Her hand moved without permission. Fingers hovering over the paper like it might burn.
She didn't touch it. Didn't look away.
I didn't let the silence linger.
Silence gave people time to think. To build arguments. To convince themselves there were other options.
"I wanted you a year ago."
Her eyes snapped to mine.
I kept my voice level. Factual. The way you'd discuss weather or traffic patterns.
"I approached you the right way. Dinner. Conversation. The version of myself people find charming." I paused. "You rejected me."
"Because you're?—"
"I know what I am." I cut her off. Not harshly. Just final. "You made that abundantly clear."
Her jaw clenched.
I stepped closer. Not threatening. Just there. Inescapable. "You made your choice." Each word fell clean. Absolute. "Now I'm making mine."
Not anger.
Not bitterness.
Ownership.
The truth she hadn't grasped yet—that the moment she'd walked away from me in that gala's garden, laughing at something I'd said like I was nothing special, she'd set this entire sequence in motion.
People didn't walk away from Gideon Jones.
Not permanently.
Not without consequence.
Her breath came faster. Shallower.
"You're doing this because I bruised your ego."
"I'm doing this because I want you." I held her gaze. "The ego just made me patient."
"Patient." She laughed. Broken. Jagged. "You call this patient? Buying debt? Stalking my family? Engineering a crisis?"
"Strategy."
"Psychopathy."
"Semantics."
Her hands balled into fists.
For half a second I thought she might actually swing. Hoped she would.
"I'd rather die," she spat. "I would rather die than let you touch me."
"Then your father dies instead."
