Santerra smiles with its warm, deceitful sunlight — the kind that strokes your skin while burning your nerves raw. I step out of the building, and the hot air presses its forehead against mine.
A dark car waits at the curb. No emblem, no bravado. I recognize it instantly. A cold needle slides down my spine.
Christian.
Of course.
Why today?
I walk closer, and the door opens on its own, as if the entire city steps aside for someone it knows better than to provoke.
I get in. The scent of leather, salt, and metallic freshness wraps around me — a blend that makes you feel like prey wandering into a trap by mistake. The car moves softly, yet inside everything drops, plummets.
Christian sits beside me — large, unmoving, carved from stone. He does not even look at me. And that is somehow worse than if he did.
"Why did you call me here?" I ask. My voice trembles just enough to betray me.
He turns his head slowly. His gaze sweeps over me like a searchlight. Cold. Impersonal. Stripped of any human warmth.
"You are not a suitable match for André."
The words hit like an ice slab falling onto my chest.
"That is none of your business!" I flare. My heartbeat slams unevenly, painfully.
Christian lifts the corner of his mouth. Not a smile — a command.
A quiet flick of his hand: calm down.
And I fall silent before I can stop myself — my body obeys him faster than my mind.
"You were at the Cortland estate," he continues. "You met Evelyn and Edward."
A chill spreads through me.
"So what?" I throw back, but I can hear the hesitation under my own voice.
"They did not like you."
Short. Flat. As if he is reporting the day's temperature.
I sink back into the seat. Outside, Santerra blurs into a golden, indifferent haze.
He holds the pause perfectly — long enough for silence to become a weapon.
"Edward wants a wedding with Sophia Blackmore."
My heart drops out of its place.
"But André chose you," he goes on. "He hoped you would impress them. That his father would see you as… a possibility. But you lost control. You left the table. Remember?"
I remember.
The twitch in Evelyn's fingers.
The air becoming heavy, strained.
"André is mine," I breathe. "I am not letting him go."
Christian looks at me as if I have just pronounced my own death sentence. His shadow seems to touch my shoulder, though he sits far away.
"Bad idea," he says quietly.
Something inside me cracks.
"Explain," I say. I do not know where the firmness comes from — but it is there.
He leans in slightly. Just enough to shorten my breath.
"You do not need André," he whispers. "You need what he can offer. His name. His status. If you destroy his arranged marriage, his father will strip him of everything."
My chest tightens until it hurts.
He sees it — and presses harder:
"Do you want me to believe you are ready to live with André in a cramped apartment? With no future? No prospects?"
Pain flashes inside me. He sees that too. And his voice softens in a way that feels more dangerous than anger:
"You love height. A good view. Silk sheets and wine in the right glass."
I swallow.
I never said that to him.
I never said it to anyone.
He leans back into his seat — a victor reclaiming his throne.
"I can give you what you are reaching for."
"What… do you mean?"
He watches me with a strange, icy softness.
Silence stretches until the air between us feels like a pulled wire.
"I will remove the problem," he says at last.
Three words.
Calm.
Even.
And lethal.
**
Christian pulls up to the service entrance of "Angel." The engine cuts off—sharp, final—and for a moment the car seems to… listen to my breathing. As if it is deciding whether I will walk out of this meeting the same person who walked in.
He gets out first. Circles the car. Opens my door.
"Come in," he says, low. As if he is inviting me not into a club, but into a life no one prepares you for.
I step into a narrow, dim corridor. It smells of cleaning chemicals, dust, and the cool breath of night. The club is still empty, yet the air vibrates with the storm it will become.
At the doorway, a guard straightens his shoulders.
"All clear, boss."
Boss.
The word lands heavy, making his power feel physical.
We walk through a cavernous, echoing space: workers carry crates, bottles clink softly, cleaners hurry around without daring to make eye contact. Everyone here knows their place.
Mine—still uncertain.
The office is cool. Clinical minimalism. No warmth anywhere.
The desk is too neat. The kind of neatness that belongs to a man who strangles chaos until it obeys.
"Sit," he says with a tilt of his head.
He takes the leather chair behind the desk—something designed exactly for him. Nothing in this room fits me. Nothing welcomes me.
A second of silence.
My heart beats louder than the distant noise of the club.
"Are you smart?" His gaze slides over my face slowly, measuring how deep he can go.
"Yes."
Defiant. Even though everything inside me coils tight.
He gives the smallest, coldest half-smile.
Control, not emotion.
"Do you keep secrets?"
"Possibly."
For some reason, a flicker of heat bursts inside me.
He laces his fingers together.
"Here is the offer. You let André go. And I give you an alternative."
"What alternative? Who even are you?" I laugh nervously. My voice betrays me.
He lifts his hand—short, authoritative.
A gesture that shuts me up before I realize I've obeyed.
"You need a man who can give you a new life."
He opens a drawer, pulls out a stack of documents. Slides them across the desk with a motion so precise it feels like he's slicing the air.
"Read. Then sign."
Nondisclosure Agreement.
"What… for?"
"So you do not talk more than you should," he says evenly. "The people you will deal with value silence. And they know how to pay for it."
I scan the lines about "non-disclosure of intimate details" and "any overheard business matters."
Harmless… or a trap?
My fingers tremble. I am not a lawyer.
And he is a predator who never leaves traces.
"I do not trust you. Explain. Clearly."
He leans forward slightly, his eyes darkening.
"Here it is. Your grip. The one that makes you useful."
He brings out a thick folder. Heavy. Brutal.
"Take a look."
I open it.
Kayden Starkwell.
Fifty-eight.
Steel-gray eyes. A man who ages like a luxury weapon—and always gets what he wants.
Primary shareholder of Hyperion Trust.
His habits, his connections, his weaknesses—documented in detail, as if this were a manual for a hunt.
"You will meet him. And you will become what he needs," Christian says. His voice is calm, but there is danger woven into the calm. "After you sign."
My palms break into sweat.
A cold current runs down my spine.
"Work with me, and you pull yourself out of your financial hole. I need people who make decisions. You have thirty seconds."
I try to breathe.
What do I lose?
André—already lost.
My job—worth nothing.
My future—fogged over.
One part of me whispers: they will use you.
Another answers: this opportunity will not come twice.
I meet Christian's eyes.
He looks at me like I am a project.
An investment.
Strangely, that look does not frighten me.
It pushes me forward.
I sign.
My hand trembles.
The world trembles with it.
I take the folder.
Heavy, like the threshold of a new fate.
And the moment my fingers brush the papers, I hear a soft rustle beyond the door.
Someone may have heard us.
And someone—Christian, Kayden… or both—
will one day demand payment.
And it will not be small.