I didn't argue.
Rage meant she still had fight left.
I liked that.
Better than surrender. Better than the hollow compliance that came when people gave up before the battle started.
Belle Reiss furious was Belle Reiss alive—and I wanted her exactly like this.
Burning.
Defiant.
Mine.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Started again.
"Get out."
"No."
"Get. Out."
"Not until you understand what's at stake."
"I understand perfectly." Her voice shook. "You're a rich, entitled sociopath who thinks money buys consent."
"I think money buys options," I said. "And right now, you don't have any."
She flinched.
I reached into my jacket.
Her entire body tensed.
Not fear of violence.
Fear of what came next.
I withdrew the check slowly. Placed it on the counter between us. Stepped back. Let her see it.
The paper sat there. Innocuous. Devastating.
Her gaze dropped. I watched her read the amount. Once. Twice.
One hundred forty-seven thousand dollars.
Exact.
Down to the dollar.
The air changed.
Something collapsed behind her eyes—the last defense she'd been clinging to. The hope that maybe I was bluffing. That this was theater instead of truth.
The check proved otherwise.
"Six months," I said quietly. "And it's yours. All of it. Today."
