Page 17 of Ruthless Arrangement

Lea’s mother, the esteemed Professor Song with her convenient academic connections to East Asia, rumors are she’s the invaluable bridge in that equation. And Lea herself? A delicious distraction, at minimum. A potential asset to get to her mother at best.

My phone buzzes with a text from Marco.Target acquired. ETA 30 minutes.

Perfect timing. The first show will end just as our guitarist friend arrives for his command performance. And Lea will be here to witness it all. Her first glimpse behind the curtain she’s so eager to pull back.

I move to the wall of monitors, scanning until I find the camera trained on Purgatorio’s main entrance. The Friday night crowd is already forming. A line of eager patrons dressed to impress and ready to spend. VIP guests bypass the line, escorted directly inside by hosts who know which clients deserve special attention.

At precisely 9:00 PM, a taxi pulls up to the curb. Lea emerges, as I’d imagined her: back straight, chin lifted in defiance of whatever nerves she might be feeling. The dress hangs perfectly on her slender frame; the color transforming her from the professional journalist who’d confronted me at our first meeting into something altogether more intriguing.

She approaches the entrance, where Tony checks her name against the VIP list before recognizing her with an embarrassed grin. Very unusual for my top bouncer and gatekeeper.The right dress makes all the difference.I watch as she’s escorted inside, bypassing the envious gazes of those still waiting in line. The camera follows her progress through the main floor, capturing the heads that turn as she passes, the appreciative glances from men and women alike.

A dark possessive thrill courses through me at the sight—mine, walking into my domain. She belongs to no one in that room. Only I know why she’s here, what she hopes to achieve, and how thoroughly I intend to control the narrative she thinks she’s writing.

I switch to another camera as she’s led up the private staircase to the VIP level, then to the even more exclusive corridor leading to my personal lounge. Her posture remains rigidly composed, but I don’t miss the way her eyes dart around, taking in every detail, memorizing faces, cataloging information for the story she believes she’s researching. Let her look. Let her remember. By the time she understands what she’s really seeing, it will be too late.

I move away from the monitors and position myself at the small bar in the lounge’s corner. The space is designed for intimate meetings with soundproof walls, subtle lighting, comfortable seating facilitated conversation while maintaining appropriate distance. No windows, no obvious cameras, nothing to suggest that every word spoken here is recorded and analyzed.

A soft knock precedes the door opening. One of my security team, Blake, a former military man with impeccable discretion, shows Lea inside before withdrawing, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

She stands just inside the entrance, taking in the room with those quick, assessing eyes. The red dress clings to her curves, the hemline stopping just above her knees. Conservative by club standards but still showing enough leg to draw attention. She’s applied makeup with a skilled hand, enough to enhance her natural beauty without appearing overdone.

“Ms. Song,” I greet, my voice neutral as I pour two glasses of water. “You’re punctual, as always. I appreciate that.”

“Mr. Varela.” She steps further into the room, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. “Thank you for the dress. It’s beautiful. It…it wasn’t necessary.”

“I disagree.” I hand her one of the water glasses, our fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. She doesn’t flinch, but I catch the slight increase in her breathing rate at the contact. “Appearance matters in my world. The right look opens doors that would otherwise remain closed.”

She takes a small sip of water, using the moment to gather her thoughts. “I brought my notebook,” she says, reaching for her small clutch purse. “I thought we could start by discussing?—”

I raise a single finger, cutting her off mid-sentence. The immediate way she falls silent sends a wave of satisfaction through me. Already learning.

“This isn’t a conventional interview,” I remind her, moving to circle behind where she stands. “It’s not a negotiation. It’s a privilege I can revoke at any time.”

I complete my circle, coming to stand behind her. She remains perfectly still, though I can sense the tension radiating from her body; the fight-or-flight response held rigidly in check by her determination to get her story.

“Tonight,” I continue, placing a hand on her bare shoulder, “is about establishing parameters.”

She stiffens at my touch, her skin warm beneath my palm. I let my hand remain there for three heartbeats, long enough to make my point, before stepping around to face her again.

“Your phone,” I say, extending my hand. “Give it to me.”

Her eyes widen, her free hand instinctively moving to the small clutch where her phone presumably rests. “My phone? Why?”

“Because I asked for it,” I reply. “And because while you’re in my world, your communications are my concern.”

I watch the internal struggle play across her face. The journalist’s instinct to protect her source material, the woman’s natural resistance to surrendering her privacy, the pragmatist’s calculation of how much she’s willing to sacrifice for access.

“I need my phone for work,” she says finally. “For notes, for recording?—”

“All of which can be accomplished with this.” I reach into my jacket pocket and withdraw a sleek smartphone, nearly identical to the model I’ve seen her using during our previous meeting. “The latest model. All the functionality you need.”

She stares at the offered device, suspicion clear in her expression. “And what’s been added to it?”

A smile tugs at my lips. She isn’t stupid. Good.

“Security measures,” I answer truthfully, if incompletely. The phone does indeed have enhanced security, along with custom software that will allow Marco to monitor her communications, track her location, and access her data. “For your protection as much as mine.”

She doesn’t believe me. That much is clear from the skeptical arch of her eyebrow. But she’s calculating again, weighing her options, recognizing the inherent power imbalance in our arrangement.

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