6. Sophia

Oliver doesn”t speak immediately. Finally, he stands and gestures to the hall beyond.

”Come on,” he says gruffly. ”I”ll show you around.”

We leave the remnants of dinner behind us and step into the hallway, where portraits of Faulkners past peer down at us from gilded frames, their eyes following our every move.

As we walk, Oliver points out various ancestors and their contributions to both Ravencourt and the family. His voice is low but clear as he recounts their history—a litany of pride and pain that seems to weigh heavily on him.

”I am sorry for that display,” he says without looking at me. ”I was worried that might happen. Now you understand.”

”Understand what?” I ask, ”The weight of carrying a name?”

He stops in front of a portrait of a stern-looking man with eyes too similar to his own. ”The weight of expectations that don’t make sense,” he corrects quietly and gestures at the portrait. ”My grandfather. My mother’s father. A notorious believer in the black arts. Just between us, while my father may pay lip service to my mother’s memory in public, the truth is he never loved her. I think you see that now.”

The room blurs for a minute. I see the burden he carries, the man behind the temper and the guarded smile. The Faulkners are flawed and fierce, but as capable of emotional savagery as anyone else. They’re just people.

People I’ve been sent to spy on.

Our reflections stare back at us from the glass protecting the painting. We”re an unlikely pair, thrown together by design. For just a moment, as our eyes meet in the reflection, I see past Oliver”s armor to the anxiety beneath—the same vulnerability Michael had suggested earlier.

But then it”s gone as quickly as it appeared, hidden once more behind walls built by generations of Faulkners before him. And yet, despite everything—despite Kray”s manipulations and Howard”s outbursts—I find myself wanting to breach those walls.

Not for ambition or intrigue but for something far more dangerous: understanding Oliver Faulkner, not as my employer or a Lord of Ravencourt, but as a man fighting to define his place in the world.

The grandeur of the Faulkner estate looms around us. Oliver leads me through more opulent hallways, past grand rooms that feel more like museum exhibits than living spaces.

I”m acutely aware of every glance he throws my way, every casual brush of his arm against mine as we wander. Here, away from prying eyes, the air between us thrums even louder than in the limo—a tension grown from repressed desire, from avoiding a connection that would be highly inappropriate.

”This place,” Oliver murmurs as we pause before another family portrait in the library, ”it”s more than just stone. It’s a legacy I carry no matter what. To put it down would be a failure of the worst kind. And yet….” His voice softens, a hint of vulnerability creeping into his tone as his gaze meets mine. “My life is full of temptations to do just that.”

I step closer without thinking, drawn by the raw honesty in his voice. Our hands brush as we both reach out to trace the back of a gilded chair—a touch electric enough to make me gasp softly. ”I can see the weight you carry,” I whisper back, unable to tear my eyes away from his. ”It’s in your eyes, Oliver.”

We stand in silence for a heartbeat, the tension between us so palpable it”s almost another presence in the room. I can see the conflict playing out across his face—as he leans in just slightly.

”Sophia, I—” Oliver begins, his voice barely above a whisper.

The rest of his sentence hangs between us, unspoken but felt all the same.

His breath fans across my face, warm and stirring a cascade of shivers down my neck. I try to look away, but his amber eyes lock onto mine, flickering with an intensity that seems to strip away the layers I”ve built around myself. What are we doing here? This is not the direction I want to go, but I feel like I’m being pulled to him by some outside irresistible force.

”Oliver, I should be honest—” The words catch in my throat, and I”m not sure what I”m confessing to—the undeniable pull between us or the fear that we”re teetering on the edge of something unstoppable.

I can sense his restraint, too, the tension in his body. His hand hovers near mine, close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from his skin. Every rational thought screams at me to step back, but desire roots me to the spot.

”Don’t be honest,” he says, his voice husky. ”I know what you are, and I want to pretend—.” He cuts off abruptly, his gaze dropping to my lips before snapping back up to meet my eyes. “I want to pretend it doesn’t matter.”

He”s too reckless, headstrong, and impulsive— yet not nearly enough. A part of me wants to close the distance, to confirm if the fire I see in his eyes will ignite into something that consumes us both. But a whisper of caution tugs at the corner of my mind.

He”s your boss, and he has a reputation for seducing his assistants.

Yet, the connection feels irresistible. It terrifies me not because it might be a lie but because it might be the truth.

He swallows hard, and I see his jaw clench as he battles whatever storm is raging within him. His lips are so close to mine, yet I refuse to be the one who leans in.

Finally, he breathes out and steps back. ”I vowed I wouldn’t let this happen again. I apologize, Sophia. I will write to Kray tomorrow. We can”t do this,” he says, making a warding gesture with his hands as if I were a witch. “You were sent here to work for me. At least that’s the story, right?”

