Page 55 of Ruthless Arrangement

“That she’s navigated complex situations for years. Academia can be its own kind of battleground.”

There’s something he’s not saying, something he’s withholding, and it makes my heart quicken again. But before I can press him, he shifts tactics.

“Focus on your breathing. In through your nose for four seconds, hold it for another four, then breathe out through your mouth for six seconds. Repeat. Slow and steady.”

I want to resist, to demand answers about what he knows about my mother, but my body betrays me; I follow his instructions, my breathing syncing with the calm, measured cadence of his voice as he continues to murmur directions.

“Better?” he asks after a minute.

“Yes,” I admit. My heart rate has slowed to a more normal rhythm, the panic receding like a tide pulling back from shore.

“Good. Now lie back and close your eyes.”

I comply without thinking, settling deeper into my pillows. “Are you always this bossy at three in the morning?”

A low chuckle rumbles through the line. “I’m always this bossy, period. You’re just more inclined to listen when you’re vulnerable.”

The observation stings because it’s true. In my current state, half-awake, rattled by nightmares, alone in the dark, I’m finding a strange comfort in his authoritative tone, in having someone else take control, even if just for a few minutes.

“Tell me about your first memory,” he blurts.

“What?”

“Your earliest memory. I want to know what shaped Lea Song from the beginning.”

I hesitate, but the request seems harmless enough, and the distraction is welcome. “We were in London. I was maybe three or four. My mother was teaching me to write my name in Korean. I remember the smell of ink and the way she guided my hand across the paper, her fingers warm around mine.”

As I speak, the tension continues to drain from my body. I tell him about the pride I felt when I finally got it right, the way my mother’s face lit up with a smile reserved just for me. It’s a simple memory, but tender, a glimpse of a time before life grew complicated, before I began questioning the woman who raised me.

“She’s always been your safe harbor,” Nico observes.

“Yes.” My voice catches. “Which is why this dream has me so rattled. I’ve never seen her afraid like that, not even in my imagination.”

“Dreams reflect our own fears more often than reality,” he repeats, but there’s less conviction this time, as if he too is considering darker possibilities.

We lapse into silence, but it’s comfortable. I can hear his steady breathing, the occasional soft rustle as he shifts position wherever he is. It’s strange to feel this connected to someone through just a phone line, especially someone who represents everything I should be fighting against.

“You should try to sleep now,” he says finally. “You have a long day tomorrow.”

“I do?”This is news to me.

“We’re attending a dinner. Senator Wright’s fundraiser. I’ll send a car for you at seven.”

The abrupt shift back to business catches me off guard. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

“You agreed to follow my lead, remember? Besides, the senator sits on the committee that oversees pharmaceutical regulations. His guests might provide valuable context for your article.”

He’s dangling access again, using my journalistic ambition as bait. The worst part is, it works. My mind begins cataloging the potential connections, the doors that might open at an event like this.

“Fine,” I concede, too tired to argue. “But I choose what I wear this time.”

“As long as it’s appropriate for the setting.” His tone, smooth but absolute, makes it clear he’ll have the final say, regardless.

I should push back, set firmer boundaries, but exhaustion is pulling me under again, my eyelids growing heavy. “Goodnight, Nico.”

“Sleep well, piccola.” His voice has that softer quality again, the one that makes my chest tighten with emotions I can’t, or won’t, name. “No more nightmares tonight.”

It sounds almost like a promise, a command to my subconscious. And strangely, as I drift back toward sleep with the phone still pressed to my ear, I believe him.

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