The black limousine slid through Manhattan traffic like a predator through dark water. Emily sat rigid against the buttery leather seat, her eyes fixed on the city lights flickering past the tinted glass. Each reflection caught the diamonds circling her wrist, the bracelet Alexander had clasped on her hours earlier. Beautiful. Heavy. Inescapable.
Her chest tightened as silence pressed in between them. Alexander was absorbed in his tablet, scrolling through financial reports with the same focus he might use to dissect prey. Emily forced herself to breathe evenly, to remember the mask he demanded she wear.
"Where exactly are we going?" she asked finally, her voice smaller than she intended.
He didn't look up at once. His eyes stayed on the screen, but the curve of his mouth shifted, amused by her question. "A meeting. Vincent postponed his dinner party—family emergency." He finally lifted his gaze, dark and unreadable. "Which leaves us with a chance to test how well you play the part."
Emily's stomach turned. "What kind of meeting?"
"The kind where empires collapse," he said simply. And then he went back to reading, as though that explained everything.
When the limousine stopped, Emily followed Alexander into the gleaming atrium of a skyscraper she knew instantly: Drake Industries. She'd seen it in glossy magazines and news features, the steel-and-glass monument that seemed to pierce the night sky itself. In person, it felt colder. Larger. Like stepping into the center of his world.
Security moved around them in subtle choreography. Men in dark suits lingered by the revolving doors, others stationed by the elevators. Their presence wasn't announced, but Emily felt them, a net tightening with every step she took.
Alexander's hand rested on the small of her back, guiding her forward. "Remember," he murmured, close enough that only she could hear. "Every glance, every smile tonight tells the story of a woman who adores me. Make them believe it."
The marble lobby gave way to a private elevator. Sixty-two floors later, the doors opened to a boardroom that could have been carved from money itself—polished mahogany, abstract art, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering sprawl of New York.
And at the far end of the table sat Richard Thornton.
He rose as they entered, a tall man in his late fifties with sharp features and a suit that whispered of old money. But his eyes betrayed him. They carried the restless shine of someone cornered, someone watching the ground crumble beneath him.
"Alexander," he said with forced warmth. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."
Alexander's smile was slow, practiced. "Richard. You look… tired."
Emily felt the words cut, saw them land. Thornton smoothed his tie, his jaw tightening. She lowered herself into the chair Alexander pulled out for her, brushing her fingers against his in a small, careful show of affection. Thornton's eyes flicked to the gesture, and Emily understood—it wasn't just business. This, too, was part of the negotiation.
The conversation began civilly enough. Thornton outlined projections, restructuring plans, the "potential for synergy." But as Alexander leaned back, arms loose, expression sharp, Emily sensed the turn before it came.
"Your proposal," Alexander said at last, tapping the documents spread before him, "is insufficient."
Thornton blinked. "Insufficient?"
"You're bleeding cash. Your stock is in freefall. Your investors smell blood, and you come to me—hat in hand—asking for rescue."
Emily's pulse quickened. She watched Alexander dismantle Thornton with precise cruelty, each statement a scalpel cut. Thornton countered with figures, partnerships, promises, but Alexander brushed them aside like dust.
"It's not partnership you want, Richard. It's survival. And desperation—" He paused, leaning forward just enough that his words hit harder. "—is not leverage."
Thornton's hand trembled as he reached for his water glass. Emily caught it—so small, so human. Beneath the tailored suit and power titles was just a man terrified of losing everything he'd built. The sight tugged at something deep inside her.
Without thinking, she softened her posture, almost as if to ease the sting. Thornton's gaze flicked to hers, grateful, pleading.
Alexander noticed.
His hand slid across the table, covering Emily's fingers in a gesture that was both tender and possessive. The warning in his eyes was unmistakable: Remember your role. Remember who you belong to.
Emily's throat tightened. She forced a smile, tilting her face toward him as though his touch had steadied her. To Thornton, it must have looked like devotion. To her, it felt like chains.
As the meeting dragged on, Emily caught something unexpected. For all his cold precision, Alexander's jaw tightened when Thornton appealed to their "shared legacy" as New York powerhouses. His gaze flicked briefly—too briefly—toward the window, toward the city sprawled below.
A crack in the armor.
Was it doubt? Regret? Or simply fatigue beneath the mask of the shark? Emily couldn't be sure. But it was there, a fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the empire.
And then, just as quickly, it was gone.
By the time they left, Thornton looked hollowed out, a man who had walked into the lion's den hoping for mercy and found none. Emily followed Alexander back into the waiting elevator, her bracelet catching the sterile light.
She wanted to hate him. She wanted to despise the ruthless way he'd gutted another human being without flinching.
But what unsettled her most was that somewhere between her revulsion and fear, a darker truth had crept in.
Watching him command, dismantle, dominate—she hadn't been able to look away.
"I'm offering twenty cents on the dollar," Alexander said. His tone was casual, like they were discussing the weather.
Thornton's face drained of color. "Twenty cents? That would ruin me. My family has built this company over four generations—"
"And it ends with you." No sympathy. Just fact. "Or let it collapse and deal with bankruptcy. Your choice."
Thornton's hands shook as he lifted his water glass. Emily felt her chest tighten. He wasn't just losing numbers on a balance sheet. He was breaking. And Alexander enjoyed every second.
"I need time," Thornton whispered.
"You have until tomorrow morning." Alexander closed the folder. His voice left no room for hope. "After that, the offer disappears."
Thornton packed his papers with slow, defeated movements. His eyes flicked to Emily for the briefest second. She felt the weight of it. Alexander hadn't just crushed him. He'd done it with her watching.
The message was clear: this is what happens to anyone who stands against me.
When the door closed, Alexander moved to the windows. The city lights reflected off the glass, a glittering empire at his feet.
"What did you think?" he asked, not turning.
Emily swallowed. "You were… thorough."
He smiled at his reflection. "That's the difference between winning and losing. Doing what others won't. Taking what they're too weak to claim."
Her voice slipped out before she could stop it. "Is that what you did with me?"
He turned then. His dark eyes held hers. "What do you think?"
Before she could answer, his assistant appeared. "Mr. Drake, Tokyo is waiting on the line."
"Handle it," Alexander said, dismissing him with a flick of his hand. "I have more important things here."
When they were alone again, he came back to her. His hand brushed the line of her collarbone above the silk dress. A touch that made her pulse jump even as she fought not to react.
"You were perfect tonight. Devoted. Attentive. Mine." His mouth curved in a dangerous smile. "Vincent will want you the moment he sees you. And that will be his mistake."
At his desk, Alexander spread out a file. Vincent Blackwell's photos stared up at her. Handsome. Arrogant. The kind of man who had never been told no.
"Vincent's flaw is women," Alexander said. "He collects them. Pretty, innocent, fragile. You'll be irresistible to him."
Emily frowned. "And when he realizes I'm with you…"
"He'll do something reckless." Alexander's smile sharpened. "And I'll be waiting."
Her stomach turned. She wasn't just decoration. She was bait.
"It's late," she said. "I should go."
"Marcus will take you back." He was already turning back to his papers.
Emily reached for her shawl, then froze.
Alexander wasn't working. The papers were pushed aside. In his hands was an old photograph, edges worn from being held too often.
His face was different now. No arrogance. No predator's grin. Just… pain. His mouth set in grief, his fingers trembling slightly on the photo. His shoulders heavy, as if carrying something unseen.
He looked almost broken. Human.
Emily couldn't breathe. She should leave. She knew this was private. But she couldn't move.
Because for the first time, she saw Alexander without his armor.
And his eyes weren't cold. They weren't calculating.
They were haunted.