504, fifth floor. Mark knocked once, then stood there staring at the apartment number like it might change if he looked long enough.
This was supposed to be easy. Alexandria was someone he'd watched grow up, but she wasn't his daughter. Wasn't his responsibility. Just another task, another step on the ladder.
He raised his hand to knock again, then stopped. His fist hung in the air, frozen. What was he doing?
He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew how the game of wealth worked. Sometimes a man had to be selfish. Had to make choices that left stains. Had to trade pieces of his soul for pieces of power.
The door opened before he could knock again.
"Mark?"
There she stood. Alexa Sentara was stunning in a way that made his teenage body respond before his mind could catch up. The long red dress clung to curves in all the right places, dark hair cascading past her shoulders, eyes that held something dangerous and inviting at the same time.
"Sorry I took so long." Her smile was warm, genuine. "Come in."
"Alexa, right?" Mark stepped inside, his heart already beating faster.
The apartment was modest, nothing extravagant. Normal furniture, warm lighting. She was living like a regular person, keeping a low profile.
"Please, make yourself comfortable." She gestured to the living room. "Let me grab what I prepared for us."
Mark sat on the sofa. The TV played a religious program, which surprised him. She really had changed, or at least she was trying to.
"Today is the optimal moment to complete this task, Mr. Lidorf," the system chimed in.
Mark didn't respond. His mouth felt dry.
Alexa emerged from the kitchen carrying plates, setting them on the small dining table. "I'm so sorry to rush, but I have somewhere to be in about an hour. Please, join me."
Mark sat across from her. Chicken salad wraps, carefully prepared. She'd put thought into this. He took a bite and she watched him expectantly.
"Don't you pray first?" she asked.
He froze, food in his mouth.
She laughed, a rich sound that filled the small space. "I'm kidding. Sorry, I couldn't resist."
"You're a good cook," Mark said, relaxing slightly.
"Thank you." Her eyes lit up with pride. "I was really touched when Lex told me what you did for him. Standing up like that takes courage." She paused. "Lex didn't have many friends growing up. Our family is... complicated. That's why I wanted to meet you."
Mark nodded, calculating. He had maybe forty minutes before Alex arrived. Forty minutes to complete a task worth five hundred thousand dollars.
"I understand," he said.
"Do you?" Alexa leaned forward slightly, interested. "Tell me about yourself, Mark."
He held her gaze. "I live a similar life to Alex. Different circumstances, same feeling of being alone."
Something shifted in her expression. Recognition, maybe. Or connection.
"You can talk to me about anything," she said softly. "You're important to Lex, which makes you important to me."
Mark leaned forward, closing some of the distance between them. "Can I ask you something personal?"
"Of course."
You've made your first first mistake.
"Have you ever done something you knew was wrong, but couldn't stop yourself?"
Alexa's breath caught slightly. Her fork paused mid-air. "Yes," she said after a moment. "I struggled with that for a long time. With control. With wanting things I shouldn't want."
"Past tense?"
"I'm trying." Her voice was quieter now. "Every day, I'm trying to be better."
"What if better isn't what you really want?" Mark's voice dropped lower, more intimate.
She set down her fork, gave him her full attention. "That's a complicated question."
"Most important questions are."
"I used to have a problem," she said suddenly, like she needed to get it out. "With intimacy. With boundaries. I've spent the last three years working on that. Therapy. Faith. Actually being alone for the first time in my life."
Mark felt something twist in his chest. Guilt, maybe. Or recognition that this was a person, not just a task. A real human being who'd fought battles he could barely imagine.
"That takes a lot of strength," he said, and meant it.
"Thank you." Her smile was grateful, surprised. "Most people don't understand. They just see the surface. The mistakes, you know."
He waited. Then, lightly: "Should I ask again?"
She hesitated. "Please."
"Did it make you happy?"
"That sounds personal." She said with a soft laugh. Then, after a pause "Yes. Sometimes."
He leaned in slightly. "Then if I were you, I wouldn't have fought it."
Her smile faltered. Something unreadable flickered across her face — memory, temptation, maybe both.
"You're young, Mark," she said finally. "If a man learns to control his lust, he'll see that most women have nothing to offer."
"Most but not all. Not so?" he asked.
The question landed like a strike. Deliberate, calm and dangerous.
The air between them charged with something electric. Dangerous. Alexa's breathing had changed, become shallower. She was fighting something, Mark could see it in her eyes. The old patterns calling to her, tempting her back.
"You have something on your lip," Mark said, standing.
Alexa smiled nervously, grabbed her napkin. "Did I get it?"
"Not quite." He walked around the table slowly, deliberately. His heart hammered against his ribs. Every step felt like falling.
She looked up at him, pulled her hair back over one shoulder. The gesture exposed her neck, vulnerable and inviting. He could see her pulse beating there, fast.
"Mark," she whispered, but it wasn't a protest.
He reached out, his hand hovering near her face. Their eyes locked. In that moment, Mark saw everything. Her need for validation, her loneliness, the addiction lurking just beneath her hard-won control. And he saw his own reflection in her eyes—someone willing to exploit all of it for money.
"We shouldn't," Alexa breathed, but she didn't move away.
"I know," Mark said but he didn't stop.
His hand traced her jaw, then down the line of her throat. She froze—caught between resistance and the ache that came with his touch.
Her breath hitched. "Mar—" she tried, but his name broke halfway, lost in the space between them.
He stepped very closer, and she instinctively pushed her chair back, the soft scrape against the floor echoing louder than it should have. There was barely space between them now.
He drew her nearer, his hand finding its way lower, resting against her breast, the warmth of his palm saying everything words couldn't.
She didn't pull away. Instead, she rose slightly from the edge of the table, as though something unseen had already decided for her.
His fingers followed the shape of her body, mapping out the curve of her waist before tugging gently at the edge of her dress.