3. Lena
Three
Lena
T he last time I saw Weston James was the day he bought the Merritt casino. My father made a whole big thing of it, throwing a huge party in the Merritt ballroom and giving speeches to the guests, going on and on about how he saw Weston’s potential all along. How he’d built his protege up from nothing, just like the family business.
Bullshit, obviously. A man like Weston isn’t built from the outside, he’s forged from within. I tried to warn my father about that, begged him to let me rewrite his speech, but he wouldn’t allow it. And for that whole party, I cringed at every patronizing word thrown Weston’s way.
But Weston smiled along and laughed quietly in all the right places. He raised a glass to each condescending toast my father made, and he spun my mother around the dance floor. Old men with fat bank accounts slapped him on the shoulder, and still Weston kept his mask firmly in place.
I saw it, though. What that night did to him—how much he loathed every second. Weston James may have an iron grip on his self control, but I saw through the crack in his facade. I saw him.
It was late into the party. The papers still hadn’t been officially signed, and the sale wasn’t final. That’s the only reason Weston played along: to reach the dramatic moment at midnight when my father would sign the casino over with a flourish, cameras flashing in the crowd.
In the meantime, though, Weston took exactly one break from the party. He slipped away after yet another condescending speech, smiling and nodding to the guests as he edged around the ballroom to the open doors.
He went to an empty, disused conference room on the third floor of the building. I know because I followed him, slipping off my high heels so I could tiptoe silently along the corridors. He didn’t turn back to glance at me even once.
And inside that room, Weston James let his polite demeanor slip away. He let his shoulders bunch, his breath turn ragged, and he paced the empty room with agitated steps. Like a tiger forced into a small cage, bristling as it fights its instincts. I didn’t blame him even a little. The whole night was a sham.
As Weston paced, I peeped through a crack in the doorway, holding my breath. And when he swore viciously and smacked some old papers off the nearby lectern, I jumped and let out a little squeak.
Weston froze, pinning me in place with his thunderous gaze. Even hidden by the door, I know he saw me through the tiny crack. Saw right the way down to my sneaky, shameful soul.
Weston’s hands flexed by his sides. His chest heaved beneath his shirt as he stared in my direction.
Then he turned on his heel and strode out of another exit, like nothing had happened. When Weston bumped into me in the ballroom twenty minutes later, he smiled blandly and complimented my dress in the same bored tone he always did.
“Make this quick,” my father’s ex-protege says now, sinking into the armchair beside mine. He’s a different man from that night. There’s no polite mask anymore—this Weston is rich, powerful and ruthless, and he doesn’t care who knows.
Correction: he wants people to know. He wants the shiver of apprehension that travels down my spine; wants my palms to sweat in his presence. I place my hands on my thighs, wiping them surreptitiously, and force myself to meet his unforgiving gaze.
“My parents are in trouble.” The words taste sour, but I grit them out. How could my family have fallen so far in the space of a single year? “We need your help. Please.”
Weston stares for a beat, processing my words… then leans back in his armchair and laughs.
And laughs. And laughs.
“It’s not funny.” Acid bubbles in my stomach. I still haven’t eaten since the plane; have barely slept in the last week. Not since I learned how monumentally foolish my parents have been, and how they’ve put themselves in such danger. My whole body is on edge right now.
“I disagree,” Weston says, an amused smile still flitting around his mouth. “The Merritt family begging for my help is the definition of laughable.”
I press my lips together, anger and bitterness churning up my insides, as Weston chuckles and repeats my words to himself, shaking his head. He’s more relaxed now that we’re in the armchairs, his big body sprawled and loose-limbed. Like we’re old friends catching up, and I just told him an incredible joke.
The worst part? I don’t even blame him for laughing in my face.
This man owes us nothing. Over the years that Weston worked as my father’s right hand man, he weathered more condescension and ingratitude than a saint could bear. Of course he hates us. Of course he relishes our downfall.
But I didn’t come here to beg and offer nothing in return. There must be something that would tempt the ice man into thawing.
“We could make a bet of some kind.” My hands press harder into my thighs. This is a casino, after all, and maybe Weston is a gambling man. “A wager, with the prize being your help.”
But he snorts, shaking his head. “Sounds like a one-sided prize.”
“Well, you could win something else—”
“I don’t gamble,” Weston interrupts, his piercing blue eyes pinning me in place like a butterfly on a cork board. “I leave that foolishness to men like your father.”
“But… you own a casino.”
“Exactly.” He gives a shark’s smile. “I prefer a sure thing.”
Crap. Okay.
“A deal, then.” My throat is dry, and I clear it. It’s hard to speak normally, to force out whole words and not trip over my own tongue, when Weston James watches me like that. Like I’m a plaything, a ball of string for him to bat around and then abandon. He’s fascinated but cold. “Your help in return for something concrete. I’ll give you anything you ask for. Anything that’s in my power to give.”
Something dark moves behind Weston’s blue eyes, and he strokes his jaw, considering. Late night stubble rasps against his palm, and his voice is deceptively light when he asks, “Anything?”
My stomach plummets, and heat crawls up my throat as I play back my own words in my head. It’s clear what he thinks I’m offering, and I don’t know whether I’m more horrified or turned on by the thought.
Weston James buying me. Using my body for his pleasure; taking out his day’s frustrations between my legs. Shoving me to my knees and feeding his cock between my lips. Claiming every single inch of me, touching me where no one has ever touched, and doing it all with the same dispassionate resentment that he’s looking at me with now.
