Chapter Sixteen
Elsa
Elsa Nilsson.
He says it like he’s tasting it for the first time, as if it disgusts him on contact. Like I’m the one who dragged business into bed.
I don’t blink.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me crack.
“You didn’t have to use me,” I say, my voice flat and sharp, the smile gone from my face completely. “You could’ve been direct.”
“Direct?” he repeats, and he looks genuinely confused for a second. Like I’m speaking a language he doesn’t understand. "Elsa, what are you—"
Then the confusion clears, replaced by something dark. Something dangerous.
He knows he’s caught.
"What did you think would happen here?" I continue, my voice rising slightly, the tremor in it now from fury. “That I’d be… what? Compliant? Grateful? That I'd just give the okay because we slept together?" I let out a short, harsh laugh. "Is that how you usually close your deals?"
He doesn’t answer.
He just stares at me, his expression unreadable, a carefully constructed mask of composure that tells me everything. He’s retreating, shutting down.
"Answer me," I demand, my hands clenching into fists in my lap. "Was that your brilliant plan? Fuck the due diligence lead to get her on your side?"
For the first time since this conversation started, a flicker of real emotion crosses his face. It’s not guilt.
It’s anger.
Pure, undiluted, and aimed squarely at me.
"You think I used you for Northstar?" he asks, his voice dangerously quiet.
"I know you did," I snap.
"You don't know a damn thing," he says, shaking his head slowly, a small, disbelieving smile playing on his lips.
"Don't lie to me," I say, my voice shaking with rage now.
"I'm not lying," he says, and he takes a step forward, and for the first time, I feel a sliver of unease. He's not caging me in anymore. He's not seducing me. He's just… looming.
I shove my chair back and stand. The legs scrape against the floor, a harsh, grating sound in the suffocating silence of the room.
"You," he says slowly, like each word is being dragged out of him by force, “you came here tonight—"
"I came here," I snarl, "to tell you that your little plan failed. Miserably. That you wasted your time on me because the deal is dead on arrival.”
A muscle works in Antonio’s jaw, and for a second, I see a flicker of something else in his eyes. Something that looks almost like… pain.
It’s gone before I can be sure.
“You set me up,” he says, his voice now flat, stripped of all warmth, all seduction, all pretense.
The phrase should sting.
It doesn’t.
I lift my wine glass and take a sip I don’t need, because I want him to watch my mouth again and hate himself for it. His gaze drops anyway, a reflex he can’t kill, and the satisfaction hits sharp enough that it almost feels like relief.
“I didn’t set you up,” I say, setting the glass down with care. “You got this started.”
His mouth tightens. “I didn’t know—”
I give a small laugh, bright and brittle. “You didn’t know?” I echo, and now I do laugh, because the audacity is almost impressive. “I walked into that room last night, Antonio, and you zeroed in on me.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because you were the most beautiful woman there.”
"Oh, please," I scoff. "You said it yourself. Ill-fitting dress, unflattering makeup. I know what I looked like because I curated it. People look because I'm tall, then they look away because I make sure they do. You didn't. You came right for me."
"And you liked it," he says, low and accusatory. "Don't pretend you didn't."
My chin lifts. “You have no idea what I liked.”
“I know you liked me with my tongue on your clit,” he bites out, and the crudeness of it, the sheer unexpected violence of the words, hits me like a slap.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. My whole body flushes, a wave of shame and anger and, damn him, unwanted memory.
“Fuck you," I spit back, my voice shaking with fury.
He smiles, but it’s a terrible, mirthless thing. “You already did. And you loved every second of it.”
My composure cracks. A clean, sharp snap that I feel all the way through me. I turn away a moment before the carefully constructed mask I’ve worn all night shatters, and the raw, wounded, furious woman underneath is exposed.
He used my body against me.
He used my pleasure against me.
He’s using my memory against me.
I need to get out of this room.
I need to get away from him.
I reach for my clutch on the table, not bothering to turn back to him. I can't.
"Elsa." A sigh.
It’s worse.
This is worse. The softness is a weapon now, a way to make me feel small. I am small. I feel small. I feel stupid and used and small, and I hate it.
"Don't," I say, my back to him. "Don't you dare."
