The elevator crawled upward, steady and silent, like mercury climbing inside a thermometer. Floor after floor slid past—thirty, forty, fifty. Each one another rung on a ladder built for other people. People who didn't count quarters just to do their laundry.
When the doors finally opened, the air changed.
She stepped into a penthouse that belonged in glossy magazines. Floor-to-ceiling glass revealed the city stretched out like a sea of diamonds. Marble walls gleamed under museum-level lighting. Paintings—real ones, not prints—hung with casual arrogance, each worth more than a lifetime of rent.
"Welcome to the kingdom," Kael said. His voice carried the smug weight of a man showing off a prize he never doubted he'd win.
It was beautiful. No point denying it. Obscene, overwhelming—and every inch of it soaked in blood money.
"Impressive, isn't it?" He drifted toward a bar that gleamed like something out of a five-star hotel. Crystal decanters, chrome polished so bright it almost hurt to look at. "This view alone cost me twelve million. The Monet on the north wall? Thirty-eight. The rug under your feet—Persian, fifteenth century. Picked up from a collector who had debts to settle."
He's trying to make me feel small. Crush me under the weight of his riches, his power.
"It's very nice," Elara said, her tone flat as stone.
His hand froze on the bottle. "Nice."
"Yes. Overcompensating, but nice."
The words dropped like a challenge between them.
Viktor shifted behind her, his massive frame carrying menace without effort. Kael didn't even look his way—just lifted a hand to hold him back.
"Overcompensating," Kael repeated. He poured three fingers of whiskey, slow and deliberate. More dangerous in his calm than in any rage. "For what, exactly?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Elara forced her chin up, eyes locking on his as he turned back. "All this"—she swept a hand at the glass and marble and priceless art—"is just a very expensive way of saying you're still that angry little boy nobody listened to."
Shut up. Stop pushing him. He could end you with a single call.
But the words kept coming, fueled by the knot of fear and fury twisting in her chest.
"You want to know what I see when I look at this place?" She stepped forward, close enough that his eyes narrowed. "I see someone so desperate to prove he matters that he turned intimidation into interior design."
Kael set down the glass with careful precision, the kind of movement that hinted at violence caged just under the surface. "Careful, angel. You're starting to bore me."
"Am I?" She edged closer. "Because you look fascinated."
Now she was near enough to see the faint twitch in his jaw, the heat buried in those dark eyes.
"Tell me—does anyone ever give you their real opinion? Or do they all just parrot the same lines about how powerful and terrifying you are?"
"They say it," he murmured, voice dropping into that deadly whisper that had broken stronger men. "Because it's true. And you seem to have forgotten it already."
"No," she said, her voice steady despite the clawing fear in her chest. "I remember it. Perfectly. You killed Marcus Walsh to prove a point about theft and betrayal. You dragged me here to remind me how helpless I am against your empire. And you offered me that job—not because you need me—but because you want to own me."
She was so close now she could smell his cologne, warm spice and steel. Close enough to see flecks of gold hiding in his eyes. Predator's eyes.
"But here's what you don't get, Kael Thorne." Her words cut sharper with each breath. "I've been small my whole life. Helpless, too. Owned by poverty, by bad luck, by other people's rules about who I'm supposed to be."
Her chest rose and fell, breath brushing his lips.
"So your money? Your threats? This pretty little kingdom in the clouds?"
Her voice broke into a whisper.
"They don't scare me any more than the rest of my life already has."
For a heartbeat, the world didn't move. Even the air felt suspended. Then Kael's mouth curved—something almost like a smile. A smile that looked sharp enough to cut.
"You think you understand me." His hand rose, one finger skimming her cheekbone. The touch was light. Too light. Devastating in its precision. "Poor, brave little mouse, thinking she knows what the cat is thinking."
"I know you're bored." Her voice betrayed her with a catch when his skin brushed hers. "I know you're used to people either cowering or falling over themselves to please you. I know you collect things—art, cars, people—because owning beauty makes you believe you're beautiful too."
His thumb shifted to her pulse, pressing. Just enough pressure to remind her that throats were fragile things.
"And what about you, Elara?" His words were soft, dangerous. "What are you in my collection?"
"I'm not in your collection." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. Stronger, even. "I'm not something you can buy. Or take. Or break because you feel like it."
"Aren't you?" His other hand lifted, framing her face, holding her in place while those black eyes bore into hers. "You're here because I wanted you here. Your mother's bills are paid because I decided they should be. Your future—whether you even have one—sits entirely in my hands."
That casual arrogance, the sheer certainty that he owned her life, cracked something open inside her.
"You arrogant, entitled—"
Her hand flew before she could stop it. The slap landed with a sharp crack that split the silence of the room.
Time stilled.
Kael's head turned with the force, his profile carved in harsh lines against the glittering city backdrop. A red print spread across his cheek, shocking in its defiance. Maybe the first mark anyone had dared leave on him in years.
Oh God. What have I done?
Behind her, fabric shifted. Viktor. A gun, probably. The others too, hands moving toward weapons like it was routine.
But Kael's hand lifted, palm open. Still not looking at her. And the room froze.
Slowly—deliberately—he turned back. Rage caged behind restraint.
His eyes weren't human anymore. They were winter. Black ice, merciless, endless.
"Did that make you feel better?" His voice slipped out soft. Velvet. Almost tender. Terrifying in its quiet.
Elara trembled. Every nerve in her body screamed. But she forced her chin higher. Forced her eyes to stay locked on his. "Yes. It did."
The smile that followed was beautiful and cruel, like sunlight flashing off a blade.
"Good." His fingers brushed the red bloom on his cheek, finding the tiny smear of blood where her ring had cut skin. He looked at it almost lazily. "Because it's the last time you'll ever feel better about anything."
The words nearly buckled her knees. She wanted to step back, to retreat, but she held her ground. Refused to break for him.
The office was silent. His men frozen in place. The city far below muffled behind thick glass. Even the hum of machines seemed to fade.
In that silence, the truth struck her clean and hard: she'd crossed a line she couldn't uncross.
And in Kael Thorne's beautiful, merciless eyes, she saw the truth even sharper—
The real game had just begun.