Page 117 of Their Arrangement
Barron.
And the shame I’d just projected across a seventy-inch screen like it was branding.
My chest felt tight. Too small. I couldn’t seem to get air into it.
The only sound in the room was the static buzz of the disconnected projector and the blood pounding in my ears.
I didn’t move.
Neither did he.
He just sat there, watching me like a man carving his own gravestone—slow, precise, deliberate.
“I wasn’t going to go through with it,” I said, the words ascratch in my throat. “It was just… a search. A stupid moment. I didn’t mean?—”
“Stop.”
One word.
Flat.
Cold.
But it sliced right through me.
I shut my mouth.
Swallowed hard.
Waited.
He stood.
Slowly.
Every movement coiled, clean, effortless.
He didn’t pace.
He stalked.
A predator without urgency.
Because he already knew I wasn’t running.
He stepped around the table. Pulled his suit jacket open. Reached into the inner pocket.
And drew out his wallet.
He opened it like it weighed more than it should have.
Like each motion cost him something.
His fingers slipped inside and removed a single bill. A crisp hundred. He held it between his fingers for a breath.
Then added another.
And another.
