Page 21 of Ruthless Arrangement

I wait, counting silently to twenty, letting the rhythm of the table conversation re-establish itself. Then, pushing my chair back quietly, I murmur a polite, “Excuse me,” to the woman seated beside me and slip out the same door Nico and Abernathy used.

The corridor outside the private dining room is dimly lit, carpeted, silent except for the faint scent of polished wood and expensive perfume. It forks left and right. I pause, listening intently. From the left, I hear the faint sounds of the restaurant. From the right, nothing. I head right, my heels sinking into the plush carpet, muffling my steps.

Rounding a corner marked with a discreet sign for restrooms, I freeze. There he is. Thomas Abernathy, pressed back against the polished mahogany wall, not physically touched but effectively pinned by Nico’s proximity. Nico stands a foot away, one hand resting casually against the wall near Abernathy’s head, blocking any quick escape. He’s speaking in a low, calm voice, too low for me to make out the words, but the effect is undeniable. Abernathy’s face is pale, slick with sweat, his eyes wide with a fear that borders on panic. He looks like a man staring down the barrel of a gun, even though no weapon is visible.

It’s the same controlled menace I saw last night, stripped of the overt violence but no less potent. This is how he operates when broken fingers aren’t necessary: quiet threats, implied consequences, the crushing weight of his power brought to bear in a hushed corridor. My heart hammers against my ribs. I should retreat, pretend I saw nothing. But I can’t move. I’m rooted to the spot, disgusted yet mesmerized by the raw, quiet display of intimidation. Part of me screams to run; another, traitorous part leans closer, needing to understand the source of such absolute control.

Then Nico’s head turns. His eyes find mine in the dim light. He doesn’t look surprised, or angry, or anything other than mildly amused. He doesn’t miss a beat.

His voice, still low but now carrying clearly down the short hallway, cuts through the silence. “Ah, Ms. Song. Perfect timing.” He gestures toward the terrified man pinned against the wall. “Mr. Abernathy and I were just clarifying some discrepancies in his recent projections. Weren’t we, Thomas?”

Abernathy flinches at the use of his first name, nodding mutely.

Nico continues, his tone chillingly conversational. “Ms. Song was just wondering,”—my blood runs cold—”if you intended to fully honor the terms of our previous arrangement. The one regarding subcontractor allocation.”

He turns his head, fixing me with that intense, unreadable gaze. He’s done it deliberately. By invoking my name, by implying I’m privy to their “arrangement,” he’s made me complicit. He’s woven me into the threat, positioning me as his ally, his enforcer-by-proxy in Abernathy’s terrified mind.

Abernathy’s panicked gaze flicks toward me, his eyes pleading.And suddenly I feel dirty.He sees me not as a neutral observer, but as part of Nico’s apparatus. Complicit in his fear. Nico didn’t just intimidate him; he usedmeas part of the threat.

“Yes,” Abernathy chokes out, his voice hoarse. “Yes, of course. Absolutely. A simple oversight. It will be corrected. Immediately.”

“Excellent,” Nico says, removing his hand from the wall. He steps back, creating space, the immediate threat receding but the underlying pressure remaining. “I knew we could rely on your good judgment, Thomas.” He straightens his tie, a gesture of finality. “Now, perhaps you should take a moment to compose yourself before rejoining our guests.”

Abernathy nods again, frantically dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. He doesn’t look at me as he scrambles away down the corridor in the opposite direction.

I stand frozen, my mind reeling. He used me. Effortlessly, seamlessly, he drew me into his web, painting me as part of his power structure.

Nico turns fully toward me, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “You seem so eager to get involved, Ms. Song. I thought I made it clear for you to stay put?”

“I…” My voice fails me for a moment. I swallow, forcing the words out. “I needed the restroom.” A weak lie, and we both know it.

“Of course you did,” he says, the amusement deepening in his eyes. He steps closer, invading my personal space just enough to make me acutely aware of his physical presence. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

The question hangs between us, laden with double meaning. Did I find the restroom? Did I find the truth I claim to be seeking? Did I find the confirmation of what kind of man he truly is?

“I found…” I trail off, unsure how to answer, unsure what answer he wants, unsure what the truth even is anymore.

He doesn’t press. Instead, he gestures back toward the private dining room. “Shall we rejoin the others? The lemon tart here is supposedly transcendent.”

He turns and walks back the way we came, expecting me to follow. And I do. What choice do I have? My legs feel unsteady, my mind a chaotic whirl of conflicting emotions. Disgust at his methods, fear of his power, and that deeply unsettling flicker of something else, something coiling hot and low in my gut. A perverse thrill at being pulled into the orbit of such dangerous charisma?

Nico didn’t just show me his power; he made me touch it. He implicated me, binding me to him in a way that goes beyond mere observation.

I follow him back into the private dining room, my steps leaden. The earlier sophistication of the place now feels tainted, almost suffocating. The lemon tart tastes like crap, despite its apparent perfection. I mechanically pick at it, nodding vaguely when spoken to, my mind still replaying the scene in the corridor: Abernathy’s terror, Nico’s casual menace, and my own unwilling role in the drama. He hadn’t just let me witness his power; he’d splashed it onto me, marking me.

The lunch eventually concludes. Farewells are exchanged, polite smiles are plastered on faces that, just moments before in Abernathy’s case, had been masks of fear. In the Bentley on the ride back, the silence had stretched taut again, but this time it felt different. Less like unspoken tension, more like a settled, uncomfortable reality.

As the car pulls up near my apartment building, Nico finally turns to me. His expression is unreadable, detached.

“I have matters requiring my sole attention for the next couple of days, Ms. Song,” he states, his tone leaving no room for questions. “Sensitive negotiations that wouldn’t benefit from observation. Marco will be in touch when your presence is required again.”

It wasn’t a suggestion or a courtesy; it was a dismissal. A temporary release from the leash. A wave of conflicting emotions wash over me, relief so potent it almost makes my knees buckle, followed by a prickle of unease. Is this protection, or am I simply being sidelined because I’ve seen too much, pushed him too far by following him?

“Understood,” I manage, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor wanting to betray me. Arguing wouldn’t help me here. I gather my purse and the cursed phone, my fingers brushing against its smooth surface.

He gives a curt nod, his gaze already distant, likely calculating his next move in the city-wide chess game he’s playing. I exit the car, the heavy door clicking shut behind me with an air of finality. The Bentley pulls away smoothly, disappearing around the corner, leaving me standing on the familiar sidewalk, feeling utterly adrift.

CHAPTEREIGHT

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