Page 58 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Professor Wong,” I greet him, pleased to see a familiar face. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Academic consultants occasionally get invited to the halls of power,” he says with a self-deprecating shrug. “Though I suspect it’s more for the university’s endowment potential than my insights on East Asia politics.”

I laugh, relaxing for the first time since entering the mansion. “How is the department? I stopped by my mother’s office today, but she wasn’t there.”

Something flickers across his face, concern, perhaps, or caution. “Yes, her sudden trip caught us all off guard. Very unusual for Eunji to leave without proper arrangements.”

“Did she mention anything to you before she left? Any hint about where she was going?”

Professor Wong’s gaze darts past me, and I realize Nico has stepped away to speak with the senator. We’re unobserved in the crowded room.

Leaning in, Wong lowers his voice. “Your mother’s recent work is more extensive than she lets on. She’s tapping doors few would dare to open.” His eyes hold a warning. “Be careful about the questions you ask, Lea. And perhaps more careful about the company you keep.”

My blood runs cold. “What do you mean? What doors?”

Before he can answer, a presence materializes at my side. Nico, radiating that quiet power that seems to bend the air around him. “Professor,” he says cordially, though his eyes are cold. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Wong straightens, offering a tight smile. “James Wong, Political Science. I was just catching up with my colleague’s daughter.”

“How fortunate for us to have such distinguished academic representation tonight.” Nico’s tone is pleasant, but the message is clear: this conversation is over.

“Indeed.” Wong nods, already backing away. “If you’ll excuse me, I should pay my respects to the senator before dinner. Lea, always good to see you.”

As he disappears into the crowd, I turn on Nico. “That was rude.”

“That was necessary,” he counters, sliding his hand into mine and interlacing our fingers. The possessive gesture is both a comfort and a constraint. “Come, they’re seating for dinner.”

I want to pull away, to chase after Wong and demand answers about my mother’s mysterious “doors,” but Nico’s grip is firm as he leads me toward a table near the center of the room. The placement is deliberate, I realize, close enough to the senator to signal favor, but with clear sightlines to every entrance and exit.Always the strategist, even at a social dinner.

We’re seated with the pharmaceutical CEO and his wife, a federal prosecutor and her husband, and a state representative whose name I recognize from campaign signs. The conversation flows around me, healthcare policy, regulatory challenges, the upcoming election cycle, but my mind keeps circling back to Wong’s cryptic warning.

Under the table, Nico’s hand finds mine again, his thumb tracing small circles on my palm. It’s a simple gesture, but it sends a warm ripple through me, anchoring me to the present moment. Despite the opulence surrounding us, despite the power players and their purposeful conversation, that single point of contact feels like the most real thing in the room.

I lean into it, allowing myself to be steadied by his touch.

“You’ve been quiet,” he murmurs as dessert is served, a delicate chocolate confection that looks to die for.

“I’m taking it all in,” I reply, which isn’t entirely a lie. “This is quite a different world from the newsroom.”

“Is it so difficult to imagine yourself belonging here?” His eyes hold mine, searching for something I’m not sure I want him to find.

“Yes,” I answer. “I’m an observer, not a participant. That’s what journalists do.”

His lips curve into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “And yet, here you are, taking part. Wearing the dress, playing the role, enjoying the benefits of access.”

The observation stings because it’s accurate. I am playing a role, walking a dangerous line between observer and accomplice. And the most unsettling part is how natural it’s beginning to feel.

“It’s for the story,” I insist, as much to convince myself as him.

“Is it?” His voice drops lower, intimate in a way that makes my blood rush. “Then tell me, piccola, why have your notes become so selective lately? What happened to the ruthless reporter who was going to expose all my secrets?”

My cheeks burn with the realization that he’s been reading my notes, another violation of privacy that I should be outraged about. Instead, I’m more disturbed by the truth of his observation. My documentation has become selective, omitting details that might paint him in a damning light: the way he strong-armed that city contractor, his subtle threats to the judge who seemed reluctant to grant a specific motion, the network of informants that keeps him three steps ahead of his rivals.

When did I start protecting him?

“I’m still gathering information,” I say. “Building a complete picture.”

“Of course.” His smile tells me he sees right through the excuse. “And when this picture is complete, what then? Will you write about the monsters or the men? The systems or the individuals caught within them?”

---