Page 27 of The Arrangement

"Enough!" he bellows once more, his voice booming through the room. "This bickering is pointless. The debt is what brought us here."

"Yes, the money," I echo, my voice laced with a controlled anger. It's time to end this charade, to bring this confrontation to a conclusion. I turn to the leather bag I'd brought with me, now on the floor, its contents the answer to the standoff we find ourselves in.

"You want your money? Here it is," I declare, my tone leaving no room for further debate. I grab the bag, tossing it directly at Aleksey. He catches it, surprise flickering across his face for a moment before it's quickly masked by his usual arrogance.

The room falls silent, the only sound the rustle of cash as Aleksey opens the bag to confirm its contents. Father watches closely, his expression unreadable, while Tory, silent, stands with a strength that speaks volumes.

Aleksey looks between the cash and me, a glimmer of understanding passing through his gaze. "This changes nothing," he finally says, but the edge in his voice has softened, if only slightly. “You still broke protocol, went over our father’s head for that woman.”

I laugh, knowing he’s desperate, grasping at straws. “You said it was all about the money, did you not?” I gesture towards the bag. “There it is. What difference does it make where it came from?”

“And what if it’s not all there?” Aleksey protests, his weakest gambit yet. “We should count it.”

I snort. “Bill me if I’m short.”

Aleksey’s jaw is working. He’s not happy with the way this turned out at all. But that’s no matter. He can squirm and pout all he wants.

I turn to my father. "I'll be over later. We need to talk more thoroughly about this whole mess," I say, my gaze unwavering, challenging him to disagree.

For a moment, my father meets my stare, the silent exchange thick with unspoken words. Then, with a slight nod, he concedes.

Without another word, I turn to Tory. Our eyes meet, and in hers, I see a mix of questions, fear, and a trust that humbles me. Her trust steels my resolve as I take her hand.

"Come on, let's get you out of here," I tell her, the words low but filled with a protective firmness. I pull her to her feet, my grip reassuring, as we make our way out of the warehouse, leaving the weight of the confrontation behind us.

Chapter 15

Tory

As Maksim yanks me through the labyrinth of the factory, my feet barely touching the ground, I let out a stream of protests.

"Hey! I'm not some little doll you can just cart around whenever you feel like it," I snap, trying to wiggle free from his iron grip.

Maksim quiets me with a command so sharp, so utterly bold, it's like hitting a mute button on my defiance. "Enough.”

I'm silent, a surprising thrill running through me at his authoritative tone. I'm not used to men speaking to me like this, and it's disconcerting how much I find myself responding to it. There's something about the way Maksim takes charge that's unsettling and attractive, even if my inner feminist is screaming objections.

Before I know it, we're at his car—a sleek, luxury beast that looks like it eats miles for breakfast. Despite everything, Maksim takes the time to guide me into the seat with care, as if I’m the most precious cargo imaginable.

The silence envelops us as we drive away, my thoughts swirling uncontrollably. The realization hits me hard; Maksim didn't clear my debt as some twisted seduction tactic. His coming to my rescue, standing up against his own flesh and blood, and it speaks volumes. He's in this for reasons I can't fully understand, but what's clear is his intentions are not filled with manipulation or deceit.

The ride is quiet, the kind of silence that's thick with unspoken words and lingering tension. I steal glances at him, trying to decipher the man behind the wheel. Maksim's focus is unyielding, his jaw set in determination.

As we glide through the city, the silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken questions and half-formed thoughts. My mind's racing, trying to piece together the events that led us here. The more I think about it, the more one question burns brighter than the rest: How did Maksim even know I was in trouble?

Gathering my courage, I turn toward him. "Maksim, how did you know I needed help?"

There's a pause, a moment where he seems to weigh his words carefully before he answers. "I suppose you forgot in all that agitation that I had cameras installed in your office and the front of your business," he reminds me, his voice tinged with hesitation.

Shame courses through me. Right, because that’s what brought him to my door in the first place. Because he witnessed my most private moments.

"Yeah, you saw...everything." My voice is a mix of horror and curiosity, hardly louder than a whisper.

Another few beats pass.

"Yes, I did," he responds, the regret in his voice unmistakable. "And I never got to say this to you that night, but I should say it now, I'm sorry. That wasn't my intention."

His apology hangs in the air, a confession that unexpectedly shifts something within me. Here I am, supposed to be outraged, yet part of me can't help but acknowledge the complexity of his actions. It's a bizarre feeling, knowing he's seen me at my most vulnerable, yet it's his straightforward admission and evident remorse that softens the blow.

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