A mixture of relief and indignation washes over me. He”s right; there are lines we shouldn”t cross. Not now, not when there”s so much at stake—his reputation, my career, and, if the ranting fears of an old man hold any truth, the security of Ravencourt”s most elite charity event.

But he has a lot of nerve to think I’d give it all up to jump his bones.

He runs a hand through his unruly hair, flexing the eyebrow with the scar. ”I think you should find another job,” he says with effort, each word clipped and businesslike. ”As much as I want to trust you, I’m almost positive you”re Kray”s creature. If you”d admit it, I could fire you and then….” Oliver turns away from me then, his frame rigid with tension.

I feel a cold anger rise from within me. This man, my boss, is awfully quick to assume that I want to bed him. I take a step forward, my voice sharpening with every word.

”Then what?” I say, the heat of my anger flaring with each syllable. ” You fire me so we can fuck? Is that how you think things work, Oliver? You dismiss me as just another item on your to-do list? If you clear a path, then I’ll jump in bed with you? What kind of twisted logic is that? Do you think you can take me here, on the floor? On the library table? Do you think I want that? Is that all any woman has ever wanted from you? If so, I’m sorry for you. I am.”

Oh, sweet angels, I do want him, but I refuse to let him know that!

I gesture around us to the vast room lined with books—a silent audience to centuries of who knows what kinds of deception. ”Am I just another convenient conquest—like every other assistant?”

I can see his shoulders stiffen further, the muscles beneath his jacket winding tighter as if bracing against my words. But it”s not just anger that fuels me now; it”s resentment at being so grossly underestimated.

Oliver turns slowly to face me, and there”s a flash of something in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or guilt. ”Sophia—” he starts, oozing charm. But I cut him off.

”No,” I snap. You don’t get to play that card after what you”ve just suggested.”

My breath comes fast, my chest rising and falling with the force of my frustration, sexual or otherwise. This guy is maddeningly oblivious.

”You think because of who you are, a Faulkner--a baby billionaire no less--that you can toy with people”s lives? That you get to decide if someone is a person or just a plaything? That you can string them along until they”re no longer useful?”

He looks taken aback, and for a moment, I wonder if anyone has ever dared speak to him this way.

”I”m not one of your toys,” I continue, each word punctuated with a mix of scorn and hurt. ”I came here to work, to prove myself in an industry dominated by your kind. And you—”

I pause, breathing to steady myself before delivering the final blow.

”You”re nothing but an entitled little lordling,” I finish sharply. “A wolf who thinks he”s lord of the manor who can’t even stand up to his own family.”

The second I say those words, I regret them.

Oliver”s expression darkens. The playful arrogance that usually dances in his eyes is snuffed out by something else now—shame perhaps, or possibly fury. Watching him try to regain control is like watching someone wrestle an alligator—but I”m the one who will get bit!

”Well, that was harsh,” he says after a moment. His voice is lower now, almost a whisper, but his eyes blaze with fury. ”I’ll take your input under advisement.” He looks away from me then as if he can”t bear the weight of my stare any longer.

There”s a tense silence between us. We’ve both crossed lines we shouldn”t have even approached. And he has every right to fire me for insubordination.

Of course, Kray will eat this up with a spoon, but I can’t stand the taste in my mouth and vow never to let this conversation leave the room.

The silence is so heavy I can almost touch it. Oliver”s face is a mask of restraint, his eyes dark pools I can”t read at all.

My breath comes in shallow bursts, as even now, I can”t deny feeling both apprehension…and attraction for this wolf shifter.

Who”s the bigger fool, then?

A sharp ring slices through the stillness. Oliver”s phone.

He fumbles for the device, his expression shifting from personal anguish to professional alertness. ”Yes?” he answers, his voice weirdly calm again.

I stand frozen, the sudden intrusion grounding me back to reality. The righteous anger that had blossomed inside me is rapidly cooling into a knot of anxiety.

Oliver listens intently, his jaw tightening with every second that passes. He ends the call with a curt, ”On our way. Do nothing.” Then he pockets his phone, his gaze meeting mine with newfound urgency.

We stand there for a moment, both of us hesitant to move. The weight of our confrontation still hangs between us, but this new crisis casts a shadow that swallows our personal grievances whole.

”Let”s go. We”re urgently needed at the Crimson Ballroom,” he says, and there”s no room for argument in his tone.

”Both of us?” My tone is a little surprised.

”Ms. Carter. You”ve made it clear that staying on this team is your priority. I plan to hold you to that. Now, come on. I”ll drive.”

When we get outside, I see what he plans to drive is a red and white Ducati motorcycle--the kind with an elevated passenger seat. I look at my gorgeous red gown and heels.

Mother-loving demons of hell. This guy is gonna be the death of me.