Page 13 of Ruthless Arrangement

As Marco departs to make the arrangements, I remain standing, contemplating the empty space where Lea had been. The coffee cup she’d touched still sits on the table, a faint smudge of lipstick marking the rim. A small, tangible proof of our encounter.

Tomorrow will be the first actual test. Not of her courage or her intelligence since those she’s already demonstrated. But of her adaptability, her willingness to surrender control in service of her larger goal.

Few people understand the fundamental truth that has built my empire. True power comes not from controlling others, but from making them willingly surrender control to you.

By this time tomorrow, Lea Song will begin to learn that lesson, whether she wants to or not.

CHAPTERFIVE

Lea

I jolt awake gasping,sheets twisted around my legs like restraints. Darkness presses thick against my bedroom windows, the digital clock mocking me with 4:23 AM. Fragments of a dream dissolve like smoke, leaving only the hint of dark eyes watching me, the distant fragment of a voice promising access for obedience.Nico.His name is a curse, a prayer, a fixation burned onto my brain.

His presence lingers, a phantom heat clinging to the air in my small apartment, hours after I fled his club. I can almost feel the controlled burn of him, the weight of his assessing gaze that missed nothing, the ghost of his fingers brushing mine when he slid his damned card across the table. I kick off the tangled sheets, needing to move, needing air that doesn’t somehow remind me of the smell of expensive cologne and danger from the club. The linoleum floor is cold against my bare feet, a grounding shock. Did I really agree to this? Was I insane? One text message to a number I never gave him,how the hell did he get it?One promise of a story I’m suspecting is just bait, and I folded like a cheap suit.

The bathroom light feels harsh, unforgiving. My reflection stares back: wild hair, flushed cheeks. My eyes are too bright, burning with adrenaline that hasn’t faded. I look like someone running a fever. Or maybe just someone who made a deal with the devil and is only now realizing the fine print involves third-degree burns and possibly eternal damnation.

“Wake the fuck up, Song,” I mutter, splashing cold water on my face, again and again. The icy sting does nothing to wash away the sick feeling coiling in my gut. “It’s just a story.” But the lie dissolves on my tongue, bitter and false. It stopped being just a story the moment he looked at me through that revolving glass, knowing my name, the moment Harrison dropped that file on the desk, the moment I connected Nico Varela to my father’s ruined career, his suspicious death six years ago.His doing.Nico Varela. The man I swore I’d expose, the architect of my family’s destruction.

The shower steams around me, but the heat doesn’t reach the chill deep inside. Every crafted word Nico spoke, every lingering glance that felt like both a threat and a caress, his thumb brushing my pulse point as if measuring my fear, it all replays on a loop.Obedience. What kind of journalist makes that deal? A desperate one? A compromised one? What kind of daughter, seeking vengeance for her father, puts herself willingly under the thumb of the man she suspects destroyed him? How could I even think about stepping into his world, breathing his air, after what he might have done? What he’s capable of doing to me. Dad would turn in his grave, the weight of his disappointment pressing down on me harder than any physical threat.

But you want this story more than you want to admit.The whisper in my head is insidious, seductive.You felt that treacherous thrill when his dark eyes locked on yours, didn’t you? That sickening jolt of power, even knowing he holds all the cards. A thrill that feels like spitting on your father’s memory. You saw a flicker of something in him last night…or maybe you just imagined it because you need to believe he’s not a pure monster, even though every instinct screams that he is, that he’s capable of anything. Anything. Including murder.

My mind races, a chaotic collision of scenarios: Nico setting me up, the publisher playing a game I don’t understand, my father’s spirit whispering warnings I refuse to hear. His driver arrives at eight. Less than three hours to prepare for what? He offered no details, just another display of absolute control.You don’t need to know where. You only need to be ready.Fuck him. Well, two can play. Or at least, one can try to look like she hasn’t completely lost her goddamn mind.

I stand before my closet, surveying the meager options like a soldier assessing hopelessly inadequate armor. This isn’t just professional attire anymore. I’m dressing for his world now, stepping onto his stage, playing by his warped rules. A world of shadows, violence, and staggering wealth that makes my student loan debt look like pocket change. Every choice feels loaded. Too formal? Uptight, trying too hard. Too casual? Disrespectful, like I don’t grasp the gravity of whatever twisted game he’s playing. Too provocative? Hell no, not giving him the satisfaction of thinking that’s my angle. Too conservative? He might think I’m scared, and showing fear feels like handing him a weapon I can’t afford to lose.

I finally settle on a charcoal gray pencil skirt. It’s professional, severe, not inviting. A silk blouse in deep burgundy. A rich color with a hint of luxury I don’t possess, but projecting a confidence I don’t feel. Low heels, practical enough to run if needed. The thought sends an icy dread through me. God, what am I thinking? This isn’t a movie. It’s just…Nico Varela. Just the man who might hold the keys to everything, or the architect of my ruin, career, sanity, maybe even my life. Armor. It’s definitely armor.

My phone rings on the nightstand, the sudden sound startling me so badly I nearly trip over my own feet. Sienna. My only link to normalcy, to the life I had before this Varela vortex sucked me in. I hesitate, hand hovering over the screen. Talking to her feels like confessing to a priest. But the silence in this apartment is suffocating. I answer, bracing myself.

“Hey,” I try for casual, aiming for breezy and missing by a mile. “Up early.”

“Never slept,” she rasps, sounding genuinely wrecked. “Housing scam piece is kicking my ass. You?”

I take a deep breath; the lie forming even as I hate myself for it. “Just getting ready for the day. Early start.”

“Right, I got your text last night. Your ‘exclusive access’ day.” I can practically hear her skepticism through the phone. “Did you survive Purgatorio, otherwise?”

“Barely,” I say, aiming for dark humor. “But I got what I needed. For now.” I give her the fastest, most sanitized version, that Nico agreed to cooperate, certain conditions apply, journalistic boundaries will be maintained. I omit the chilling intimacy of his voice, the demand for obedience, the way a current jolted through me when his fingers brushed mine.

“Conditions? What conditions?” Sienna demands, sharp as ever. “Lea, this guy is bad news. Like, ‘end up in a body bag’ bad news. He admitted to surveilling you! Remember what I told you. He guts people! Fuck Lea!”

“I know who he is,” I counter, feeling defensive and childish. “This is the kind of access reporters dream of, Sienna. I can handle him.”

“Can you? Or are you just telling yourself that?” Her voice softens. “Your career won’t matter if you’re dead! Look, I’m worried. Seriously worried. Promise me you’ll text me. Hourly, even. Promise me you won’t get Stockholm syndrome for Chicago’s hottest crime lord.”

Heat rushes to my face. “I’m using him for the story,” I say firmly, the words feeling thinner, less convincing than I want. “That’s it. He’s a source. A dangerous one, but a source.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she hums, radiating disbelief. “Okay, Song. Just be smarter than you were last night, okay? Don’t let him get in your head.”

Too late for that, I think grimly.

The call ends, leaving her words on my mind.Be smarter.I glance at Nico’s card on my desk. Simple black stock, silver lettering. No title. Nothing needed. I could back out. Call him. Plead illness, a family emergency. Fabricate something. Reassert professional distance. Harrison would understand, wouldn’t he? Or was Harrison just another pawn in Nico’s game, following orders from the Publisher Nico controls? The thought makes nausea churn in my gut.

Who can I even trust anymore?

The urge to run, to crawl back into my safe, predictable life, is overwhelming. I’m twenty-three fucking years old. I should be worried about paying off student loans and deadlines, not getting into a car with a man who radiates danger like a faulty power line, a man who might have killed my father.

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