Oliver Sterling had always been good at reading people. It was a skill honed through years of boardroom battles and navigating the intricate dance of high society. Yet, when it came to you, the notoriously aloof and razor-sharp socialite seated across from him, he found himself stumped more often than he cared to admit.

You were a puzzle he couldn't resist piecing together—your quick wit, the way your guarded smiles softened when you thought no one was looking, the way you carried yourself as if you owned every room you entered. For months, he had been content to play along, assuming the two of you were on the same page.

It never occurred to him that you didn’t realize what this was.

As you sat before him now, your usually steady demeanor cracked and uncertain, Oliver was struck by an unfamiliar feeling—something akin to nervousness. Your hands were clenched tightly in your lap, your shoulders stiff as you avoided his gaze. He set down his wine glass, his movements slow and deliberate, and leaned back slightly in his chair.

"You’ve been awfully quiet," he said, his tone light but probing. “What’s on your mind, darling?”

It wasn’t unusual for you to hold your cards close to your chest. That was part of what drew him to you—the challenge, the intrigue. But tonight, something felt different.

Your response came haltingly, your voice so soft he had to strain to hear. “I-I think… I like you…”

For a man who thrived in high-stakes environments, who had closed multimillion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat, Oliver was utterly blindsided. He stared at you, your cheeks flushed, your gaze fixed on your lap, as if you’d just confessed some terrible secret.

“You think you like me?” he repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Your head snapped up, your wide eyes meeting his. “What are you talking about?”

Oliver felt a chuckle rise in his throat but swallowed it down, realizing this wasn’t the time for teasing. Instead, he stood and moved around the table, his hands in his pockets as he crouched in front of you.