It should be a degrading thought. Damn it, it is a degrading thought.
So why does my body tingle all over in response? Why do I have to fight not to squirm in this armchair, sudden slickness tickling between my thighs?
“Not… not that ,” I rasp, my cheeks burning hot. “I’ve never… I’m not offering that. But anything else.”
And Weston, the vicious bastard, rolls his eyes and looks away. “Bold of you to assume you have anything else to offer, princess.”
His words lodge an arrow of hurt in my chest, the point slipping between my ribs to jab at my squishy bits. I puff out a pained breath. And it’s ridiculous to be so hurt by a man who I know hates me, yet for a moment, I’m light-headed with misery.
What would I give for Weston to respect me, to admire me—hell, to like me, to think of me as his equal?
I’d give anything, but it wouldn’t work. If he knew I wanted that, he’d respect me even less.
Those blue eyes pin me again. His dark eyebrows pinch together, and I force my expression to smooth out. Weston James isn’t the only one who can wear a mask when necessary, and I learned from the best. When he frowns at me, I smile back, placid.
“There must be something else you want from me,” I say, like we’re discussing the weather. “You’ve hated our family for years, and we both know it. I can be at your mercy in other ways. You can put me to work on the casino floor; make a laughing stock of me among the staff. Humiliate me like you’ve always wanted.”
Weston tilts his head, considering.
“You can order me around,” I press, sensing that my words are working. He’s tempted by the picture I’m painting. “Whatever you order me to do, I’ll obey. Anything except…”
I trail off, cheeks burning impossibly hotter, and I can tell from the flicker in Weston’s eyes that we’re both thinking of the same thing. The initial misunderstanding in my offer.
I can’t even make myself say the words. Partly because it’s too mortifying, and partly because I’m not sure it’s even true.
Here’s my dirty secret: Weston could order me to my knees right this second, and I’d hit the floor so fast my head would spin. I’m desperate to obey this man—to touch him, to taste him, to please him.
I’ve craved him since the first day we met, and the only thing worse than never having him would be Weston realizing the power he has over me. So embarrassing.
My pride is all I have left. That’s why this offer costs me, and that’s why Weston is tempted. He senses the weight behind my words, the way they chip away at my soul.
“How much?” Weston asks, his deep voice even rougher than usual. “How much do your parents owe?”
I name the figure. A muscle leaps in Weston’s jaw, but he keeps watching me, considering. Compared to his own wealth these days, it’s chump change.
My palms sweat worse than ever, and I stroke them up and down my thighs, trying to dry them on the fabric of my trench coat. Weston’s gaze lowers, tracking their movement, and I stop.
Outside the office windows, the city skyline glitters and headlights swoop along the streets. The moon hangs low over the rooftops, waxy and full. There’s a whole world out there, a whole city full of people watching movies and having arguments and raiding the refrigerator for late night snacks, all living their lives completely unaware of the battle of wills happening in this office. If I’d grown up in a normal family, if things had been different, I could be one of them.
My chest throbs.
I stuff those thoughts down deep before they can smother me.
“Five nights,” Weston clips out at last, and he sounds angry even as he makes the offer. Like he’s pissed at himself for folding. “You come here and you obey my every order for five nights, everything except…” Weston waves a hand at my body, and I shrink back into the armchair. “Then I’ll pay off the debt. On two conditions.”
My heart is lodged in my throat, beating a mile a minute. I can’t believe this negotiation actually worked. Can’t believe Weston would pay such an eye-watering sum all for the chance to humiliate my family.
He must well and truly hate me , I realize, and a wave of sorrow crashes over me, dampening the triumph. Why else would he agree?
Whatever. If it works, it works.
“And those are?” I ask, but whatever his conditions, I’m obviously going to agree. My parents’ kneecaps are at stake, and I can’t afford to quibble.
“One,” Weston says, “you tell your father exactly what kind of deal we’ve struck. You make sure he knows exactly how badly he’s failed his darling princess.”
My teeth grit together, but I give a crisp nod. I swear, if I never hear that nickname again, I will die a happy woman.
“And two,” Weston says, leaning forward in his armchair. He waits until I meet his gaze, until he can watch every harsh word find its mark. “After the five nights are over, you never contact me again, Lena. You never set foot in this casino; you never even say my fucking name. After this, your whole family is dead to me, you included. Do you understand?”
My neck is stiff, but I force another nod. Weston thinks he’s humiliating me with that demand, but it would be even worse if he knew how deep the hurt goes. How much I’ll miss him, pathetic as that is. Longing for a man who thinks I’m dirt.
Each quiet breath is an effort, but I hold it together long enough to shake hands and stand. I keep my bland mask plastered over my face, and my steps are even as we walk to the office door.
“We’ll start tomorrow,” Weston says, opening the door and waving me through. “Eight PM, princess. Don’t be late.”
I nod but say nothing. My throat is too tight, and I don’t trust myself to speak without my voice cracking. The corridor is cool and quiet as I leave the office, my heels clicking against the floor.
“You know the way out from here.” Weston sounds amused.
The door shuts behind me, muffled footsteps striding away behind the wood, and finally I stagger to one side and slump against the wall. Emotions batter my insides, a whole maelstrom of conflicting feelings. Relief, bitterness, fury, longing.
There are no sounds from inside Weston’s office. No sign that he’s affected by our meeting at all.
It’s several long minutes before I can drag myself upright and walk away, my steps echoing hollowly against the floor. I wind my way out of the casino, hail a cab, and hug my own waist all the way home.