Page 12 of Ruthless Arrangement

She holds my gaze, the journalist warring with the woman, ambition battling self-preservation. The flicker of fear is still there, deep down, but overshadowed now by resolve.

“One condition,” she says, reclaiming ground. “Editorial control.”

“Of course,” I concede easily. Too easily. Let her cling to that illusion. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your ‘truth’.”

Her eyes narrow, sensing the deception but unable to pinpoint it. Not yet.

“Then we have a deal,” she says, extending her hand.

I take it, noting the strength beneath the tremor, which has lessened now that she believes she has secured her terms. “Indeed we do, Ms. Song.”

As our hands separate, I see the hint of uneasy triumph in her eyes. The thrill of having secured unprecedented access battling with the dawning realization that she’s just agreed to terms whose full implications she can’t possibly understand.

“When do we start?” she asks, closing her notebook with a decisive snap.

I check my watch, a simple, elegant Patek Philippe that has been one of the many gifts from my uncle Alessandro. “We already have,” I inform her. “Your test at the door was the first step.”

Her eyes widen. “That was deliberate?”

“Everything is deliberate in my world, Ms. Song,” I reply. “The sooner you understand that, the better your chances of navigating it successfully.”

She absorbs this, reassessing our interaction with new understanding. “So what’s the next step?”

I finish the last of my whiskey, setting the glass down with finality. “Tomorrow. Eight AM. My driver will collect you from your apartment.”

“To go where?” she asks, unable to hide her curiosity.

“That’s your first lesson in our new arrangement,” I say, rising from my seat to signal the end of our conversation. “You don’t need to know where. You only need to be ready.”

She stands as well, gathering her notebook and pen with movements that betray a hint of nervous energy despite her composed expression.

“Until tomorrow, then,” she says, extending her hand once more; an attempt to reclaim some measure of professional equality in our interaction.

I take her hand, but instead of shaking it, I turn it slightly, my thumb brushing across her inner wrist.

“Until tomorrow,” I agree, releasing her hand after that brief, deliberate contact. “Sleep well, Ms. Song. You’ll need your rest.”

The subtle threat, or promise, lingers between us as she turns to leave, her posture rigid with determination as she navigates back through the club.

I watch her go, noting the way she moves, still confident but with a new awareness, as if she can feel my gaze tracking her progress. At the door, she hesitates for just a moment before stepping out into the night, the brief pause revealing more about her state of mind than she probably intended.

“Thoughts?” Marco asks, appearing silently at my side as he always does when needed.

I consider the question, replaying our interaction, cataloging her responses and reactions, calculating probabilities and potential outcomes.

“She’s either going to be very useful,” I say finally, “or very dangerous.”

“Did you just say that the dangerous ones are often the most useful,” Marco observes, his tone neutral but his implication clear.

I nod, my gaze still fixed on the door through which Lea Song has disappeared.

“Have the car ready at seven-thirty tomorrow,” I instruct. “And tell Alessandro I’ll be bringing a guest to breakfast.”

Marco raises an eyebrow. My uncle rarely meets with outsiders, especially not at his estate.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” he asks. “This soon?”

“No,” I admit. “But it will be illuminating.”

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