silence stretched.
Thin. Sharp.
Ethan stepped closer.
"One event," he said.
"One dress."
He paused.
"That's not control."
His voice lowered.
"That's expectation."
Lena met his eyes.
"It starts with small things."
Another step closer.
Too close again.
"You're overthinking," he murmured.
"And you're underestimating me," she replied.
A pause.
Then—
Ethan reached out again.
This time—
Not her chin.
Her wrist.
Firm.
Warm.
Unavoidable.
Lena's breath hitched—
just for a fraction of a second.
His thumb brushed lightly against her pulse.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Like he was learning her.
"Your heart is racing," he said quietly.
Lena looked at him.
Steady.
Unmoved.
"Not because of you."
Something shifted in his eyes.
Darker.
Sharper.
More dangerous.
His grip tightened—just slightly.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to remind.
"Wear the dress tonight," he said.
Not a request.
Lena glanced down at his hand on her wrist.
Then back at him.
"Let go," she said.
He didn't.
For one second.
Two.
Three.
Then—
He released her.
Slowly.
"7 p.m.," he said.
And turned to leave.
At the door, he stopped.
"If you don't show up," he added,
"I'll come get you myself."
The door closed.
Silence again.
Lena stood there, unmoving.
Her wrist still burning where his fingers had been.
She looked at the box.
The dress.
Then away.
A faint smile appeared.
"Good," she whispered.
Finally—
a real game.
And this time—
she wasn't the one being played.