Her back ached from all the work she had done the past few weeks, once she had received the delivery of all the raw material she had ordered.
In the evenings, she had had meetings every day of the week, some arranged by her, some by the man who, it seemed, would never relent in his duty.
She had met with a graphic designer, a contact she had made working at the fashion house, who was designing her website; a seamstress who had come in from the village because, like Anna, she had heard what Leah did and begged to work on them with her, because she loved dressmaking; and with an attorney that Stavros had arranged to take care of trademarking her label and setting up a company in her name.
Tears had filled her eyes when she had eyed the paperwork with her name on it.
Leah Huntington Sporades—Head Designer.
Her father would have been so proud of her. Giannis, if he knew, would be so proud of her. Even more so, because he had started Katrakis Textiles as a small retail merchant decades ago. But seeing him would mean getting close to him and she couldn’t risk that.
Stavros had stood witness to all of it, a silent specter in the room as the platinum-tipped pen had slipped from her hand a couple of times when she wanted to sign the papers. Lost in the magnitude of the moment, she had felt grateful for his hand on her shoulder.
“Have you picked a name for the label?” his question had boomeranged in the silence, testing her strength.
Calista and she had made so many plans. She had been the one who had pushed Leah into stretching her wings, given her confidence that her designs were brilliant. Had worn the dress Leah had designed to her eighteenth birthday party and had dazzled the world in it.
Holding the logo she had come up with with the help of a graphic designer—an elaborately stylish L and C tangled up together, she whispered, “Leah & Calista.”
His silence beat down on her as she braced herself against his censure.
All her hopes and happiness tied to that name, she couldn’t feign defiance. Couldn’t muster any defense against his intrusion into what was a monumental moment for her. Would have crumbled into pieces if he had pushed her.
But he had said nothing. Neither praise nor judgment.
Only studied her with a strange light in his eyes until the room had swelled and collapsed around them, echoing with her lies and his questions.
The waiting lawyer had finally cleared his throat and Leah had looked away.
After that day at the pool, Stavros and she had fallen into a surprising routine. Every evening, when he returned from work, he would come into her workroom and they would discuss his business and her work like two polite strangers reading from a script, carefully steering away from any number of topics.
And the elephant in the room, that sharp and growing awareness of each other, roamed free.
At least she had made a lot of progress in the week. And by the end of the day, her back hurt, her fingers ached, and she fell into bed exhausted.
To Leah, it felt like the calm before the storm. But she was determined to continue the peace for as long as he was determined to keep her future hanging in the balance.
So when he’d walked into her workroom yesterday morning, his skin tanned in the glorious Greek sun, and declared that she needed a break after a grueling week, she had readily assented, even if the thought of going away somewhere with him filled her with all kinds of tension.
Had not even blinked when he had told her that they would be attending a small party, would be staying away for a week and that he’d arranged a stylist for her.
He had stood there, as solid and magnificent as ever in a white shirt and tight jodhpurs and riding boots, sweaty and sexy and insanely real, waiting for her to argue and throw a fit.
She had rubbed a hand over her chest, as if she could appeal to her heart to stop its frenzied clamoring. Delusional really, that she still thought she could beg, force or control her body when it came to Stavros.
Did he hate how she dressed? The stinging question had come to her finally. But she had nodded and thanked him, like the dutiful Leah he wanted her to be.
So here she was, on his private jet this time, ensconced in sheer luxury. Thick cream carpet that swallowed her, spacious rear cabin with a huge king bed, and the man who was turning her inside out, as always.
Sighing, she locked her fingers in her lap when all she wanted was to sweep her fingers into the elaborate updo the stylist had twisted her hair into.
The weight of her thick hair piled into that unceremoniously tight knot pressed against the back of her head and neck. Tension piled into her shoulders.
When the stewardess arrived and inquired after her, she requested sparkling water and aspirin.
“You do not feel well,” he stated in that final tone of his.
In a movement that was as graceful as it was quick, he reached her side of the aircraft. His seat was not attached to hers yet he was far too close.
She remained stubbornly silent, determined to win the war against herself.
“You’ve been fidgeting uncontrollably for the past hour.”
“If I’m disturbing you, I—”
“Theos, Leah. For once, just answer my question.”
“I… I don’t like this hairstyle or this dress. They make me feel like…” Closing her eyes, she leaned back against her seat. God, she couldn’t have sounded like she was ten years old if she had tried harder.
“Like what?” his tone hovered between resigned amusement and curiosity.
She took the water and aspirin from the stewardess and swallowed it while it watched her.
“Answer me, Leah.”
Fighting the urge to burrow into herself like a turtle, she said, “I look like your version of me.”
“My version of…” He looked stunned. “Explain.”
“In this dress and jewelry, I am Leah Sporades, the demure and dutiful wife of respected billionaire Stavros Sporades. There’s nothing of me in this. It is all you.”
He froze and it seemed air and sound, the very matter around them froze along with him. “I do not understand.”
“That stylist you hired, she—” she forced herself to breathe “—this is what she presented me with.”
Frowning, he ran his gaze over the straps and over the tight ruffles of the bodice.
Her skin warmed up as if she was a flower and he was the very sun she craved. Leah tightened her fists to stop from covering herself.
He cleared his throat, his nostrils flaring. “I agree that it is not your usual…style.”
She nodded, wondering why she couldn’t have just shut her mouth. Why some stupid, irrational, brazen part of her always insisted on putting herself in his line of fire. Why, even as she hated his overbearing interference, she recklessly courted it.
“You are saying that this stylist, that someone in my staff picked, chose…this demure, dutiful little outfit,” he repeated her words, “based on how I want my wife to be presented to the world?”
“Yes.”
He lounged in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “Why did you give in then? You won’t even breathe air if it means following my orders.”
“You commanded an army to help me get dressed for a party. Like any sane person would, I assumed that you hate how I dress. Just as you hate how I breathe, talk and generally conduct my life.”
“I