Page 38 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Ms. Song,” he says, taking my hand. “Are you in business with Mr. Varela?”

Before I can answer, Nico’s fingers press against my back, a warning, a reminder.

“Ms. Song is a journalist,” Nico says, his tone casual but carrying an undercurrent I can’t quite interpret. “But she’s here with me tonight in a personal capacity.”

Personal capacity. The phrase hangs in the air, loaded with implication. The mayor’s eyebrows rise, and I see the moment he re-categorizes me in his mind from a potential threat to Nico’s…what? Girlfriend? Lover? Possession?

“I see,” the mayor says, giving me an entirely different kind of look now. “Well, enjoy the event. The silent auction has some remarkable items this year.”

As we move away, Nico’s hand slides to my elbow, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin there, my bruises covered up with make-up. It’s such a slight point of contact, but my body reacts as if he’s caressed a much more intimate place, heat prickling beneath my skin.

“You need to relax,” he murmurs, leading me toward a waiter carrying flutes of champagne. He takes two, handing one to me. “No one here is going to eat you alive.”

No one except you,I think, but don’t say it aloud. Instead, I take a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles dance on my tongue.

“I’m not exactly in my natural habitat,” I admit, scanning the room filled with Chicago’s elite. “The last formal event I attended was my college graduation.”

A smile graces his lips. “You’re doing fine. Just follow my lead.”

And so I do, floating through the crowd on his arm, watching as he navigates the intricate social landscape with masterful precision. He introduces me to judges who greet him with cautious respect, to philanthropists who seem delighted by his presence, even to a minor European royal whose long name I immediately forget.

With each introduction, each conversation, I’m relaxing incrementally. The champagne helps, warming my blood and softening the edges of my anxiety. But it’s more than that. There’s something almost intoxicating about being here, about being perceived as someone important enough to be on Nico Varela’s arm.

A treacherous thought slips into my mind: What if this were real? What if I weren’t here as part of some complex game of power and control, but simply as a woman accompanying a man to a gala? What if the heat of his hand at my back, the brush of his fingers against mine when he hands me a fresh glass of champagne, weren’t planned moves in his seduction strategy but genuine gestures of affection?

The fantasy burns bright for a moment. Me, belonging in this world of luxury and influence, standing beside Nico not as a pawn but as a partner. It’s so vivid, so alluring, that my breath hitches in my throat.

I banish the thought, horrified by my weakness. This is exactly what he wants. For me to lose myself in the illusion, to forget why I’m here, to surrender to the pull of his constructed reality.

“Senator Mitchell is retiring next month,” Nico says, leaning close to speak directly into my ear. His breath skims my skin, warm and intimate, and I can’t suppress the involuntary tremor that runs through me. “He’s spent the last decade on the Judiciary Committee, always voting against increased sentencing for white-collar crimes.”

I turn my head, our faces now inches apart. “Convenient for certain businessmen,” I murmur back.

His eyes glint with something like approval. “Indeed. He’s also blocked every attempt to increase funding for financial crimes investigation units.”

“And now he’s retiring with a generous pension and a cushy consulting job waiting for him,” I say, unable to keep the cynicism from my voice.

Nico’s lips curve in a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Three consultancy positions, actually. All with firms that benefited from his voting record.”

The conversation should disgust me. It should reinforce everything I’ve always believed about the corrupt system that allows men like Nico to operate with impunity. Instead, I feel a twisted thrill at being privy to this inside knowledge, at standing beside the man who understands how the game is truly played.

What’s happening to me?

Before I can examine this disturbing response too closely, a snippet of conversation from a nearby group catches my attention.

“—Professor Song’s presentation at the security conference next week?—”

My head snaps around, searching for the source of the comment. A small cluster of academic-looking types stands near a display of auction items, deep in conversation.

“—last-minute addition to the program, but her research on East Asia criminal networks is groundbreaking?—”

My mother’s name sends a jolt through me. She rarely mentions her speaking engagements to me, but a security conference? That’s not her usual academic circuit.

“Excuse me,” I murmur to Nico, who’s now engaged in a conversation with a silver-haired judge. “Powder room.”

He gives me a look that suggests he doesn’t quite believe me, but nods anyway. “Don’t wander far.”

The warning in his tone is clear, but I’m too preoccupied with what I’ve just overheard to care. I make my way toward the edge of the ballroom, slipping through a set of French doors onto a balcony that overlooks the city.

---