Page 65 of Ruthless Arrangement

My gaze drifts to his open laptop on the coffee table.

The journalist in me stirs, awakening from the stupor of confused attraction.Information is what I came for. Information is power. And I’ve been handed an opportunity to gather it without Nico’s careful curation.

I glance at the balcony again. Nico remains engaged in his call, seemingly aggravated in a rare display of frustration.

Before I can second-guess myself, I move to the coffee table and angle the screen so I can see it clearly while monitoring the balcony door.

His computer desktop is organized, folders labeled by date and subject matter. One catches my eye: “Song, L.”

My stomach plummets. A folder with my name.

I click it open, dreading what I’ll find while unable to resist the pull of truth.

The folder expands to reveal dozens of files, surveillance photos, documents, and emails. With trembling fingers, I open the first image file.

It’s a photo of my apartment. From inside my bedroom. Taken while I was sleeping.

Nausea churns as I click through more files. Photos of me in the shower. At my desk. On my couch reading. Moments I thought were private, exposed to Nico’s cold scrutiny. Even videos. My vision blurs; the room seems to tilt.

But it’s worse than simple surveillance. There are psychological assessments, detailed reports analyzing my personality, identifying vulnerabilities, predicting my reactions to various scenarios. Notes on my relationship with my mother, my new friendship with Sienna, even my coffee preferences and sleep patterns.

The violation is so profound I feel physically ill.

I force myself to keep going, opening an email folder. What I find there shatters what little composure I have left.

Emails between Nico and the publisher of Chicago Investigating Journal. Discussing my assignment. Planning it. The “higher up” order to select me for the Varela exposé wasn’t an editorial interest in my amazing fresh talent. It was Nico pulling strings, manipulating my career for his purposes.

Everything, my big break, my proud calls to my mother, my confidence in my professional abilities, all of it was his elaborate construct. A puppet master pulling strings while I danced, thinking it was my talent moving me forward.

I scroll frantically, finding another folder labeled “Song, E.” My mother. But when I click it, a password prompt appears. Whatever information he has on her is encrypted, protected.

The glass door slides open.

With lightning reflexes, I close the folders and return to my phone on the dining table, pretending to check messages. My blood rushes in my ears, so loudly I’m certain he can hear it.

Nico steps inside, tucking his phone into his pocket. “Problems with the article?” he asks, nodding toward my abandoned laptop.

I force a casual shrug, amazed my voice doesn’t shake. “Just organizing my thoughts.” I gesture at my phone. “Checking in with Sienna. She worries.”

He studies me with that penetrating gaze that always makes me feel transparent.Does he know? Can he tell I’ve seen behind the curtain?

“You seem tense,” he observes, moving closer.

Because I just discovered you’ve been manipulating every aspect of these last four weeks of my life, and who knows how much before that, you calculating bastard.

But I don’t say that. The journalist in me, the one who’s spent years learning how to get people to reveal themselves, recognizes this as a turning point. Confrontation would only confirm I snooped and lose my advantage. If I’m going to uncover what’s happening with my mother, why Nico targeted me, I need a fresh approach.

A plan forms, crystallizing with each breath.If Nico manipulates through seduction and false vulnerability, I’ll use the same tactics against him, especially now I have a good idea of what turns him on. He kept those shower pictures for a reason.

I force my shoulders to relax. “Just cabin fever, I guess.” I offer a small smile. “I’m going to shower. Clear my head.”

He nods, seemingly satisfied with my explanation, and returns to his laptop. My stomach turns as I walk to the bathroom, hoping he can’t read the fury and betrayal in the set of my shoulders, the tension in my jaw.

It’s time to turn his own weapons against him.

When I emerge forty minutes later, I’m transformed. I’ve taken extra time with my appearance, my hair blown out to soft waves, minimal makeup that still enhances my features. But the actual change is beneath the surface. I’ve locked away the hurt and betrayal, compartmentalizing them to access the cold calculation necessary for what comes next.

I’ve also shaved every inch of my body in the shower, a detail that won’t be lost on Nico when the time comes.

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