Wednesday Afternoon — Leona's Apartment, Midtown Manhattan
The sun over Manhattan glared soft and golden, glinting off glass towers like the city was dressed in its finest jewelry. Fifty-seven floors above it all, Leona Joey reclined alone—on a cream lounger beside the sleek balcony pool that edged her flat like a jewel's cut.
Her skin shimmered faintly under the sun, clad only in a dark crimson bikini. A silk towel lay folded beneath her neck, her honey-blonde hair slightly damp from a lazy dip earlier. She wore sunglasses, oversized and noir, and sipped iced Birch coffee from a tall glass without a stirrer.
At exactly 2 PM, the soft chime of her apartment's smart lock activated.
Ethan Vale stepped inside with measured silence. No knock. No greeting.
He didn't need one.
He removed his coat like it was instinct, not a task—folded it over his forearm, and walked toward the open balcony doors, letting the sunlight meet his gaze without flinching.
Leona lifted the sunglasses just slightly. A smile ghosted across her lips.
"Well," she said, voice half-melted in amusement, "you're not late."
"I said I'd come at two." Ethan stepped out onto the balcony, letting the warm air meet the cool sharpness of his presence.
She leaned forward, the towel shifting slightly at her lower back. "Most people knock. Some even announce themselves."
"You're not most people," he replied, pulling a nearby chair and sitting without ceremony. "And I don't arrive for anyone's attention."
Her smile deepened. "God, you really make arrogance sound like poetry."
Ethan didn't rise to it. His hand moved into his satchel and retrieved a slim folio. With one clean motion, he opened it—pages of annotated charts, stock fluctuations, and deep-market patterns spread out across the small table beside the lounge.
Leona raised an eyebrow. "And here I thought you were coming over to see my legs."
"I came to show you your week."
She sat upright now, her body still glistening under the sun, towel slipping slightly at her hip. But her attention shifted to the pages. Each mark was clean, each forecast layered in intent.
He tapped a chart. "Look here. The spike won't sustain. They're pumping the narrative—but the volume's off. Dump's coming Tuesday."
Leona stared at it, then at him. "Ethan… this isn't a mockup. This is… good. As in investment banker good."
"I'm not one," he said simply. "And that's why it's accurate."
She rose from the lounger—slow, deliberate—and approached the small table, standing over him now, casting a curved silhouette against the sun. Her towel held loosely against her side, hips bare to golden light. Her voice dropped just slightly.
"You're aware that this kind of precision would make Wall Street's interns cry, right?"
Ethan flipped the next page. "That's their problem."
Leona didn't sit. She just lingered—watching him. Absorbing the strange gravity that wrapped around Ethan Vale like quiet armor. Her fingers trailed the rim of her glass. Then her eyes locked into his.
"You really don't need people, do you?"
"I only need outcomes," he said. "People are just the variables."
Something sparked in her expression. Desire? Admiration? Maybe a blend, aged and stirred.
She leaned closer now, enough that her towel threatened gravity. Her voice was low, amused, and warm.
"Well… just let me be your most profitable variable this week."
Ethan finally looked up—his eyes unreadable, his jaw calm.
"You already are," he said. "You just haven't figured out what it costs yet."
Leona chuckled, slow and hushed, as she stepped back toward her lounger. The seduction was present, but restrained. The stage was still being set.
And this time, neither of them said another word.
The sun continued pouring onto the balcony, and between stock charts and shadows, something deeper brewed—
A game neither of them intended to lose.