It was, Estelle supposed, somewhat unusual for a first date to be at someone’s residence.

A younger version of her—one less accustomed to the risks and vagaries of fame, and less conscious of what it took to avoid being followed—may have found the suggestion uncomfortable or strange.

But she could forgive the unusual location. She may have asked for the very same thing, if it had come to it. And it was a risk worth taking for someone of Julian Vargas’s caliber.

He had too much to lose to be anything other than a gentleman. Right?

At least there wouldn’t be any paparazzi in the bushes. She wanted an official roll out, not some trashy tabloid speculation.

Estelle parked her cherry-red car at the end of his circular driveway and checked her lipstick in her rearview mirror. When she was satisfied with what she saw, she flagged down Julian’s valet and handed him her keys.

He thanked her politely by name.

She took a long, full breath and neatened her hair. Freshly trimmed and sleek, with sharp edges that just brushed the tops of her shoulders.

Perfect.

It was a beautiful night, crisp and clear, with a moon so bright it was almost eerie.

The last dredges of winter chill still lingered in the air this early in spring. It was too cold to forgo a coat, even for the short walk from her car to the mansion’s front door. She had opted for something long and classic, with a deliberately careless knot in the front.

A doorman let her in with a polite nod.

The first thing she noticed was the impressive staircase. It was tall and curved, with marble steps and crystal bars from railing to stair. It looked like something from a film set.

“Estelle?”

Estelle folded her long, pale jacket over her arm. She offered a careful, controlled smile that didn’t show teeth. “Good evening, Julian. Your house is beautiful.”

“Scarcely as beautiful as you are,” he demurred, finishing his descent with a wry smile. He took her coat with a proffered hand, draping it over the banister. Up close she could feel acutely how much taller he was than her, even with her in heels. “You’ve always been stunning, but that dress really suits you.”

Of course it did. She had spoken at length with her stylist about it, selecting something that complimented her coloring, highlighted her long legs, and was alluring without being tacky.

They’d settled on a pink satin dress, with a plunging neckline and a hem that stopped just above her knees. It was a good choice for her skin tone, and paired well with her shoes.

“You are the most eligible bachelor there is, after all,” she told him, glancing up shyly through her eyelashes. It was an act, of course. She hadn’t lacked confidence for some years. But Julian had never been interested in aggressive women. She’d checked. “I couldn’t miss an opportunity to show off.”

Julian hummed, low and approving. His steady gaze wasn’t subtle. Still, he kept his hands to himself and gestured down a hallway. “Follow me, if you would. Dinner is ready.”

Estelle didn’t bother to remove her heels, trailing after Julian at a breakneck pace through his maze of a residence.

There was nothing about Julian’s house that could be construed as ‘cozy.’ Instead, it was impossibly modern—a series of sharp angles and abstract art. There were no personal touches, only chilly, clinical perfection.

It was beautiful the way ice was beautiful. Freezing to the touch, and dangerous in large doses.

It felt like a museum.

It made her yearn for her own apartment. A place she guarded jealously, full to the brim with kitschy, cheap trinkets and decor that she’d kept from her early years.

“What will we be eating?” Estelle asked, keeping her strides long and fluid. She didn’t want to look clumsy, no matter how fast he was walking. She wished, in the back of her head, that he would just slow down.

“You’ll see,” was all he said. All she could see as he said it was the casual cut of his broad shoulders, impressive beneath a black shirt ironed to perfection.

And see she did.

His entire kitchen had been transformed with dozens of candles, two place settings neatly set side by side. Two bar stools, shiny chrome and white leather, had been set up at the marble countertop—surrounded by long-stem red roses. It was just the two of them now, the only evidence they weren’t alone, the silver-domed dinner she knew Julian couldn’t possibly have cooked himself.

The silence was unsettling, suddenly. It felt like an instinctual caution. She smiled carefully, keeping the unease from her face.

“Impressive,” she said, but something in her stomach rioted. It felt like…too much. “All of this is for me?”

“You don’t invite Estelle Durant over for pancakes,” Julian answered easily, pulling out her chair. He was film-ready, even now. There wasn’t a crack in his facade. Nothing about him seemed honest.

She knew she had been dishonest too, in her expressions…was this what she looked like?

Julian sniffed and moved towards the seats. “Come on, give it a taste. I had my chef prepare it specifically for you. Word is that you like expensive cuts of meat.”

Estelle did as she was bid, waiting for Julian to take the seat beside her. She was a little short for the stool, her long legs scarcely able to even skim the floor.

She took a slow breath and reminded herself what she was here for.

When she lifted the cover she saw a fine cut of expensive beef, the perfect shade of pink, well-garnished and tender.

She cut it gingerly and took a bite.

It was delicious.

Of course it was. It was prepared by a private chef with her tastes in mind. It was made of all of the finest things, by one of the finest culinary minds, in a mansion that had been decorated with full buckets of flowers for her alone.

She should have felt special, having this kind of attention lavished on her by someone like Julian Vargas. It was what she had wanted. A strategy she herself had concocted and pursued, single-mindedly for the better part of a year. As soon as the warning signs had appeared in his last relationship.

But something wasn’t quite right.

She couldn’t quite put words to it. Julian hadn’t done anything wrong, exactly. In fact, he had been eerily kind. A perfect gentleman. Scarcely a word had been said that wasn’t polite, complimentary, or appreciative.

But Estelle was uneasy. The most ancient part of her, the part she knew was tasked with keeping her safe, was screaming. If she thought about it for too long, her limbs itched with the burning need to run.

You are not safe here, the oldest parts of her brain pleaded. It is not worth the risk. You are already so blessed. So lucky. Do not push it. Leave, leave, leave.

She glanced at Julian.

Behind his eyes, behind the expressions he was carefully crafting, there was…nothing. She couldn’t fault him for it, she was almost certainly putting up as much of an act as he was, but even still…

She reached for her wine to try and soothe her nerves.

Instead, she knocked one of the many candles onto her dress, frantically shaking the burning wax from her leg.

“Estelle?” Julian was up and out of his seat in an instant, tapping out the smoke on her dress with a napkin. His touch made her skin crawl. She felt dramatic even thinking it. “Are you alright?”

This fabric had been a terrible choice. It did little to quell the searing feeling spreading across her thigh. “I’m alright,” she croaked. A crack in her armor. She hated that. “It just singed me a little bit.”

“I have a change of clothes upstairs,” Julian said with a frown. He pressed a button on the counter and re-covered his dish. “Follow me.”

Run, something inside of her begged.

Run, Estelle. You are not safe, you are not safe, you are not —

But she’d been fighting those same instincts for years. She had faced these instincts on sets, and in the back of premieres, and as she was photographed and cultivated and sold to the masses like something manufactured and finite.

So Estelle nodded and let Julian guide her back towards that towering staircase, his hand on her waist.