Page 11 of Ruthless Arrangement

“I enjoy order,” I correct. “And ensuring those who disrupt it understand the consequences.” I lean forward again, dropping my voice further, forcing her to lean in if she wants to hear. “Tell me, Ms. Song, what drives someone like you, who’s bright, ambitious, with a Northwestern degree, to dedicate so much energy to understanding my specific brand of order? Career? Justice?” I let my gaze drift lower for a split second before meeting her eyes again. “Or is it something more personal? Revenge, perhaps? For dear old Dad?”

The direct hit lands. I see it in the momentary widening of her eyes, the tightening around her mouth before she clamps down on her reaction. She recovers, but the tell was there.

“The truth,” she says, falling back on the journalistic shield. “That’s what I’m after.”

“Truth?” I scoff, setting my glass down with deliberate care. “A rather naive pursuit, don’t you think? Especially in this city. Especially concerning men like me.” I tap my finger on the table between us. “You want facts? I own this club. I pay my taxes. I donate to the right charities. There’s your truth. Write that article.”

A flash of irritation crosses her face, quickly masked. “And the backroom deals? The criminal mediations?” she presses, abandoning subtlety.

I chuckle, a low sound in my throat. “Careful, Ms. Song. Asking questions like that…it didn’t end well for certain former journalists who did that, remember?” The cruelty is deliberate, a sharp jab to see how she reacts under direct pressure. Will she fold? Lash out? Or hold her ground?

Her knuckles whiten where she grips her pen, but her voice, when she speaks, is remarkably steady. “My father isn’t the subject of this interview.”

“Isn’t he?” I counter. “He seems to be the ghost haunting every question you ask.” I study her, the fire beneath her composure. Fascinating. “You’re playing checkers, Ms. Song. Rushing the center with blunt questions. It’s bold. Reckless, even. But predictable.”

She holds my gaze, refusing to look away, refusing to give me the satisfaction of seeing her rattled. Admirable.

“Perhaps,” I continue, changing tactics, leaning back with feigned casualness, “I should offer you a different game.”

Wariness replaces the defiance in her eyes. “What kind of game?”

“Chess.” I offer a genuine smile this time, enjoying the dance. “What if I offered you something more valuable than quotes for your little article? What if I offered you complete access? A ringside seat to the actual games played in this city.”

Her eyes widen, journalistic hunger battling innate caution. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you intrigue me,” I admit, the truth serving my purpose better than any lie. “Your obsession. Your nerve. That fire in your eyes when you think you’ve cornered me.” I shrug. “Most reporters are predictable bores. You might be entertaining.”

Suspicion clouds her features. “And what’s the price for this entertainment?”

“Discretion,” I say. “And obedience. Complete obedience.” I lean forward again, voice dropping to an intimate whisper that belies the harshness of the words. “When you are with me, you follow my lead. Without question a necessity. My world operates by rules you don’t understand yet. Break them, and the consequences…” I let the sentence hang, the threat implicit.

She processes this, the internal conflict visible in the slight furrow of her brow. “So, access for obedience,” she clarifies, the word “obedience” pronounced like it’s tasting of dirt in her mouth.

“Precisely.” I watch her, savoring the tension, the silent battle playing out behind her eyes.

“And if I refuse one of your commands?” she challenges me.

“Then our little arrangement ends.” I retrieve my business card, sliding it across the table. My fingers brush against hers; a spark of contact, a reminder of the physical reality beneath the power play. “Instantly. No second chances.”

She shivers, a reaction she can’t hide, her pupils dilating. Fear? Excitement? Both, I suspect. Perfect.

“Think you can handle it, Ms. Song?” I ask, letting the predatory edge show in my smile. “Or are you afraid?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she says, taking the card, her fingers trembling almost imperceptibly.

Liar.The word stays in my mind. Her body betrays her even if her voice doesn’t. Instead of leaning back, claiming victory, I lean forward, closing the distance between us until my shadow falls across her. Her scent of jasmine and something sharp, like ozone before a storm, fills my senses.

“No?” I murmur, letting my gaze drop to her delicate throat, then back to her eyes. “Fear isn’t always a weakness, Ms. Song. Sometimes it’s just awareness. Acknowledging the predator in the room.”

I reach out for her face, moving slowly enough that she could pull back, but she remains frozen, caught between defiance and the instinct to retreat. My fingers brush a stray strand from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. The contact is brief, almost casual, yet loaded with possessive intent. My knuckles graze the sensitive skin of her neck, lingering for a second too long.Her pulse thumps against my touch, a frantic bird trapped beneath warm skin.“You should be afraid,” I continue, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Not of me causing you physical harm, that would be crude. But of what you might discover about yourself when you step behind the curtain. What lines you might decide to cross for your ‘truth’.”

I watch her, expecting a flinch, a gasp, some outward sign that I’ve finally breached her composure. Instead, she meets my gaze, her eyes dark pools reflecting the club’s dim lights. Her expression settles into something unreadable, almost challenging.

“The only thing I’m afraid of, Mr. Varela,” she says, her voice cool despite my proximity, “is not getting the story.”

A slow smile spreads across my face. Lea deflects the personal threat, refocusing on her professional goal. She doesn’t crumble; she doubles down. Intriguing indeed.

“Then you have nothing to fear,” I concede, finally leaning back, allowing her space to breathe. Let her think she’s won this round. The victory is mine regardless. “I’ll give you what you crave, Ms. Song. A look behind the curtain. But remember: my world, my rules.”

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