Maybe not loyalty, but as leverage against me.
She moves in a world where influence is currency, where destruction doesn’t come loud or fast but quiet and surgical. If she wanted to dismantle me, she wouldn’t reach for scandal.
She’d reach for access. Access to me.
A cold realization settles in my chest.
What if this marriage isn’t personal?
What if it’s professional?
What if she plans to ruin me from the inside—piece by piece, reputation first, legacy next?
My chest tightens.
I once seduced her for a review.
A calculated move. Clean. Professional.
She could seduce me now for something far more catastrophic.
I set the glass down harder than necessary. The sound cracks through the quiet, sharp and final.
I need to understand her angle before she plays it.
I need to see how far she’s willing to go.
The night replays itself against my will. Again. The balcony.
The way she stood with her back straight, hands resting lightly on the rail, the city stretched out before her like a map of possible destruction. Not overwhelmed. Not sentimental.
Assessing.
When she turned her head just enough to acknowledge me, the city lights caught her face, softening nothing. Her eyes were steady. Focused.
She didn’t look afraid.
She looked ready.
I hated how that stirred something low and dangerous in me.
I hated even more the memory that followed—the way her body had felt five years ago. Warm. Soft. Open. Trusting in a way that makes my jaw tighten now.
The past has claws.
Tonight, it sinks them in deep.
I lean back in the chair, fingers digging into the armrests, grounding myself in the pressure.
There’s attraction.
Undeniable.
Unwanted.
Infuriating.
It never left.
