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“Care for a waltz, Ms. Hawthorne?” His voice is silky-smooth, gentle, yet she can tell he’s holding back, biting back the manipulative sneer that seems to be omnipresent in the voice that is Kristoph Gavin.

She cannot, for the life of her, tell why she is being asked to dance, however. All she’d received was a note—handwritten, of course, in professionally-written calligraphy—requesting her permission, here, to the offices of Gavin and Company Law Offices at the specifically requested time.

She’d arrived fifteen minutes early, but had deliberately waited almost twenty-five minutes later than the time specified on the card before entering his office with a small knock. No need for him to think he has control over her.

So, yes, she’d stepped into the large office that belonged solely to Kristoph Gavin. It wasn’t a completely unfamiliar place to her; she’d seen it many times, before. Normally, however, she’d been her during the day, when the sun filtered through the annoying windows, with the furniture looking perky and happy.

Now, however, it was nighttime, and his office, to her immense pleasure, reflected that. Heavy curtains covered the windows; the only light was from several well-placed candles throughout the large office space. The mahogany desk, usually situated in the center of the room—to demand respect, she’d always assumed—had been moved up against a wall, leaving the newly-polished floor open and empty.

So, yes, Dahlia Hawthorne stared across the room at Kristoph Gavin, the man currently holding a record, standing in front of a very old-fashioned, very elegant record player.

It took nearly all Dahlia’s self-control not to snicker. She deserved a medal, really.

“A waltz?” She asked, instead, keeping her voice mild and slightly disinterested. She took a few steps towards Kristoph. “Why ever would I want to waltz?”

“Because, Ms. Hawthorne,” Kristoph Gavin said, his tone as mild as hers. “I’ve asked you to waltz.” He reached over, taking a few more steps closer to her, and wrapped his fingers lightly, but firmly, around her thin wrist.

“And you cannot say ‘no’ to me, Dahlia Hawthorne.” He smiled down at her, taking advantage of his height.

“Now then, a waltz?”

Dahlia wrenched her hand out of his light grip, and Kristoph Gavin chuckled lightly in response. Her eyes flashed—she didn’t like being reminded of her height in comparison, nor of her petite stature. …Not when it failed to work in her advantage, as it did, now.

“I hope you have a better taste in music than you do in greetings, Mr. Gavin,” she said, semi-snidely, tracing the red marks on her left wrist, the traces of Kristoph’s hands leaving angry red marks, the evidence of her losing the physical battle to him.

“Of course,” Kristoph said, the same, light tone in his voice, his smirk growing as he spoke. Placing the record in its proper place, he turned the record player on. Instantly, Shumsky’s “First Devil’s Trill” filled the soft room, the sound quality muffled slightly by the age-old record player.

Dahlia stood for a moment, letting the atmosphere of the room sink in, letting the soft notes rush over her like a wave.
He broke her peaceful silence, her beautiful stillness, of course, after a moment, when he extended his hand. “Now, Ms. Hawthorne,” he said. “I believe you owe me a dance.”

She, at last, gave him her hand, and he smiled again, thinking he’d won that “battle,” as well. She gave him a delicate smile, too, revealing nothing, betraying nothing. She certainly was not going to tell him how much she enjoyed his taste in music.
He bowed to her—an overly-extravagant, slightly archaic gesture—then wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her both closer to him, and out to the center of his office. She followed, though was not forced; she walked, keeping time with him, and was led willingly.

Kristoph led Dahlia around the large room, appreciating for the first time the sheer size of his office. He noted, too, how Dahlia’s hair seemed to catch the light perfectly, the light of the candles lighting up the strands of her strawberry strands like each was burning in a towering inferno.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers, leaning down slightly, to whisper into her ear. He chuckles, too, as she nods arrogantly, knowing his words to be true without his assurances.

His Dahlia was stunning, of course, and waltzed with and elegance previously unknown to him. …Previously unmatched to his own talent.

His grip on her waist tightened; the familiar scar on his hand pulsed, slightly. Of course she was no match for him.

…Right?

* * * * *

Dahlia Hawthorne allowed herself to be led, to be gently pulled and whirled around the room, following the steps of the elegant waltz she’d learned as a child. She’d let herself become carried away in the music, disappearing within the notes of the elegant tempo.

He, of course, had to spoil her silence. Why had he told her she was beautiful? Why had he had to ruin the moment? Why couldn’t he just be quiet, for once in his damn life?

Instead of replying to his compliments, she’d tossed her hair slightly back, forcing herself to remove herself from the peaceful silence of the music and accomplish the task she’d come here to:

“Kristoph,” she said, trying to make her voice seem light, airy, as elegant as the waltz.

“Yes?”

Here, she’d paused, looking up into his eyes, taking advantage—for the first and last time—of his height advantage. “If…I ever get into trouble, any legal trouble…” She broke off, as if it was too painful for her to continue.

Kristoph Gavin stopped waltzing. Looking down at Dahlia Hawthorne, he smiled, softly, as if doing her a great service. “If you ever get into any legal trouble, I will be there for you,” he promised. “No matter what, I will defend you. You have no reason to worry, Ms. Dahlia Hawthorne—the law and I will set you free.”

She’d smiled, then, as if he’d made a particularly witty joke. “Good,” she’d said, softly, then gave him an innocent smile that, once again, betrayed nothing.

Dahlia relaxed once again into Kristoph’s arms, even letting him lead the waltz, blindly following, too busy savoring her victory.

Perhaps she’d even let him hold her wrist, again.

After all, he’d won a few battles.

But she would win the war.