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Pausing at the threshold, I allowed myself a small smile. “On that, at least, we agree.”

I closed the door behind me and checked my watch. Twenty-nine minutes. I had no doubt she would test me. In fact, I was counting on it.

Frank was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, his posture rigid. The old fuck gave nothing away, but his eyes followed me with the careful assessment of a man who’d spent decades watching for threats.

“Will she be joining us?” he asked, voice neutral.

“She will,” I replied, straightening my cuffs. “Though I suspect she’ll make us wait until the last possible second.”

Frank nodded once. He’d known Harlowe longer than I had, and understood her stubbornness intimately.

I checked my watch again. Twenty-five minutes.

“Tell me, Frank,” I said, moving toward the dining room where I’d wait. “What does she fear most?”

Frank hesitated, his loyalty to Harlowe warring with his desire to see her safe.

“Not pain,” he finally answered. “She seeks that out.”

I nodded. I’d seen the surveillance video from La Lune Noire—the way she arched into the strike of the crop, and the ecstasy on her face when fingertips pressed against her throat.

“Not death,” Frank continued. “She’s been courting that since her brother died.”

“Then, what?” I pressed, though I already suspected the answer.

His eyes met mine. “Being forgotten. Being insignificant. Being exactly what her father always thought she was—an afterthought.”

He’d hit the nail on the head in a way that surprised me. The old man knew her better than her own father did. Being forgotten. Being insignificant. Those were fears I could use.

“Bring her down when she’s ready,” I said, checking my watch again. “Twenty minutes.”

I moved to the dining room, where I waited.

Seventeen minutes left. I wondered if she would call my bluff. Part of me hoped she would. Breaking her resistance would be satisfying in ways I rarely allowed myself to indulge. Fourteen minutes. Twelve. Ten. The seconds ticked by with a precision that pleased me. I wasn’t a man who enjoyed waiting, but for her, I’d make an exception. There was something I found fascinating about knowing she was upstairs, weighing her options, realizing how few she actually had.

Five minutes. The dining room was immaculate, set for two with heavy silver and crystal that caught the light. Giovanni’s tastes were ostentatious, desperately clinging to old-world grandeur. When Harlowe became mine, I would strip away those pretensions. I preferred clean lines, minimal decoration. Nothing to distract from what mattered.

Three minutes. I adjusted my cufflinks, French platinum with an obsidian inlay that matched the collar I’d given her.

Two minutes. I heard movement upstairs, the soft pad of feet, a door opening and closing. She was cutting it close. Testing boundaries already.

One minute. The stairs creaked, and I smiled to myself. I didn’t turn when she entered the room, keeping my back to her as I studied a painting on the wall—some Renaissance reproduction, with gilded frames and martyred saints.

“Punctual,” I observed, finally turning to face her. “I’m impressed.”

Harlowe stood in the doorway, wearing the black dress I’d selected. It molded to her frame, emphasizing her curves. Her hair was damp, hastily pulled back, and her face was scrubbed clean, though the remnants of last night’s mascara still shadowed her eyes. She’d made an effort, but deliberately left enough imperfection to communicate her resistance. I approved of the subtlety.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said, her voice stripped of emotion.

I gestured to the chair across from me. “Sit.”

She obeyed, though every line of her body radiated defiance. Frank appeared silently, placing a plate before each of us. Eggs, toast, and fresh fruit were arranged with the precision of someone who understood that presentation mattered.

Harlowe stared at her plate without moving.

“Eat,” I said.

Her eyes flicked up to mine, challenge sparking in their depths. “I told you, I’m not hungry.”