Chapter 3 #2
She clutches her bag closer, knuckles white against the leather strap. Even disheveled, even afraid, she maintains that steel core I remember too well. Her chin lifts, a queen in exile refusing to bow.
“I see you’ve upgraded your cage, Remy.” The words aim for steady, but I catch the tremor underneath. The slight shake in her fingers. The darkness under her eyes speaks of sleepless nights.
I circle her slowly, cataloging details. Mud on her boots. A small tear in her jacket sleeve. Hair tangled from running. Each imperfection tells a story and builds a picture of her desperation. But I keep my observations to myself, another card held close to my chest.
She tracks my movement, turning to keep me in view. The tension crackles between us, eight years of unspoken accusations electrifying the air. I stop directly in front of her, close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat.
“Cages,” I say softly, “keep things out as effectively as they keep things in.” I gesture to the sprawling penthouse with its museum-worthy art and cutting-edge security. “Some of us learn from our mistakes.”
Her eyes flash—that familiar defiance that still sets my blood burning after all these years. But beneath it, I see something new. Something I’ve waited eight years to witness.
Fear.
I study her reflection in the window, savoring the moment as I pour myself another measure of scotch. The crystal decanter catches the city lights, casting amber shadows across my hands. Eight years of waiting, of rebuilding, and now she stands in my sanctuary—cornered, desperate.
“Shall we discuss how you manipulated your way into my life eight years ago?” The words slide off my tongue like honey laced with poison. I don’t offer her a drink. Let her thirst. Let her remember who holds the power now. “Or should we focus on who’s hunting you now?”
Every micro-expression flits across her face in the window’s reflection—the tightening around her eyes, the slight clench of her jaw. She’s always been readable to me, even when she thought she had me fooled.
“I don’t want to talk about the past.” Her voice carries that familiar steel edge.
“But don’t portray yourself as the victim.
What I exposed was the ugliness of your clients.
” She shifts her weight, eyes blazing. “I manipulated you as much as you manipulated me. I’m sorry it affected your…
business, but I guess it’s a risk you are willing to take when protecting elite scum. ”
The words hit their mark—a precise strike at old wounds. My fingers tighten around the crystal tumbler as I turn, closing the distance between us in two fluid steps. The scotch burns in my chest, fueling the darkness I’ve cultivated since she left.
“And what am I, Eve?” I lower my voice to a dangerous whisper, invading her space.
She doesn’t step back—she never did know when to retreat.
Her pulse quickens at her throat, but her chin stays high, defiant.
“A monster? A necessary evil? A story for you? Or simply the man who now holds your life in his hands?”
The air between us crackles with unspoken threats, but there’s something else there, too—something that makes my blood burn hotter than the scotch. Desire. Raw and unwanted, it coils through my veins like smoke, and I hate how it weakens my carefully constructed walls.
And that… that new element… I am not happy with it at all.
I lean against my desk, studying Eve’s disheveled form. “Since you’ve come to me for help, let’s start with what exactly you’re working on.”
She straightens despite her obvious pain. “I’m finishing a documentary. The final cut is almost ready.”
“And these threats you’re receiving—they’re connected to your project, I presume?” My fingers trace the edge of my desk.
“Yes.” Her response is clipped, guarded.
“Who did you target this time, Eve?”
Her chin lifts in that familiar defiant gesture. “I can’t tell you that.”
Irritation prickles under my skin. Even now, she dares to withhold information. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Both.”
I push away from the desk, closing the distance between us. “Let me be clear. I won’t have you shaking my business again. Whatever arrangement we make stays between us, and I won’t be crossed again.”
She holds my gaze, but I catch a slight tremor in her hands. Good. Let her remember who holds the power here.
My mind races with possibilities. Whatever—or whoever—she is protecting so fiercely likely involves my own clients.
The wealthy, the powerful, the corrupted.
If I can get my hands on her investigation, learn who is being implicated…
I could destroy it after collecting substantial compensation from those involved. A fitting revenge served cold.
“Protection comes with a price,” I say, moving to my drink cart. I pour two measures of whiskey, though I know she won’t touch hers. She never accepted drinks from me—one of her smarter instincts. “You’ll stay here, where I can ensure your safety.”