"I wasn't..." he starts, then stops.
I can feel him moving, feel the air shift as he steps closer, but he doesn’t touch me.
"Elsa," he says again, and his voice is different now. Stripped of the anger, of the flirtation, of everything but a raw, ragged exhaustion. "Look at me."
"No," I say. It comes out a whisper.
"Please," he says, and the word is so unexpected, so vulnerable, it makes my shoulders stiffen.
I stay facing the door. I feel more than hear him walk up behind me, close but not touching. I can feel the heat of him, the sheer presence of him, and my body, my stupid, treacherous body, still wants him. Still yearns for the comfort, the safety, the pleasure I thought I found in his arms.
It makes me sick.
"I'm sorry," he says.
It’s not enough.
It’s nowhere near enough.
"You're sorry you got caught," I say, my voice hoarse.
"No, I'm sorry last night didn't mean the same thing to you that it meant to me," he says, and the words, the sincerity of them, make my throat ache.
Don't you dare, I think. Don't you dare try to take this from me. Don't you dare try to make me the villain.
Slowly, I turn my head, just enough to see him out of the corner of my eye. He looks… shattered. The polished, predatory armor is gone, and underneath, he looks lost.
"You really expect me to believe it was coincidence?
" I ask quietly. "That you, the man pursuing my company, just happened to pick me out of a crowd?
Kept pursuing me even when I made it clear I wasn't interested?
Seduced me? And what? Just happened to have a hotel room at the ready? You must think I'm an idiot."
"I was getting ready in the room before I went to the gala," he says, his voice low. "I was in the suite because I was already there. Not because I was hunting you."
"Hunting me," I repeat, a bitter laugh escaping me. "That's one word for it."
"I picked you because when you walked in, you looked like you hated being there as much as I did," he says.
"Because even in that dress you tried to hide in, you were the most stunning woman in the room, and you had no idea.
Or maybe you did, and you were trying to pretend otherwise.
I picked you because you looked at me like you weren't impressed, and that was a challenge.
Because you were smart, and sharp, and you held your own. "
The words hang in the air between us, a desperate, earnest plea.
A part of me wants to believe him. A part of me wants to erase the last hour, the last day, and go back to the feeling of his hands on my skin, the sound of his voice in my ear, the way he made me feel like I was the only person in the world.
But I can't.
Because I don't know what to believe.
I can still feel the heat of his body pressing against my back. It's like a physical touch, even when he isn't touching me. I can still hear the low, rough timbre of his voice in my ear, telling me how beautiful I was, how much he wanted me.
I can still feel the way my body responded, a willing, eager participant in my own deception.
And worse, somehow, worse is the way he made me laugh.
I hate him.
And I miss him.
And I hate myself for missing him.
The feelings swirl inside me, a chaotic, confusing mess of rage and longing, betrayal and a desperate, foolish desire to believe him.
I need to get out of here before I do something crazy. Like believe him.
I lift my chin and push my shoulders back. "It's a good story, Antonio. It really is. Very compelling. Almost as compelling as the one where you fucked me for a deal."
A harsh breath escapes him, the sound of a man losing patience. "Listen to me."
"No, you listen to me. This is over. This conversation, this… whatever the hell this was supposed to be. It's done."
He doesn't move. He just stands there, looking at me, and I see something in his eyes I don't expect.
It's not anger.
It's not triumph.
It's something raw and shattered and, impossibly, it looks like regret.
"Elsa," he says, and his voice is quiet now, stripped of all the anger, all the heat. "I'm not going to hurt you."
I let out a short, harsh laugh. "You already have."
He flinches, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, but I see it. And for a second, I feel a flicker of something I don't want to name. It's not victory. It's not satisfaction.
It's just… sadness.
A wave of it, so sudden and so overwhelming it almost brings me to my knees.
Because this isn't a game. This isn't a battle I can win. This is just a mess. A big, ugly, heartbreaking mess.
And I'm in the middle of it.
I turn away from him for the last time and walk to the door. I don't look back. I can't.
I round the corner and step out into the hallway, leaving him behind in the silence of the room. Leaving behind the wine and the carefully constructed seduction and the lie that almost felt real for a little while.