Page 37 of Ruthless Arrangement

I shut the laptop, eyes still burning with the dual flames of arousal and ambition. On the closed screen, I can almost see Lea’s reflection, no longer the image of her naked in the shower, but as she will be tomorrow: dressed in whatever gown I select, on my arm at the charity gala, a visible declaration of my claim.

The thought satisfies something deep and possessive within me. By the time she realizes how tightly I’ve woven her fate into mine, there will be no escaping, not from me, nor from the truth about her mother’s dangerous associates.

I pour a measure of whiskey, raising the glass in a silent toast to the coming weeks. The game has only just begun.

CHAPTERTWELVE

Lea

The limousine purrsto a stop at the foot of the marble steps. Through tinted windows, I glimpse the flash of cameras, the glide of designer gowns, the sparkle of diamonds catching light. My heart jumps, a frantic bird against my ribs.

“Ready?” Nico asks, his voice smooth and controlled beside me.

Ready for what?I want to ask.Ready to step into a world where I don’t belong? Ready to pretend I’m something I’m not?

Instead, I smooth nonexistent wrinkles from the red silk gown that arrived at my apartment this morning in a black garment bag. No note, just the dress. A silent command from the man beside me.

“As I’ll ever be,” I manage, trying to keep the tremor from my voice.

The chauffeur opens the door, and Nico steps out first. I watch his movements, all fluid, confident, the movements of a man who knows his place in the world and claims it without hesitation. He turns, extending his hand to me, and for a moment, I hesitate.

Taking his hand means something. An acceptance, my surrender?

Haven’t I already made my choice?The moment I agreed to his terms, his protection? The moment I stepped onto this path?

I place my hand in his. His fingers close around mine, warm and strong, and he helps me from the car with a gentleness that surprises me.

The moment my stiletto-clad feet touch the red carpet, I’m aware of the shift in attention. Heads turn, gazes sweep over us, conversations pause mid-sentence. The air itself seems to change, charged with curiosity and speculation.

“Chin up,” Nico murmurs close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “You look stunning.”

The compliment lands, catching me off guard. I glance down at the gown. The deep red silk feels cool and whisper-soft against my bare shoulders, the neckline dipping low enough to be daring without crossing into vulgar. It’s exactly the right shade to complement my golden skin, the perfect cut to accentuate my figure without making me look like arm candy.

I’d expected something more obvious, something that screamed ownership or objectification. Instead, he’s chosen a dress that makes me look like the best version of myself. The realization sends a confusing ripple of gratitude through me.

Nico offers his arm, and I take it, feeling the solid warmth of him through the fine fabric of his tuxedo. We ascend the steps together, the solid weight of his arm anchoring me, and with each step, I feel myself transforming from Lea Song, struggling journalist with an overdue electric bill, into someone who belongs in this dazzling world of wealth and power.

“Remember,” Nico says as we reach the top of the stairs, “tonight, you’re with me. Not as a journalist. Not as an observer.”

“As what, then?” I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

His dark eyes meet mine, intense, opaque. “As mine.”

The word sends dread through me that I refuse to acknowledge as anything but indignation.

We enter the grand foyer of the Chicago Art Institute, transformed tonight into a wonderland of crystal chandeliers and floral arrangements. The air smells of expensive perfume and lilies. A string quartet plays a classical piece in the corner, the notes floating above the low hum of cultured conversation, reverberating in the cavernous space.

Nico’s hand settles at the small of my back, a light pressure that somehow feels like it’s burning through the silk of my dress. He guides me through the crowd with the ease of someone navigating familiar territory.

“Mayor Jenkins,” Nico says, stopping before a portly man with silver hair and a red face. “A pleasure to see you again.”

The mayor turns, his expression shifting from polite boredom to alert interest. “Varela! Didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

They shake hands, and I don’t miss the way the mayor’s eyes flick nervously around, as if checking who might witness this interaction.

“I never miss the Children’s Hospital fundraiser,” Nico replies. “Allow me to introduce Lea Song.”

The mayor’s gaze shifts to me, assessing, curious. I extend my hand, summoning every ounce of poise I can muster.

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