Page 18 of Ruthless Arrangement

“My contacts,” she says. “My photos.”

“Will remain private,” I assure her. Another partial truth. I have no interest in her personal relationships or family vacation pictures. Only in who she speaks to about me, and what she says.

She hesitates another moment before opening her clutch and extracting her phone. Her fingers curl around it, a last moment of resistance before she finally extends her hand.

I take her phone, replacing it with the new one. “Your number will be transferred within an hour,” I tell her. “Your contacts as well. Consider it a professional courtesy.” I hand her original phone to Blake, who has reappeared at the door.

She glances down at the device in her hand, then back up at me, her dark eyes unreadable. “Is this how all your interviews begin? Confiscating personal property?”

“You’re not here for an interview,” I remind her, watching Blake pocket her phone before retreating again. “You’re here to observe. To understand. To witness how my world functions.” I gesture toward the seating area. “Please, make yourself comfortable. We have a full schedule tonight.”

She moves toward one armchair, perching on its edge rather than settling back, ready for flight, maintaining what little control she can. I give myself a moment to appreciate the picture she makes: the red dress against the black chair, her dark hair framing features that are both delicate and determined.

“So, what’s it about?” she asks, her reporter’s instinct for direct questions reasserting itself.

“Business,” I reply, taking the seat opposite her. “Some pleasure. Lessons in consequences.”

Her eyes narrow. “Consequences?”

Before I can elaborate, a sharp knock at the door interrupts us. Marco. Perfect timing, as always.

“Enter,” I call, not taking my eyes off Lea.

The door opens to admit Marco, followed by two of my security team escorting a thin man with disheveled hair and the particular mix of fear and defiance common to those who abuse those weaker than themselves. Michael Reeves, Jasmine’s musician boyfriend.

He stumbles slightly as Marco propels him forward, his eyes darting frantically around the luxurious space before settling on me. Recognition dawns in his expression. He knows who I am. Good. That will save time.

Lea has gone completely still, her attention riveted on the unfolding scene. I can see the questions forming behind those keen eyes. The journalist in her is already constructing narratives, seeking connections, hungry for understanding.

I rise unhurriedly, buttoning my jacket. “Mr. Reeves,” I greet, my voice carrying the same polite indifference I might use with a waiter or valet. “Thank you for joining us this evening.”

The man swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrawny neck. “I had little choice,” he mutters, shooting a resentful glance at Marco.

“Few of us do in the end,” I reply philosophically. “Choices, consequences. Cause, effect. The fundamental mechanics of existence.”

I gesture toward the center of the room. “Please, stand where I can see you properly.”

Marco gives him a not-so-gentle shove forward. Reeves stumbles again before righting himself, his posture a study in barely contained panic.

“I hear you’re a guitarist,” I say conversationally, circling him slowly. “A virtuoso, even.”

Confusion flickers across his face, momentarily displacing fear. “I…yeah. I play at The Blue Note. Other places too.”

“How long have you been playing?”

He blinks rapidly, clearly struggling to follow this unexpected line of questioning. “Since I was a kid. Fifteen years, maybe? I practice six hours a day.”

I nod, as if this information is what I’ve been seeking. “Dedication. Admirable.” I stop in front of him. “Left or right-handed?”

The question hangs in the air, its significance dawning on Reeves with terrible clarity. His eyes flick in terror toward Marco, then back to me, then toward the door where the security team stands blocking any escape route.

“Right,” he finally admits, his voice a whisper. “I use my left hand to chord the guitar, and the right to strum.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Lea shift in her seat, her breath catching as she realizes where this is heading. I turn, meeting her wide-eyed gaze for a brief, charged moment before returning my attention to Reeves.

“Good,” I hiss. “Then you only need the left hand to keep your career. I mean, you can always strum with a guitar pick glued to your right hand, right?”

What happens next unfolds with the precision of a well-rehearsed performance. At a nearly imperceptible nod from me, Marco moves forward, gripping Reeves from behind, immobilizing him with practiced efficiency. I step closer, taking the guitarist’s right hand in mine, examining it with clinical detachment. Long fingers. Callused tips from finger picking. The hands of someone who has dedicated thousands of hours to mastering an instrument. Hands that have also been used to strike a woman under my protection.

---