Ben Solo is a ruthless business man, a cold bastard, and a devil in a bargain.
Unfortunately for Rey Niima, he's also in possession in New York's finest collection of books about steam engines, and he wants to build a railway through her godfather's beautiful property upstate.
Charged with the task of reviewing the literature and writing up a report on the topic, Rey must spend ten days entombed in the home of the most dangerous man in New York. And above all, she must do it without losing herself entirely to Mr. Solo's most ruthless ambition yet: marriage.
[A 1900s AU Inspired by this prompt and art by Claire: https://twitter.com/theriseofswolo/status/1594439852623384578]
"our son made it through the war to come of age, let's fucken party! rsvp only if you're a little bitch who's NOT coming. all y'all not dead of alcohol poisoning by morning (lmao losers) get dunkt on"
āYou can sit here,ā he said, gesturing at the oak table and the desk chair pulled up to the side. It had a rudimentary reading lamp, and although it had never bothered him once the many late nights heād spent reading by its light, the lamp looked suddenly shabby and insufficient.
āThe lamp is being replaced,ā he declared, though she scarcely heard him in her eagerness to sit down and test out the chair, unpacking her valise and setting her notebooks, ink, and pen out on the tabletop.
That done, she turned to him and smiled. āThank you ever so much,ā she said. āI have everything I need.āĀ
His chest felt tight, suddenly. āFine. If you need anything, just ring the bell, it goes down to the kitchen. One of the maids can bring you a tray.āĀ
āIām sure Iāll be fine,ā she said. āAnd I promise not to be a bother.ā
It bothered him, that trait of hers. That she liked making herself small, insisting on how little she expected from the world. It made him feel faintly irritated, though he couldnāt say why.Ā Ā
āDinner will be at eight,ā he told her.Ā
Her smile faltered. āSo late?āĀ
āDonāt they feed you in the continental style at your school?āĀ
She looked askance. āWell. Eight oāclock will be fine.ā
Ā Hm. Making a mental note to tell cook to push dinner back to eight oāclock, he turned to go. āSee you at dinner.ā
āOh, Mr. Solo?ā she said, her voice nervous.
He turned around, and she looked so uneasy that he was certain she was about to ask him for something. He was ready for it. Hungry for it. He wanted to be beseeched. He wanted her to want things from him, to hold out that fine, small hand and look up at him with those big eyes and those lips and ask him in a pretty, sweet voice. With a ravenous realization, he knew that what he wanted was for her to beg.
But she only said, āI havenāt brought an evening dress. I apologize for being dressed improperly at dinner.āĀ
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