The opulent penthouse suite felt stifling. Jack loosened his tie, the silk suddenly constricting. He seized a small glass and poured scotch over the jagged ice, the amber liquid catching the light.
He paced before the panoramic window, the city's blurred lights swirling beneath him like the chaos raging inside.
He drained the glass in a harsh gulp, desperate for the numbness only the burn could bring.
He couldn't shake the image of Gene's face, the set of her jaw, the defiance in her eyes as she walked away.
He was drowning in the silence, the weight of her betrayal (how dare she?), and the terrifying weight of the truth she had carried away with her.
The truth, it seemed, was a weapon, and Gene had just used it to tear him apart. But no, she hadn't torn him apart. Not really. She had just… discomposed him. And he would find a way to fix it. He always did.
The thought sparked a cruel smile. Gene would learn that defying him had consequences. And he would enjoy administering them.
He wasn't sure why, but the thought of Gene, usually so composed, humbled, and pleading, brought a disturbing thrill.
He would make sure she understood exactly what she had lost. He would make her beg for forgiveness, for just a sliver of his attention. And then… then he would decide what to do with her.
The possibilities, he realized with a thrill, were endless. His gaze drifted to his reflection in the dark glass, a predatory glint in his eyes.
He found himself dwelling on the curve of her neck, the way her hair cascaded when she was flustered, a rare sight he found himself craving to witness again.
It wasn't just about control, though that was a significant part of it. There was a dark, twisted fascination, an undeniable pull towards her that he both relished and resented.
He wanted to possess not just the truth she held, but her. He wanted to break her, and then... well, he wasn't quite sure yet. The uncertainty was a dangerous and exciting aphrodisiac.
He picked up his phone, his fingers already flying across the screen, summoning the resources he needed to set his plan in motion. He would play this carefully, methodically.
He would use her attraction against her and exploit her weaknesses until she was completely under his thumb. And then, only then, would he decide her fate. The anticipation was almost unbearable.
The draft in his penthouse seemed to seep into Jack's bones, mirroring the icy rage that had taken root deep within him.
He looked down at the flimsy piece of data-rich paper he held, the physical manifestation of her betrayal. Gene's betrayal. The word tasted like ash in his mouth. Her resignation. As if she had the right to choose.
He crushed it slowly, deliberately, in his gloved fist, the faint crackle of the paper swallowed by the silence.
The sharp edges bit into his palm through the leather, a small, welcome pain to anchor him. Good. Let her absence cause pain. Let him take that pain and turn it back on her through their connection.
He poured another glass, needing the burn to deaden the chaos inside.
"Leaving," he mumbled, the word echoing softly in the vast space. "You think you can just leave?"
A flicker of something akin to…loss??… threatened to surface, but he stamped it down ruthlessly. No. This wasn't about missing her. It was about control.
Her defiance was a personal affront, a wound to his ego. She'd dared to believe she could escape him, that she could deny him what he felt entitled to.
He imagined her face as she wrote the letter, the way her brow would furrow in concentration, the slight tremble in her hand. And he wanted, with a vicious intensity, to wipe that self-possessed look off her face. He wanted to see her eyes widen with fear, with need. The image sent a jolt of twisted pleasure through him.
"You think this is over, Gene?" he breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "This is just the beginning. You owe me, and I always collect my debts. You will pay, in ways you can't even imagine."
He opened his fist, the crumpled paper a testament to his fury. He let the shredded remains fall to the floor, a silent promise of retribution hanging in the air. A part of him, a small, unwanted part, mourned the loss of the game they played, the sharp, dangerous dance that had fueled his obsession.
In his bed, he had a glimpse of the past. Three years earlier, she had stood there, younger, wiry, and full of natural, untamed energy that vibrated in the air around her.
Her arms were crossed tight over her chest, a defensive posture betraying a vulnerability she wouldn't readily admit.
Rage, hot and fierce, burned in her eyes, eclipsing the soft brown that usually lay beneath. It stained her cheeks with a flush and tightened the corners of her mouth.
Her voice, though small in stature herself, had carried a surprising weight, trembling not from fear, but from the sheer, unwavering conviction that fueled her words.
"You're the only one who's doing anything, Jack," she'd declared, the statement an accusation disguised as a compliment.
"Everyone else talks," she'd finished, the word "talks" spat out like a curse, a hollow, meaningless sound compared to the weight of action. It was a challenge, a plea, and a testament to the disillusionment she felt towards a world that seemed content with empty promises.
He had seen the fire in her, the potential for ruthless dedication, and it amused him. Most saw a naive street rat, easily broken. Jack saw a blank canvas, eager to be painted with his vision and his methods. And he, of course, would be the artist.