The elevator ride to Kael's penthouse felt like climbing backward through the circles of hell. Each floor carried her further from safety, deeper into the web he was spinning around her life.
Elara's hands still shook. The ghost of gunpowder clung to her clothes, thick and acrid, as if she had been baptized in it.
Three men. He killed three men like they were nothing.
But they weren't nothing. They were someone's sons. Maybe fathers. Maybe—
Stop. They were going to torture you. They were going to cut you apart just to make a point.
The elevator doors whispered open. His domain stretched out before her—floor-to-ceiling windows, stolen art, marble polished to a mausoleum shine. A palace of excess. But this time, it wasn't just opulence. Papers spread across his desk like tarot cards, spelling out a future she didn't want.
"Sit," Kael said, pouring whiskey from a crystal decanter. His hand was steady. His suit immaculate. No trace of the bloodbath that had painted the parking lot red half an hour ago.
How does he do that? How does he shut it away so cleanly?
"I'm fine standing." Her knees wavered, but she forced the words out.
"I wasn't asking." His tone was silk wrapped around steel—smooth until it cut.
She sat.
He eased into his chair, every gesture a reminder of the power split between them. King at his throne. Supplicant in her place.
"Drink?" He gestured toward a second glass, already waiting.
"I don't drink with killers."
His smile sliced like winter air. "Angel, if that's your rule, you'll find your social circle awfully small. The world's darker than you think."
I'm learning. God help me, I'm learning fast.
"What do you want from me?" The question slipped out smaller than she intended, but at least she asked it.
"Straight to business. I admire that." He leaned back, eyes sharp as a jeweler inspecting a flawed gem. "Tell me, Elara, what do you know about my business?"
"I know you kill people who steal from you."
"Among other things, yes." He lifted a remote. The wall behind him transformed into a massive screen. Charts. Structures. Names. "Thorne Industries has holdings in shipping, real estate, technology, pharmaceuticals. Thousands of employees. Billions in revenue."
Legitimate. Sure. Built on blood all the same.
"The problem is perception. Despite my efforts to move on from certain… legacy operations, people still see me as a well-dressed gangster."
"Can't imagine why."
"Can't you?" His laugh was humorless. "It complicates investors, board members, government contracts. Family men are trusted. Stable men with wives are predictable."
The realization hit like ice water. "You want me to be your fake girlfriend."
"Fiancée," he corrected. With another click, the screen shifted. Her face. Photos of her leaving Sarah's apartment. Grocery bags in hand. Visiting her mother in the hospital. "I need someone convincing. Right look. Right background. Right… vulnerability."
Vulnerability. Of course. Perfect prey makes the perfect prop.
"For how long?"
"Six months. Long enough to close key deals. Long enough to prove I've evolved beyond reputation."
She searched his face for humor. Found none. "You're serious."
"Completely." He rose, walking to the window, city glittering below. Hands clasped behind him, posture carved from power. "There's a Swiss pharmaceutical company. They've developed a breakthrough cancer therapy. Conservative board. Catholic influence. They want a family man to trust."
Cancer treatment.
"My mother," she whispered.
"Would benefit greatly," he said. "Clinical trials show ninety-three percent success. Even advanced cases. But it won't be available for five years. Unless one has the right connections."
The trap closed with brutal elegance. Hope, wrapped in velvet chains.
"You bastard."
"I prefer problem solver." He returned to his desk, pulling papers forward. "Let me outline."
Outline. As though this were an actual engagement.
"For six months, you'd live in one of my properties. Security, expenses, all covered. You'd attend functions, dinners, family gatherings. Play the part of a woman hopelessly in love with a reformed man."
"And in return?"
"Your mother begins treatment immediately. Student debt gone. Sarah's rent reduced to something livable." He slid a sheet across the desk. "Plus, two million dollars, deposited wherever you choose."
The number slammed into her. Two million. A lifetime's worth of survival in one cruel offer.
Blood money. Paid in corpses.
"I won't sleep with you."
"I'm not asking." His grin was all teeth. "Though I imagine temptation may become mutual."
Heat crawled up her neck. "I won't pretend to love you."
"You'll pretend to be infatuated. Love may follow. Or not. That's your choice."
Choice. As if I really have any.
Her gaze dropped to the contract. Pages thick with legal traps. "What happens after six months?"
"A public, amicable breakup. Irreconcilable differences. No hard feelings. You keep the money. I keep my reputation. Everyone wins."
Everyone but me. Six months as a mannequin dressed in lies.
"And if I refuse?"
His expression didn't shift, but something dark stirred in his eyes. "Then you return to Sarah's couch. Back to job hunting. Back to watching your mother fade because treatment's locked away."
And back to being hunted.
"You forgot something."
"Which is?"
"If I refuse, Dmitri's men try again. Next time, you may not arrive in time."
"I may not," he agreed evenly. "Accidents happen. People get distracted. Timing is fickle."
The words were delivered like market analysis. Detached. Deadly.
"This is blackmail."
"This is business." He leaned forward, eyes cutting into her. "I'm offering you everything—your mother's life, your security, a future free from counting coins for laundry. All you must do is wear the ring."
A ring. As though it's real. As though any of this is real.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. Just consequences. Break the terms, and benefits vanish. Worse, a lawsuit that ensures lifelong ruin."
Golden handcuffs, disguised as generosity.
"I need time."
"No." The word was velvet, final as stone. "This is a limited offer. The Swiss deal closes in seventy-two hours. After that, your mother's chance disappears."
She stared at the signature line. Futures etched in ink. Two million. Her mother's life. Safety, bought and bartered.
"Elara." Her name from his lips was silk over steel. "Look at me."
She lifted her eyes. His gaze held something unreadable—understanding, hunger, both.
"I'm not asking you to love me," he said quietly. "I'm asking you to be smart. Take this and build a life not bound by mercy."
Mercy. Like his.
From his drawer, he produced a velvet box, placing it atop the contract. Even closed, it glimmered like a trap.
"Six months," he said. "Play the part. Save your mother. Walk away when it's done."
Walk away. As if it will ever be that easy with him.
Her mother's face rose in her mind. Pale. Hopeful. Trusting her to find a way. Always trusting.
Kael slid the pen across the desk, expensive as rent.
"Sign, Elara." His voice caressed and commanded in one breath. "Or next time Dmitri's men find you—and they will—I won't be there."
The pen weighed heavy, a blade poised to carve her future.
Six months. I can endure anything for six months.
But staring into his beautiful, terrible eyes, Elara knew survival was only the beginning.
The true question was what pieces of her would remain when it ended.