PAIGE
The two hours of sleep I'd managed to claw were a black, depthless void. It felt like only seconds had passed when a sudden shift in the air, a presence in the room, yanked me back to consciousness.
My eyes flew open. The grey morning light now streamed boldly through the windows, illuminating Reomen Daki standing at the foot of the bed.
He was already impeccably dressed in a severe Tom Ford suit, his expression one of cold impatience. He held a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, the rich, bitter scent cutting through my grogginess.
"You have twenty minutes," he stated, his voice cutting through the quiet room. He didn't wait for a response, his gaze sweeping over me once—a quick, efficient assessment of a resource that was behind schedule—before he turned and left, closing the door with a soft but definitive click.
I lay there for a second, my heart hammering, the ghost of his presence and the scent of coffee lingering in the air.
The shattered glass from last night was gone, cleaned up as if it had never happened.
But the memory of his words, his offer, remained, clearer and more terrifying in the harsh light of day.
The game wasn't over. It was time to suit up for the next round.
The twenty minutes were a frantic blur. I pulled on the same Theory blazer and slacks from the day before, the only professional armor I had.
There was no time for anything more. A splash of water on my face, a quick twist of my hair, and I was out the door, my stomach a tight knot of caffeine-less anxiety.
The black Rolls-Royce was idling at the curb. Through the tinted window, I saw him already in the back seat, looking over something on his phone, his profile sharp and focused.
He made no move to open the door for me. There was no smirk, no teasing remark waiting. It was a cold, simple dismissal.
And for the first time, I was grateful for it.
I pulled open the heavy door myself and slid inside, the quiet thud sealing me in. The interior was a sanctuary of silence.
The only sound was the soft hum of the engine and the faint tap of his finger on his phone screen. He didn't look at me, didn't acknowledge my presence beyond a slight shift in posture to accommodate me.
He didn't offer me the coffee he held.
He simply let me exist in the quiet, allowing me the space to gather the shattered pieces of my composure without commentary. The lack of performance, the absence of a game, was its own strange kindness.
We drove through the waking city, two rivals encased in glass and steel, united for the moment by a silent, exhausted truce. The war wasn't over, but the battlefield was quiet, and for now, that was enough.
The quiet truce held for exactly seven blocks. The only sounds were the whisper of the tires on asphalt and the soft, rhythmic tap of his thumb scrolling on his phone screen.
Then, his hand stilled. A deliberate, calculated move. His phone clattered onto the leather seat between us, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence.
His head turned. Slowly. His dark eyes locked onto me, and he just… looked. The scrutiny was intense, unnerving.
It felt like a full minute passed under that dissecting gaze, him taking in every detail of my tired face, my second-day blazer, the way I held myself rigid against the seat.
Then, a smirk. It was a slow, sly thing that crawled across his lips, all traces of his earlier businesslike detachment gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated smugness.
"You know," he said, his voice a low, sarcastic purr that filled the quiet space. "For someone who spent the night wrestling with a world-altering decision, you look remarkably… well-rested."
The words were a direct hit, a needle expertly inserted into the heart of my private turmoil. He hadn't just guessed; he knew. He'd seen the conflict in me last night and had now chosen this moment, this silent car ride, to call it out with a sarcastic jab.
The fragile peace shattered. The walls I'd been trying to rebuild around my composure crumbled instantly.
My spine went rigid, and I turned sharply to stare out my window, my cheeks burning. The cityscape blurred into meaningless streaks of color.
The game was back on. And he'd just scored the first point of the day.
The silence stretched after his jab, thick and heavy. I kept my face turned toward the window, my jaw clenched so tight it ached.
He was baiting me. Again. And the worst part was, a small, traitorous part of me recognized the rhythm of it. This was our dance. The insults, the challenges—it was our twisted, dysfunctional normal.
And in that moment, I understood. The smirk, the sarcasm—it wasn't just cruelty. It was his language. His bizarre, infuriating way of… resetting the board. Of cutting through the strange, heavy intimacy of the night before and the morning's quiet truce and steering us back onto the familiar, hostile ground where we both knew how to fight.
I didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. I didn't snap or glare. Instead, I let out a slow, controlled breath, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction.
I reached out, not looking at him, and my fingers closed around the warm porcelain mug of coffee he'd left untouched on the console.
I brought it to my lips and took a long, deliberate sip. The coffee was perfect, rich and strong, exactly how I took it. The heat was a comfort, a small act of defiance.
A low chuckle rumbled from his side of the car. I didn't need to look to know the smirk was back, wider now.
"Careful, Black Cat," he purred, his voice laced with amusement. "That's my coffee. Starting your morning with an indirect kiss? I'm flattered, but a little forward, even for you."
I lowered the mug, finally turning to meet his gaze. A matching smirk of my own, all sharp edges and false sweetness, played on my lips.
"A kiss would be a nice change of pace," I said, my voice light and mocking. "But it would require a partner whose touch doesn't feel like a business transaction. So I think I'll stick to the coffee."
His smirk didn't falter, but his eyes darkened a fraction, the amusement shifting into something more intense, more challenging. The air in the car crackled, the game suddenly elevated, the stakes feeling dangerously, electrifyingly personal.
"Oh, is that so?" he murmured, the words a low, velvety challenge.
In one fluid motion, he closed the small distance between us on the leather seat. The scent of his expensive cologne and the rich coffee filled the space around me, suddenly intimate and overwhelming.
"And here I was," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant only for me, his dark eyes holding mine captive, "thinking you'd developed a taste for high-stakes transactions. My mistake."
The smirk was still there, but it was sharper now, more dangerous. He was so close I could see the flecks of silver in his gaze, the faint stubble along his jaw. Every inch of me was aware of him.
I refused to lean back. Refused to give him the satisfaction.
"I have," I fired back, my voice steady despite the frantic beat of my heart. "I just prefer my poison in a cup, not from a snake."
His smirk didn't falter. If anything, it deepened, a flash of genuine amusement lighting his eyes before they shuttered again.
He held my gaze for a heartbeat longer, the challenge hanging in the air between us, before he gave a soft, dark chuckle and retreated back to his side of the car.
He picked up his phone again, as if the entire electrifying exchange had never happened. But the air still hummed with itI took another sip of the coffee, my hand perfectly steady, and turned back to the window, the ghost of his proximity lingering on my skin like a brand.
He leaned back against the plush leather, the picture of arrogant ease, but his eyes never left me. A slow, knowing smile curled his lips, far more threatening than any scowl.
"So sure of yourself," he said, his voice a low, silken taunt. "You draw your lines in the sand, thinking you can keep the tide back." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Mark my words, you'll eat every one of them soon enough."
He leaned forward again, just an inch, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to my eyes.
"Because when your world is on fire and you're desperate for a way out," he purred, the sarcasm lacing every word with a dark promise, "you're going to need a lot more from this snake than just a kiss."
The car glided to a smooth halt in front of the Daki Tech tower. The driver was already moving to open the door, breaking the spell.
Reomen's smirk was the last thing I saw before he turned away, exiting the car without a backward glance, leaving me sitting there with his words echoing in the silence, feeling less like a warning and more like a prophecy I was suddenly, terribly afraid I wanted to come true.