Page 57 of Ruthless Arrangement

A polite cough from the doorway sends me scrambling to shove the folder back and close the drawer. The TA stands there, keys jingling impatiently in his hand.

“Sorry,” I say, forcing a casual smile as I hold up the textbook. “Just checking a reference.”

He nods, though his expression suggests he’s not convinced. “I really need to lock up now. Department policy.”

I have no choice but to leave, my mind buzzing with questions. What could my mother be researching that involves pharma companies? And why the secrecy?

Outside, I stand on the steps of the building, trying to make sense of it all. I pull out my phone to call her again, but the call goes straight to voicemail. The dread in my stomach has grown into a solid mass.

What have you gotten yourself into, Mom?

* * *

The senator’smansion sprawls across a meticulously landscaped acre on Chicago’s North Shore, its limestone facade glowing warmly in the evening light. A line of luxury vehicles winds up the circular driveway, disgorging passengers in formal attire who ascend the broad steps with practiced elegance.

I tug at the hem of my midnight blue cocktail dress, self-conscious about my choice. It’s the most expensive piece in my wardrobe, a gift from my mother, but among these people, it looks like off-the-rack mediocrity.

“Stop fidgeting,” Nico murmurs. “You look beautiful.”

He’s resplendent in a tailored tuxedo that emphasizes his broad shoulders and lean waist. The fabric is so fine it seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, giving him an almost predatory sleekness.

“I feel out of place,” I admit as we hand our invitation to a white-gloved attendant.

“You’re not.” His voice is firm, brooking no argument. “You belong wherever I bring you, Lea. Remember that.”

The possessive edge to his words should offend me. Instead, they send a treacherous warmth spreading through my chest. I’ve spent the day distracted by worry about my mother, by the mysterious folder and her sudden disappearance. But now, with Nico standing as my silent anchor, I feel grounded in a way I can’t quite explain.

We step into a grand foyer where crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across marble floors. The air is heavy with expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and the particular scent of old money, a blend of entitlement and aged whiskey that clings to those born into privilege.

“Senator,” Nico greets our host with a firm handshake. “Thank you for the invitation.”

Senator Wright is a silver-haired man with a politician’s perfect smile and eyes that calculate your value with every glance. “Nico! Delighted you could make it.” He looks at me, assessment giving way to curiosity. “And this lovely young woman is?”

“Lea Song,” I answer before Nico can, extending my hand. “Journalist with the Chicago Investigative Journal.”

If my profession surprises him, he hides it well. “A journalist! How refreshing to have someone from the fourth estate who isn’t shouting questions at me outside a committee hearing.” He chuckles, but there’s a new wariness in his eyes as he looks between Nico and me.

“Ms. Song is working on a piece about business leadership in Chicago,” Nico explains. “I’m one of her subjects.”

The senator’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t pursue it. “Well, please enjoy yourselves. Dinner will be served in half an hour. Until then, the bar is open, and the company is, I hope, stimulating.”

He moves on to greet other guests, and Nico steers me deeper into the gathering. The dining room opens before us: a lavish spectacle of crisp white tablecloths, gleaming silverware, and floral arrangements. Around the edges of the room, clusters of Chicago’s elite engage in the careful dance of networking, their laughter a little too loud, their smiles a little too fixed.

“Try not to look so overwhelmed,” Nico says, his lips brushing my ear. “These people can smell fear.”

I shoot him a glare. “I’m not afraid. I’m observing.”

A hint of a smile tugs at his mouth. “Then observe while looking like you belong. Tonight, you’re not an outsider looking in, you’re with me, which puts you at the center.”

Before I can argue, he’s threading his arm through mine, guiding me toward a group. Without missing a beat, Nico introduces me to each one, a federal judge, a shipping magnate, the CEO of a pharmaceutical conglomerate, as if I’m an integral part of his world rather than a temporary attachment.

What’s most unsettling is how seamlessly he moves between personas. With the judge, he’s deferential but knowledgeable about recent rulings. With the shipping magnate, he’s all business acumen and industry insights. With the CEO, he shifts to casual bonhomie, asking about the man’s recent fishing trip to Alaska.

Each conversation reveals a different facet of Nico Varela, yet none seems to capture his true essence. I’m watching him more than participating, fascinated by this chameleon-like ability to be whatever the situation demands.

“Lea Song?” A voice interrupts my observations. “I thought that was you.”

I turn to find Professor James Wong, a colleague of my mother’s from the Political Science department. His silver-rimmed glasses catch the light as he offers a polite smile.

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