Page 74 of Ruthless Arrangement

The meetingat the Blackstone Club proceeds as expected, six hours of careful negotiation with Korean business interests whose legitimate enterprises serve as perfect covers for more lucrative endeavors. We discuss shipping routes, import regulations, and the delicate balance of international relations without ever mentioning what will actually flow through these established channels.

Throughout the discussions, I drop casual references to the academic conference, to Professor Song’s research on shadow economies. The Korean businessmen exchange glances but reveal nothing beyond polite acknowledgment of her scholarly reputation. They’re too disciplined to be baited so easily.

By the time we conclude, it’s past midnight. The agreements reached are superficially about textile imports and technology exports. The subtext, the actual business, remains unspoken but mutually understood.

I return to the penthouse exhausted but satisfied. The groundwork has been laid for intercepting whatever operation Professor Song is facilitating between Korean interests and Moretti’s organization. Now I need only to leverage Lea’s connection to her mother to gain the last pieces of the puzzle.

The penthouse is quiet when I enter, lights dimmed to a soft glow. I find Lea in the bedroom, propped against pillows with a book in her lap. She’s wearing one of my dress shirts again, this one crisp white against her golden skin. The sight stirs something possessive in me despite my fatigue.

“Successful meeting?” she asks, setting the book aside.

“Productive,” I answer, removing my tie and jacket. “The Koreans are cautious but amenable to my terms.”

Her eyes track my movements as I unbutton my shirt, revealing the scars and muscle beneath. “Business or pleasure?”

I smile at her attempt to extract information. “Business is pleasure when done correctly.”

I disappear into the bathroom, emerging minutes later in silk pajama pants, chest bare. She’s still awake, watching me with those calculating eyes that miss nothing. I slide into bed beside her, propping myself against the headboard.

“Come here,” I say, not quite a command but close enough.

She hesitates for just a fraction of a second, before moving into my arms. I position her against my chest, one hand stroking her hair. The intimacy of the gesture is intentional, designed to foster trust, to lower defenses.

“Tell me about your mother,” I say, feeling her stiffen against me. “You said you don’t discuss her work. Why is that?”

She’s quiet for a moment, weighing how much truth to reveal. “She’s always been private about her research. Even when I was young, there were topics she wouldn’t discuss, papers I wasn’t allowed to read.”

This rings true, the first genuine information she’s offered without calculation.I press, “That must have been difficult, being kept at arm’s length from something so important to her.”

Another pause, longer this time. “I used to think she didn’t trust me enough to share it. Now I wonder if she was trying to protect me from something.”

“From what?” I ask, voice gentle, encouraging confidence.

She shakes her head, cheek rubbing against my chest. “I don’t know. But lately—” She stops herself, reconsidering what she was about to reveal.

I let the silence stretch, knowing sometimes the most effective interrogation technique is patience. Eventually, she continues.

“Lately she’s been even more secretive. Canceling our regular dinners, taking mysterious trips. When I ask, she deflects or changes the subject.”

I hum thoughtfully, continuing to stroke her. “Parents often believe they’re protecting their children by keeping secrets. Usually, they’re just creating distance.”

She shifts to look up at me, surprise clear in her expression. “That’s remarkably insightful.”

I smile, allowing a measured glimpse of vulnerability. “My uncle was the same way. Everything was ‘need to know,’ growing up.”

This is true, though I rarely share it, a selected personal detail designed to foster false intimacy. The strategy works; I feel her softening against me, curiosity piqued by this rare crack in my armor.

“What happened to your father? You said he died of a heart attack?” she asks.

“That not true. He was murdered by a business associate he thought was a friend,” I answer. “A situation that might have been avoided if he’d trusted my uncle enough to share his concerns.”

Her expression shifts to genuine sympathy, another crack in her performance. “I’m sorry.”

I shrug. “It was over thirty-five years ago. But it taught me the value of information, and the danger of keeping it from those who might help you.”

The parallel to her situation with Eunji is deliberate, and I see the moment she makes the connection. Her brow furrows, thoughts turning inward.I’ve planted the seed, the suggestion that her mother’s secrecy might place them both in danger, that sharing information with me could be the safer choice.

“Enough talk of family secrets,” I murmur, tilting her chin up with one finger. “I can think of better uses for this time.”

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