Her laugh cuts through the air like broken glass. “Your version of safety or mine?”
I take another step, making sure she feels the full weight of my stare.
“You surrendered the right to negotiate any terms with me eight years ago. You stay here, under my supervision, until this threat is neutralized or until your documentary gets out. No contact with the outside world except through me. No exceptions.”
Her fingers curl into fists, but fear flickers in her eyes. She knows she has no choice.
“And if I refuse?”
I smile, all teeth and no warmth. “Then you can take your chances with whoever went after you. Your choice, Eve. It always has been.”
The city lights cast long shadows across my penthouse as Eve’s chin dips in resignation. Victory tastes sweet.
“I need to finish editing my footage,” she says, voice steady despite her obvious discomfort.
“I’ll have whatever equipment you require delivered here.” I keep my tone businesslike, though satisfaction courses through my veins. “State-of-the-art setup, complete privacy.”
“I need to file a police report about my apartment.” Her gaze meets mine, challenging. “And follow up on the investigation.”
My jaw clenches. “Absolutely not.”
“It wasn’t a request, Remy.”
I close the distance between us, forcing her to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.
“I need to know if you leave this building for any reason. Complete compliance.” My voice drops.
“While you’re here, you follow every instruction, every rule, without question.
Break any of my terms, and our agreement ends immediately. ”
I trace her jaw with my fingers, feeling her pulse jump beneath my touch. “Do we understand each other?”
She jerks away from my hand but holds my stare. “What about payment?”
A smile curves my lips. “You don’t have enough money to offer anything interesting.”
“Sex is off the table,” she snarls, green eyes flashing. “Any kind of intimacy is nonnegotiable.”
“Noted.” I incline my head, studying her. “I’ll think of something suitable.”
Eve’s gaze darts to the door, weighing her options. Finally, she straightens, squaring her shoulders despite the pain I know it causes her. “If we can’t be clear on the terms and how I can compensate you, I’ll need to leave.”
The response catches me off guard—a rare occurrence. But years of negotiations have taught me to adapt quickly.
“Wait.” The word leaves my mouth just as Eve’s fingers brush the elevator call button. “There is another option.”
She turns, wariness etched in every line of her body. The defensive posture reminds me of a cornered animal—dangerous but ultimately trapped.
“I could use someone with your… particular skill set.” I maintain my position, giving her the illusion of space. “Your investigative abilities, your connections in places I don’t typically reach.”
Her eyes narrow. “You want me to work for you?”
“Research capacity only,” I clarify, watching her reaction carefully. “When needed.”
“For how long?” The question comes sharp, precise—ever the journalist probing for details.
“Only during your stay here. While you’re under my protection.” I keep my voice neutral, though satisfaction curls through me as I watch the subtle shift in her expression.
There it is—that familiar gleam in her eyes, the one that once tore through my carefully constructed world. I see the wheels turning in that clever mind of hers, already calculating the potential access to information she might gain from this arrangement.
How naive. As if I would let her anywhere near anything truly sensitive.
“You’d have to sign an NDA, of course,” I add, noting how her lips press together at that detail. “And any research would be strictly compartmentalized. Need-to-know basis only.”
She shifts her weight, wincing slightly at the movement. “And this would cover my… debt to you?”
“In full.” I nod, knowing I have her. The journalist in her can’t resist the potential for insider access, even if it is carefully curated.
I study Liv as silence stretches between us.
Even battered and cornered, she maintains that steel core I remember—the one that had made destroying her so appealing eight years ago.
And now, watching her weigh her options with calculated precision, I have to admit she is one of the few people who can match my own capacity for strategic thinking.
A worthy opponent. The thought is both irritating and… stimulating.
Her green eyes meet mine, sharp despite her exhaustion. I can see the moment she makes her decision.
“I accept your terms,” she says, voice steady. Always the professional, even in surrender.
I extend my hand, noting how she hesitates for just a fraction of a second before taking it. Her grip is firm, betraying none of the vulnerability she’d shown earlier. The contact sends a familiar spark of electricity through my arm, one I carefully ignore.