Page 15 of Ruthless Arrangement

He doesn’t look at me again. Doesn’t acknowledge my existence. He turns and walks toward a side door, leaving me sitting in stunned silence. Nico remains seated, eyes fixed on the wall behind me. He doesn’t look at me either.

The butler, Bennett, reappears as if summoned by an unspoken command. “Ms. Song,” he murmurs, his tone unchanged.

Numbly, I rise. The walk back through the opulent corridors feels like a perp walk, the Varela ancestors smirking down from their gilded frames. Failure tastes bitter in my mouth, mingling with the lingering flavor of expensive coffee. I’ve let my anger, my grief, my suspicion get the better of me. I’ve fucking blown it. My only chance to get close, to find answers about Dad, sacrificed for a moment of righteous fury.

Bennett escorts me out the massive front doors, the gray light feeling harsh after the mansion’s curated dimness. The Bentley waits, engine purring, a black hearse ready to take me back to my hollow life. Access revoked. Mission failed.

I slide into the backseat with a nauseating mix of failure, regret, and impotent rage. I’ve screwed this up completely. The partition remains down as the car sits motionless. The driver stands outside, impassive, waiting. What now? Humiliation burns my cheeks. Do I actually have to ask him to take me home?

The front passenger door opens without warning. My breath hitches. Nico slides in, turning to face me across the empty space, a mask of cool control firmly back in place. Questions are almost on my lips:What happened? Did I blow it? Is the deal off?His presence, the sheer force of his contained energy, chokes the words in my throat.

Before I can force out a single syllable, he breaks the silence. “Be ready at nine tonight.” His voice is low, controlled, giving away nothing, yet the words land like heavy stones, definitive and absolute. “I’ll have a dress delivered. Wear it.”

Shock slams into me, leaving a cold hollowness where my defiance was moments ago.My skin prickles, a wave of heat washing over me despite the chill.The whiplash is dizzying, nauseating. After that disaster? After Alessandro’s icy dismissal? He’s still commanding? Still dictating the terms?My hand instinctively goes to my throat, where his touch lingered last night.

He doesn’t wait for a response, offers no explanation, no hint of what transpired after I left. As he exits the car as abruptly as he entered, he closes the door with quiet finality. He ascends the marble steps and, without looking back, he disappears into the fortress that has just chewed me up and spat me out, leaving me reeling in his wake.

The car moves, pulling away from the mansion, gliding back toward the city, the world I’m returning to, almost defeated. I sit stunned, clutching my bag, his last words lingering in the sudden, oppressive silence.I’ll have a dress delivered. Wear it.He knew. Alessandro dismisses me, and Nico? Nico just sets the next appointment. My defiance meant nothing. My anger changed nothing. I earned only this brutal lesson: I am a pawn, moved at his whim. I am not dismissed. The game isn’t over. It is still on, and the rules, his rules, are clearer and colder than ever.

Relief wars violently with confusion, anger, and a strange, unsettling excitement that coils low in my belly. I have faced the power behind the throne, stumbled spectacularly, yet somehow remain in play. Tonight, I will wear the dress he sends. I will go where he directs. Obedience isn’t a request; it is the non-negotiable price of admission.

The thought should terrify me. It does. But beneath the fear, igniting slowly in the wreckage of my assumptions, I feel something dangerously, addictively close to excitement.

CHAPTERSIX

Nico

I watchthe light catch the split in Jasmine’s lip in the dressing room mirror, a crimson slash against her olive skin that makeup can’t fully disguise. She winces as she dabs concealer over the purple bruise blooming beneath her right eye, her movements careful and practiced. This isn’t her first time covering evidence.

I stand in the doorway, watching her struggle, my irritation building with each passing second. Friday night at Purgatorio means capacity crowds, VIPs with six-figure tabs, and performances that need to be flawless. Jasmine is one of my best dancers, her aerial silk routine the highlight of the midnight show. Now she looks like she’s gone three rounds with a heavyweight.

“You can’t perform like that,” I say, my voice flat.

She flinches at the sound, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror before quickly dropping back to her makeup palette. “I can cover it, Mr. Varela. I’ve done it before.”

Before. The word hangs between us, heavy with implication. I step into the room, letting the door close behind me. The air smells of hairspray, perfume, and the particular scent of fear that I recognize over the years. Not fear of me, not exactly, but the fear of disappointing me. That distinction is a particular form of power, one I’ve cultivated.

“Stand up.”

She obeys instantly, rising from her vanity stool with the fluid grace of a trained dancer. But I don’t miss the slight hitch in her movement, the barely perceptible hesitation as she straightens.

“Lift your shirt.”

Her eyes widen fractionally before she complies, raising the hem of her cropped rehearsal top to reveal a constellation of bruises across her ribcage; some fresh and angry red, others fading to sickly yellow. The systematic pattern speaks of deliberate cruelty rather than a single loss of control.

Cold fury coils in my chest. Not because I care about Jasmine as a person, though she is valuable talent, but because this represents something I can’t tolerate: disorder in my domain.

“Your boyfriend,” I say. Not a question.

She nods, eyes downcast. “We had a fight last night. He thinks I’m cheating on him with Lenny, the bartender.” A bitter laugh escapes her. “As if I have the energy for that after dancing six hours a night.”

I study the bruising, calculating. The midnight show is the crown jewel of Purgatorio’s entertainment, meticulously choreographed and timed to the second. Canceling Jasmine’s act would disrupt the entire sequence, disappoint the high rollers who come specifically for her performance, and signal weakness. In my world, weakness invites challengers. But having her perform on stage damaged would be worse. It would advertise that I allow such things to happen to those under my protection. That violence against what is mine goes unpunished. The thought crystallizes with perfect clarity. Jasmine isn’t just an employee. She’s an asset.Myasset. And someone has damaged my property.

“Who can replace you tonight?” I ask, observing her.

Relief flickers across her face, relief that I’m not firing her, that I’m focusing on the practical problem rather than her personal choices. “Selina could cover the aerial routine. She’s been understudying.”

I nod once. “Then that’s settled. You’re off until those ribs heal.” I turn toward the door, then pause. “Your boyfriend. What’s his name?”

---