Page 92 of Ruthless Arrangement

Nico reaches for my hand, his grip warm and steady. “You saved my life.”

“That doesn’t make it okay!” The emotion bursts out of me, uncontrollable. “None of this is okay! Marco is dead. I killed someone. I’m hiding in a mansion with a man who’s been manipulating me from the moment we met. Everything about this is wrong!”

“Is it?” he asks quietly. “You found evidence on my laptop, didn’t you? About the surveillance. About arranging your assignment.”

I freeze, caught off-guard by his directness. “How did you?—”

“You’re not the only one who can observe patterns, Lea. Your behavior changed. You became more strategic in your approach. More calculated in your responses.” His eyes hold mine, unflinching. “You started playing the game on my level.”

I should deny it, maintain the pretense, but I’m too exhausted for more lies. “Yes. I found the surveillance photos. The emails to my publisher. All of it.”

He nods slowly, no surprise in his expression. “And you decided to turn it to your advantage. To seduce information from me while letting me believe I was the one in control.”

“Just like you’ve been doing to me from the beginning,” I counter, defiance rising through the fatigue.

“Yes.” The simple admission surprises me. “We’ve both been performing. Both been calculating each move, each response.” His hand still holds mine, thumb brushing mine in a gesture that feels genuine despite our conversation. “And yet here we are.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means when it mattered, when there was a knife at my throat, you didn’t calculate. You acted.” His gaze is intent, searching. “Just as I would have done for you.”

The statement hangs between us, weighted with implications neither of us seems ready to fully examine.

I pull my hand from his, needing distance to think clearly. “So what now? We just acknowledge we’ve been manipulating each other and move on? Continue the game with new awareness?”

“Or we stop playing,” he suggests quietly. “Put down the masks, the strategies. See what’s left when the performance ends.”

The offer is tempting. Dangerously so. But I’ve been deceived too many times to trust easily, even now. “How do I know this isn’t just another manipulation? A more sophisticated level of the game?”

“You don’t,” he admits. “Just as I don’t know if your vulnerability right now is genuine or crafted to lower my defenses.” He sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion and something that might be regret. “That’s the price we pay for starting as we did.”

I turn away, moving to the window to gather my thoughts. Outside, the estate grounds stretch in manicured perfection, a deceptive tranquility. Everything in Nico’s world is controlled, arranged for maximum effect, including me, from the beginning.

But last night wasn’t controlled. The fever, the vulnerability, the memories that slipped through his defenses, those were real. Just as my instinct to save him was real, cutting through all the layers of deception between us.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I say, turning back to him. “The constant calculation, the strategic moves and countermoves. I’m exhausted.”

“Then don’t.” He watches me, something almost hopeful in his expression. “Be honest instead. Tell me one true thing, Lea. Something you haven’t planned or constructed.”

The request is simple but terrifying.One true thing.After all the layers of deception between us, can I even distinguish truth from performance anymore?

But as I look at him, all wounded and vulnerable despite his attempts to hide it, waiting for my response with uncharacteristic patience, the truth rises unbidden.

“I’m afraid,” I admit, voice low. “Not of you, or Moretti, or even what I did last night. I’m afraid of how much I care. How easily I crossed a line I always thought was absolute. How much I’m changing, becoming someone I don’t recognize.” I take a shuddering breath. “I’m afraid because when I had to choose between my principles and your life, it wasn’t even a choice.”

The confession hangs in the air between us, raw and unfiltered. Nico’s expression shifts, softens in a way I’ve never seen before. He rises from the bed, moving to stand facing me despite the pain it must cause.

“Your turn,” I whisper. “One true thing.”

His hand lifts to my face, fingers gentle against my cheek. “When I was on that floor, bleeding out while Vincent stood over me, my thought wasn’t of revenge, or regret, or even Marco.” His voice drops lower, intimate in its honesty. “It was of you. Of all the moments between us I would never see.”

The confession shatters my last defenses. I move into him carefully, mindful of his injuries, my forehead resting against his chest. His arms encircle me, holding me as if I’m something precious rather than a pawn in his game.

“What are we doing, Nico?” I murmur against his skin.

“I don’t know,” he admits, the uncertainty so unlike his usual measured confidence. “But I don’t want to stop.”

I lift my face to his, and the kiss that follows is unlike any we’ve shared before. No power play, no artful seduction. Just the simple, devastating truth of connection.

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