S H A D E S

Ronin Estates

I gazed out at the rolling hillocks, inhaled deep lungfuls of freshly mowed grass-the smell so lush and...verdant, so green, that I could close my eyes and see the colour growing brighter and brighter with each new breath. Fields in an endless stretch, as far as I could see, with a blue wedge of hills slicing along the horizon and long ribbons of white fencing winding down the endless stretch of country road.

Tipping up my glasses, I stretched my arm along the open window and smiled. Too long since my last visit and God, how I'd missed it.

Next to me, Tristan thumbed through his phone, eyes glued to emails, as he had been for most of the flight, on his laptop. Avoidance, an obvious and predictable manoeuvre in place of sulking, Tristan instead was burying his head in his work. Reaching for his phone, I snatched it out his hands.

"Hey!" he snapped, swiping for it.

"Enough," I warned, let it dangle between my fingertips, arm outstretched beyond the vehicle. "Limit yourself to three hours, Shade. One hour intervals for morning, noon and night, understood? You've maxed your morning quotient and then some for today."

"I don't recall you having the authority to stipulate those sort of conditions."

"My week, my rules." I gave the phone another little wiggle and watched the thin line of his lips practically disappear altogether. His eyes obscured behind copper-tinted lenses reflective as a mirror showing only small duplicates of my smirking face.

"Fine. Provided I get two hours in the evening and there are no immediate and pressing matters that require priority and immediate attention."

I pulled my arm back in to the car, pressed a finger to the small flat button, shutting his phone off.

"Deal." Handing it back to him, Tristan tucked the phone away into the back pocket of his jeans and settled back into the leather seating of the chauffeured sedan.

"You should have allowed me to at least make the travel preparations," he said after some time.

"Is there something wrong with the jet I procured? Or the chauffeured car service?" I asked sweetly, batting my eyes.

"No, only that...I fly often enough with Netjets to know the cost and...I'm used to overseeing these things."

"You mean footing the bill."

"Well...yes."

I laughed at that, pulling out the elastic from my hair, I gave my auburn waves a shake in the breeze, letting the wind lift and tousle and tease. "Not a chance, stud. You're rolling with a woman of financial means. Get used to it."

He grumbled something but not loud enough for me to make out, and truthfully I didn't give a damn. He'd said during out first dinner together all those weeks ago that he was done with the dainty and demure and wanted an equal; I was going to make sure by the end of the week he recognized I was all that, and more.

Why should a man always be the one to fork out, anyways? I had money. Plenty of it. One of the reasons I knew we were so good together-as he'd also pointed out-was that both of us were settled and established in our respective wealth. And while yes, arguably, he did have more, I wasn't far behind and therefore wasn't dazzled or impressed or attracted to his bank account. Money was money, and when we died there was no taking it with us.

This little trip proved to me that Tristan wasn't accustomed to a woman whipping out her wallet to go Dutch, or God forbid, cover the tab. And I wasn't the sort to sit back and allow a man to always pay the way. I wanted him to see and understand that I was capable of not only standing on my own, but taking control, that he could trust me to be there as more than a woman in the wings. Love was about more than compromise, but selflessness.