Page 52 of Knot Your Sugar

"Like… pastries?" she offers, a tiny, understanding smile playing on her lips.

"Maybe," I concede, a ghost of a smile touching my own lips. "My grandfather, the one who started the Beaumont brand, he was a true craftsman. We used to spend summers together. He'd patiently teach me about different kinds of grains, the art of laminating dough, the satisfaction of creating something delicious from the simplest raw ingredients. The smell of yeast and warm bread is still one of my most potent memories. Butthat was… before… ‘this’." I gesture vaguely at the opulence surrounding us. "Before it all became about the bottom line, the stock market, the endless obligations."

"It's not too late, you know," she says quietly.

I shake my head, a weary sigh escaping me. "When you’re responsible for the livelihoods of thousands of employees, for billions in annual revenue, for upholding a global brand that bears your family name… You don’t really get to chase vague, romantic dreams."

"So whatdoyou get to chase?" she asks, her gaze still fixed on mine.

The question stops me cold. WhatdoI chase? Quarterly profits? Market expansion? The next acquisition? When did my life become so devoid of actual dreams?

"Come on," I say, desperate to change the subject. "Let me show you something else."

I lead her from the grandeur of the foyer to the music room, a cozier, more intimate space where thousands of vinyls, meticulously curated over decades, span an entire wall from floor to ceiling. Elena’s eyes go wide, her breath catching in a soft gasp.

"Oh. My. God," she breathes, her voice filled with pure, unadulterated reverence. She takes a tentative step forward, then another, as if drawn by an invisible force. "You have… you actually haveKind of Blue!" She practically sprints toward the jazz section, then stops herself abruptly, her hand hovering just inches from the shelf, as if afraid to touch something sacred. "Sorry," she says, a sheepish flush rising on her cheeks that I find utterly endearing. "I just… Ireallylove Miles Davis. And this album… it’s iconic."

"Original pressing," I confirm, a pleased smile spreading across my face as I carefully pull the treasured album from its sleeve. The worn cardboard feels like history in my hands. "Myfather thinks it's the only way to listen to music, save for a live concert."

"He's right," she says with unwavering conviction, her fingers gently tracing the worn spine of the album cover I’m holding. "Music should be analog. Digital… it just strips away the soul, the warmth, the imperfections that make it real."

Perfect way to put it.

"You know," she adds, looking up at me with a radiant smile that makes my heart do a little flip, "music is exactly like baking. It’s about taking raw, disparate ingredients – notes, rhythms, instruments – and transforming them, with skill, passion and a little bit of magic, into something that touches people. Something that feeds their soul." The air seems to hum with her words, like the drawn-out resonance of a saxophone's final note.

As if on cue, I put the record on the turntable. The faint, familiar hiss and crackle, then the iconic, beautiful opening notes of 'So What' fill the room. Elena closes her eyes, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips as her body sways to the melancholic strains of Miles’s trumpet.

"Dance with me, Elena," I say quietly, extending my hand.

She looks at me, surprise flickering in her eyes, quickly followed by a spark of amusement. "To Miles Davis? In a billionaire’s ridiculously fancy music room? Isn’t that a little… cliché, even for you?"

"Trust me," I murmur, my gaze holding hers.

She hesitates for only a heartbeat, then a slow smile spreads across her face, and she places her hand in mine. It’s warm and fits perfectly.

We do not so much move to the music as slip inside it. She follows my lead with surprising grace, her body seeming to anticipate each gentle dip and turn as if we've danced together a hundred times before.

At the trumpet’s first aching crescendo, I guide her into a slow, unexpected pivot, letting the music swell around us. She laughs quietly, and I feel the vibration of it all the way to my spine, warming places I didn’t know were cold.

As the rhythm deepens, so does our connection. I dip her slightly on a rising brass note, just enough to feel her hand tighten briefly in mine. When she rises again, we lock eyes. God, I can’t remember the last time anyone looked at me like this. Or the last time I let myself look back.

The room softens around us. There’s only the hush of her breath, the soulful ache of the trumpet, and the sound of our steps brushing rhythmically over my antique Persian rug. In the amber lamplight, I study the delicate contours of her face: the curve of her lashes, the faint freckles near the bridge of her nose, the way her eyes drift closed as she surrenders completely to the music's embrace.

When the final note hangs in the air before fading to nothing, we're standing impossibly close, her palms resting against my chest where she can surely feel my racing heart. My hands are still circling her waist, and I have no inclination to move them.

"You are," she finally murmurs against my chest, "completely full of surprises, Dorian Beaumont."

"Just getting started, Elena Avery," I whisper back into her hair, the scent of it clouding my senses in the best possible way. Her eyes come up to lock with mine again, a silent question in their depths. "I think there's something else you’ll appreciate." Leading her by the hand, I guide her through the heavy sliding glass doors, out onto the expansive stone terrace.

The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine from the surrounding forest. But it's the view that makes Elena gasp.

The full moon hangs like a giant silver lantern in the inky black sky, its glow turning the vast, dark expanse of Lake Vienne into a sheet of shimmering silver. Steam rises in swirling, ghostlytendrils from my private hot spring, nestled at the edge of the terrace, its surface perfectly reflecting the moon like a captured piece of the night sky. In the far, far distance, the shadowy silhouettes of the distant mountains rise like sleeping giants against the star-dusted horizon.

"This is…" she breathes, her voice filled with wonder as she steps slowly toward the carved stone railing at the edge of the terrace. "It’s… magical, Dorian. Like the spa, but somehow… wilder. More intimate," she pauses, her gaze sweeping across the vista. "Like something out of a dream. Or a fairytale."

"I wanted you to see it like this," I say softly, moving to stand beside her, close but not touching. "Under the moonlight. When it’s… at its most beautiful."

She turns to me, and in that moment, with the stars reflected in her wide gaze, she looks like something from a dream herself. "Why?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes searching mine. "Why are you showing me all of this? Why did youreallyinvite me here tonight?"

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