Lawrence came back a few days ago and has barely spoken a word to me. He fucks me, takes pleasure in my body, but the banter—the intimacy—is gone. It begins and ends in his bed and in our shared breaths. Something has changed, and I can’t explain exactly what.

I grip the handle of my brush harder. I hate the fact that his detachment bothers me, that his rejection hurts me—that it matters to me. This is what I signed up for. What I wanted. I know that. But I thought we had shared something special in the days before he left town. I thought that … well, I don’t know what I thought. All I know is that things haven’t been the same since he came back from his trip. I look at my reflection, frowning, as I finally admit to myself that I miss it—I miss him.

In the long, uncomfortable silence that ensues, Lawrence and I gaze at one another. I see not one glimmer of humor or emotion in his eyes. I turn to look at my flushed reflection in the mirror, hoping to hide my feelings from him.

“I’m about done,” I say, reaching for my lipstick. I apply a shade of red that matches the red of my Valentino gown perfectly. I feel Lawrence coming up behind me before his cold hands land on my shoulders. It’s hard to imagine that these are the same hands that have touched my body so knowingly and passionately. The thought fills me with inexplicable sadness.

“Lawrence … I …” I’m going mad wondering what has changed between us? Did I imagine it all? Did I imagine the softness in your eyes, the tenderness in your touch? Did I imagine that, for one moment in time, we shared the beginning of something that I can’t quite describe or understand, yet know deep in my heart that it was beautiful? I want to be honest with him, but the coldness, the cool detachment in his gaze forbids it. I remind myself that what we have is just business. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“Yes?” He slowly caresses my collarbone. The movement is feather light and it makes me want to lean my back against his front.

I chicken out. “Oh, nothing. I forgot what I wanted to say.”

Letting go of my neck, Lawrence places a jewelry case in front of me. “Open it,” he orders in that voice of his that makes me weak in the knees.

I reach for the black case resting on top of the vanity table and do as told. Gasping in surprise, I stare at a very familiar piece of jewelry. “Could this be?” I raise my gaze to meet his in the mirror. “You didn’t.” I shake my head in disbelief. “You couldn’t have.”

“Of course I could, and I did.” He reaches for the necklace lying on a bed of white silk and retrieves it. “Lift your hair, please.”

Following his instructions, I watch Lawrence place the string of diamonds and rubies around my neck. I lift a hand and glide my fingers across the rows of gems shaped like a rose. It’s the same necklace I was admiring at the Met’s exhibit the night we met. He wasn’t joking when he said that he could afford it. “Why?” I ask, meeting his gaze.

He shrugs nonchalantly.

“Thank you, but this is too much, Lawrence. Even for me.”

“Well, that’s a first.” He looks at me with such cold contempt, I’m taken aback. I blush shamefully and hang my head low.

“No, don’t hang your head. Look at me. I want to admire what I paid for.”

Following his instruction, our gazes clash on the mirror. He raises a hand and traces with the back of his finger the bright color on my cheeks. “Modesty doesn’t suit you, Blaire. After all, isn’t this what you want from me?”

He lowers one of his hands into the plunging neckline of my dress. When his fingers come into contact with my skin, I shiver in fear … or maybe it’s anticipation … or maybe it’s excitement. But whatever it is, I can’t deny the fact that I’m enslaved to his touch.