Elsa
Elsa Nilsson.
He says it like he’s tasting it for the first time, as if it disgusts him on contact. Like I’m the one who dragged business into bed.
I don’t blink.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me crack.
“You didn’t have to use me,” I say, my voice flat and sharp, the smile gone from my face completely. “You could’ve been direct.”
“Direct?” he repeats, and he looks genuinely confused for a second. Like I’m speaking a language he doesn’t understand. "Elsa, what are you—"
Then the confusion clears, replaced by something dark. Something dangerous.
He knows he’s caught.
"What did you think would happen here?" I continue, my voice rising slightly, the tremor in it now from fury. “That I’d be… what? Compliant? Grateful? That I'd just give the okay because we slept together?" I let out a short, harsh laugh. "Is that how you usually close your deals?"
He doesn’t answer.
He just stares at me, his expression unreadable, a carefully constructed mask of composure that tells me everything. He’s retreating, shutting down.
"Answer me," I demand, my hands clenching into fists in my lap. "Was that your brilliant plan? Fuck the due diligence lead to get her on your side?"
For the first time since this conversation started, a flicker of real emotion crosses his face. It’s not guilt.
It’s anger.
Pure, undiluted, and aimed squarely at me.
"You think I used you for Northstar?" he asks, his voice dangerously quiet.
"I know you did," I snap.
"You don't know a damn thing," he says, shaking his head slowly, a small, disbelieving smile playing on his lips.
"Don't lie to me," I say, my voice shaking with rage now.
"I'm not lying," he says, and he takes a step forward, and for the first time, I feel a sliver of unease. He's not caging me in anymore. He's not seducing me. He's just… looming.
Ishove my chair back and stand. The legs scrape against the floor, a harsh, grating sound in the suffocating silence of the room.
"You," he says slowly, like each word is being dragged out of him by force, “you came here tonight—"
"I came here," I snarl, "to tell you that your little plan failed. Miserably. That you wasted your time on me because the deal is dead on arrival.”
A muscle works in Antonio’s jaw, and for a second, I see a flicker of something else in his eyes. Something that looks almost like… pain.
It’s gone before I can be sure.
“You set me up,” he says, his voice now flat, stripped of all warmth, all seduction, all pretense.
The phrase should sting.
It doesn’t.
I lift my wine glass and take a sip I don’t need, because I want him to watch my mouth again and hate himself for it. His gaze drops anyway, a reflex he can’t kill, and the satisfaction hits sharp enough that it almost feels like relief.
