Page 3 of Rogue Doll

I press against him, letting him feel every curve, every promise my body holds. The fine wool of his suit rasps against my skin, a delicious friction. His breathing roughens, control fraying at the edges. Good. I need him off-balance, need his brain offline, need his guard down when we reach that room.

Did I mention I’m competitive? Yeah, I have to win every game I play. My ego requires complete domination of every situation.

Victor Reese is just another player on the new game I’m destined to master.

The elevator slows, a soft chime announcing our arrival. The doors slide open with a whisper, revealing a private foyer. Italian marble gleams underfoot—creamy white veined with gold, polished to a mirror finish that reflects the subdued lighting from crystal sconces. The air smells different here—rarefied, filtered, with subtle notes of fresh flowers and old money. A single door awaits at the end of a short hallway, paneled in dark wood and brass—his suite, his lair.

The space feels removed from the real world, suspended in mid-air, a fantasy realm for those with enough money to escapegravity. Thirty floors below, people live and struggle and sweat. Up here, the air itself seems purified of desperation.

Victor pulls back, adjusting his tie with practiced precision, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his jacket. His eyes are dark with lust, pupils blown wide, a predator's smile curving his lips. A vein pulses in his neck, blue beneath expensive skin. "Last chance to walk away," he says, voice rough, like he's offering a courtesy he doesn't expect me to take.

I smile, slow and wicked, a weapon disguised as surrender. My lips feel swollen, sensitive, painted in a crimson that matches the bloodlust humming in my veins. "Oh honey," I breathe, trailing one matching crimson nail down his chest, feeling the solid wall of muscle beneath designer fabric, "I'm just getting started."

His laugh is low and dangerous, a sound that raises goosebumps along my spine—not from fear, but from recognition. The sound of a predator who thinks he's found easy prey, unaware he's walking into an ambush. The lock beeps as he waves a keycard, the sound echoing in the hushed foyer. The door swings open, revealing luxury draped in shadow—his temporary kingdom, his hunting ground.

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a panoramic view of the city—a carpet of lights stretching to the horizon, a kingdom of glass and steel laid out for his viewing pleasure. Modern furniture, all clean lines and masculine angles, occupies the space with quiet authority. A bar gleams in one corner, crystal decanters catching the low light. The bedroom door stands partially open, revealing glimpses of an enormous bed dressed in charcoal silk sheets.

As I step across the threshold, I feel it—that sick, twisted thrill humming in my veins, that knife-edge between terror and triumph. My body vibrates with it, a tuning fork struck against danger. The wig's pins dig into my scalp, a constant reminder of the mask I wear, the role I play. The scent of his cologne mingleswith mine—hunter and prey, predator and predator, two apex creatures circling.

I picture Killion watching me, grading my performance, waiting to catch the slightest fuck-up.

Which he won’t.

This is what I signed up for, when I wrote my name on that contract in blood-red ink. This is what Killion trained me for, his voice a constant companion in my head, his hands reshaping me into something deadly.

This is what I was made for—not white picket fences and Sunday brunches, but this: the hunt, the game, the razor's edge between victory and annihilation.

Victor Reese thinks he's getting lucky tonight. He thinks he's found a beautiful distraction, a night of consequence-free pleasure. He has no idea what's really coming for him—that beneath the emerald silk and practiced smiles lurks something more dangerous than anything he's ever faced.

I feel the weight of the mission settle over me, heavier than the pendant, more binding than any wedding ring. I am not just Landry anymore. I’m something far more dangerous, more cunning, and more lethal than anyone could’ve ever imagined.

And I’m going to change the way the game is played.

Victor's suite is a monument to compensatory masculinity—all sharp angles and cold surfaces, black leather and chrome, a space designed to intimidate rather than welcome. The kind of place that screams "I have money" but whispers "I'm empty inside."

The door clicks shut behind us with the finality of a jail cell. Victor's hand remains at the small of my back, five points of heat through thin silk, proprietary and controlling. His thumb traces small circles against my spine—a gesture meant to soothe, but layered with ownership.

"Drink?" he asks, already moving toward the bar before I can answer. The space between us feels suddenly cold, my skin prickling with its absence. "I have a Macallan 25 that will change your life."

Of course he does. Men like Victor think expensive whiskey is a personality trait.

"Sounds perfect," I purr, slipping out of my heels. The marble floor is cool against my bare feet, anchoring me to themoment. I move toward the windows, letting him watch me walk away—the sway of my hips, the flash of thigh through emerald silk—a performance calculated to keep his blood flowing south, away from his brain.

The city sprawls beneath us, a tapestry of light and darkness. From up here, everyone looks small. Insignificant. That's the high Victor chases—not just wealth, but the power to make others feel small.

I hear the clink of crystal, the splash of amber liquid. His footsteps approach, deliberate and measured. The scent of him reaches me first—cologne and arousal and underlying it all, that chemical sharpness of a predator's sweat.

"Quite a view," I murmur, accepting the tumbler he presses into my hand. Our fingers brush, another point of contact, another electric spark. "You must feel like a god up here."

His laugh is smug, satisfied. "It has its advantages."

I sip the whiskey—itisexceptional, smoky and complex, warming me from the inside out. The good things in life, all at his fingertips. All taken for granted.

Victor moves closer, trapping me between his body and the glass. His reflection stares back at me, superimposed over the cityscape—his kingdom, his hunting ground. One hand comes to rest on my hip, the other on the window beside my head. Caging me. Testing me.

"You're not what I expected," he says, voice low, lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Most women who approach me want something. Money. Connections. A stepping stone."

"And what do you think I want?" I ask, meeting his eyes in the reflection. The contact lens makes my gaze sharper, icier. Not Landry's eyes at all.

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