Page 35 of Ruthless Arrangement

I straighten, giving her space to breathe again. Return to my desk and sit on its edge, studying her with clinical detachment. Let her feel the weight of my assessment.

“You don’t have to decide now,” I say, though I already know what her choice will be. “My driver will be at your apartment tomorrow morning at eight. If you’re not waiting, I’ll take that as your answer.”

She’s silent for a long moment, her internal struggle is showing across her features with a transparency I find almost intriguing. So young, so unpracticed at concealment. She hasn’t yet learned that in my world, revealing one’s thoughts is equivalent to baring one’s throat to a predator.

“And if I agree?” she asks. “What guarantees do I have that you’ll hold up your end? That I’ll get my story?”

“You have my word,” I reply simply. “Which, in my business, is the only currency that matters.”

She gives a short, disbelieving laugh. “The word of a criminal?”

“The word of a businessman,” I correct. “One who understands that reputation is everything. Break your word once, and no one will ever trust you again. I’ve never broken mine.”

It’s true, though not for the noble reasons she might infer. My adherence to verbal contracts isn’t born of moral fortitude, but practical necessity. In a world without legal recourse, where disputes are settled with blood rather than lawsuits, your word must be unimpeachable.

She weighs this, trying to separate truth from manipulation. I allow her consideration, though I’ve considered the variables. Her assignment. Her ambition. The threat Moretti now poses. The data points all converge on a single inevitable conclusion: she will agree to my terms.

“Fine,” she says at last, the word exhaled on a shaky breath that betrays more than she intends. “I’ll do it. Daily check-ins. Open schedule. On-call status.”

Victory settles in my gut, warm and clean as fine whiskey. Not that I doubted the outcome, but there’s always a particular pleasure in watching the moment of capitulation, especially from someone as spirited as Lea Song.

I move toward her again, this time extending my hand to help her rise. A small test. Will she accept this first physical contact, this minor submission to my assistance?

After a brief hesitation, she places her uninjured hand in mine. Her skin is soft, her fingers slender but strong, a writer’s hand. I pull her to her feet with controlled gentleness, bringing her close. So close that I can feel the heat from her body.

“There’s something,” I murmur, letting my gaze drop to her mouth. Her lips part in response, an unconscious reaction that confirms what I’ve suspected. She’s not immune to me, despite her best efforts.

“What?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

I lift my free hand and brush my thumb across her bottom lip, a gesture both intimate and assertive. “Lipstick smudge,” I explain, though there isn’t one. The real purpose is to establish physical dominance, to cross a boundary that sets a precedent for future encroachments.

Her sharp inhale is audible in the quiet office, a small, involuntary sound that sends a beat of satisfaction through me. My touch linger longer than necessary, gauging her response. She doesn’t pull away, though I can feel the tension thrumming through her like a plucked string.

“Appearances matter, piccola,” I murmur, releasing her hand and stepping back just enough to let her register how easily I’ve invaded her space, and how intentionally I’ve now withdrawn from it.

She blinks rapidly, as if emerging from a trance. A flush has spread across her cheeks, and she clears her throat before speaking. “Is that all for now?”

I nod, resuming my seat behind the desk. “Marco will take you home. Rest. Ice that wrist. Tomorrow we continue.”

She gathers her bag with movements that betray lingering disorientation, thrown by the sudden shift from tension to dismissal. It’s another planned move, keeping her off-balance, unable to anticipate my next action or request.

As she heads for the door, I call after her. “Lea.”

She turns, one hand on the doorknob.

“Wear something formal tomorrow evening. We have a charity gala to attend.”

Her brow furrows. “I don’t have?—”

“Something suitable will be delivered in the morning,” I interrupt. “Along with a few other necessities.”

She opens her mouth as if to protest, then seems to think better of it. With a stiff nod, she exits, the door clicking shut behind her with quiet finality.

I never doubted she would accept my terms. Her type is predictable, driven by ambition, fueled by curiosity, hampered by ethical constraints they believe are immutable until the moment they bend them. What interests me now is plotting the precise sequence of events that will transform her from reluctant ally to willing accomplice.

The seduction, because that’s what this is, regardless of whether it culminates in physical consummation, must be methodical. Artfully planned. A series of incremental breaches, each one pushing her further from her moral center until she no longer recognizes the boundaries she’s crossed.

My phone vibrates on the desk. Marco’s name flashes on the screen.

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