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"Good," I reply, reaching for his drink and taking a sip, leaving a crimson kiss mark on the crystal. The whiskey burns, smoky and expensive, coating my tongue. "Trust is boring. Isn’t it more fun when you ride the edge of possible devastation?”

The tension between us has shifted—still dangerous, but no longer lethal.

Now it's charged with something else, something primal and hungry.

He watches me through narrowed eyes, weighing options, calculating risks.

His chest rises and falls faster now, the fine cotton of his shirt stretching across pecs too defined for a man who should spend all day in board meetings.

Works out with a trainer, I remember from the file.

Probably has an entire home gym in his penthouse.

I stand, smoothing down my dress with practiced grace.

The silk whispers against my skin, cool and sensuous.

"Now that we've established I'm not here to kill you or steal corporate secrets, I have a proposition.

" I lean down, giving him a perfect view of my cleavage, my voice a husky whisper.

The pendant dangles between us, emerald catching the light—a precise mirror of the one in his mother's portrait.

"Your room. One hour. No names, no past, no future.

Just now. Just a momentary detour before your scheduled plans, but I promise you, worth every second. "

His hand snakes out, gripping my wrist hard enough to hurt. The silver cufflink bites into my skin, a tiny blade of its own. "Why wait?"

Gotcha.

"Why indeed?" I purr, letting him pull me back down, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath, to count the flecks of gold in his cold green eyes.

A curl of his designer-coiffed hair falls across his forehead, humanizing him for just a moment.

I resist the urge to brush it back—to touch him first, to take control. Let him think he's leading this dance.

"I have a suite upstairs," he says, thumb tracing circles on my pulse point. His skin is hot against mine, his touch electric. "Penthouse level. Private elevator. No cameras."

Of course he does. Men like Victor are always prepared to fuck someone who isn't their wife.

It's practically a line item on their corporate expense accounts—right between "business lunches" and "offshore tax havens.

" I wonder if his ex-wife found the receipts.

I wonder if that's why she left, or if it was the violence I sense simmering beneath his polished surface.

"Lead the way," I say, letting him think this is his idea, his conquest. The submission tastes strange on my tongue—bitter and unfamiliar. But it's calculated, a sacrifice to win the game.

He throws cash on the table—enough to buy the whole damn bottle—and stands, adjusting his suit jacket to hide the obvious bulge in his pants.

The bills fan out across the dark wood, green and discreet, presidents' eyes staring up accusingly.

His hand finds the small of my back, possessive and controlling, five points of heat through thin silk, guiding me through the crowded bar toward the private elevator bank.

The bar patrons' eyes slide over us—another rich man, another beautiful woman, another transaction in a world built on them. A woman in red silk glares as we pass, jealousy flaring behind Botox-frozen features.

A group of Wall Street types nudge each other, one of them muttering something that makes the others laugh—crude, entitled, toxic. The bartender nods at Victor, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. He's done this before. Many times. But tonight is different, though he doesn't know it yet.

Tonight, Victor Reese isn't just getting laid. He's getting played.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft pneumatic hiss, revealing a capsule of brushed steel and recessed lighting.

He gestures me inside, ever the gentleman, even as his eyes strip me bare.

I step in, spine straight, shoulders back, hips swaying just enough to keep his attention, every movement calculated to draw his gaze, to keep him hooked.

The air feels cooler here, climate-controlled and sterile, a sharp contrast to the warm, whiskey-soaked atmosphere of the bar.

As he follows me in, punching a code into the keypad that will take us to his suite, I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls—emerald silk clinging to curves I'd long ago learned to use as a weapon, crimson lips full and slightly parted, eyes sharp as broken glass.

For a split second, I thrill at the change in myself. This isn't Landry James, bored housewife with a taste for club hookups. This isn't the woman who faked headaches to avoid Isaac's fumbling, predictable touch. This is someone else—someone deadlier, more focused, a weapon honed to a perfect edge.

I see Sienna's handiwork in the curve of my lips, Killion's training in the predatory glint of my eyes. They've remade me, molecule by molecule, into this sleek, dangerous creature.

A shiver runs through me, half dread, half exhilaration. In my ear, I can almost hear Killion's voice: " Control the situation. Control yourself. Get what you came for and get out. " His voice is clearer than Isaac's now, more present, more real. What does that say about me?

The elevator purrs as it climbs, the floor numbers glowing gold as we pass them.

Victor's hand slides to my ass as we begin our ascent, squeezing hard enough to make me gasp.

I let him hear it—let him think it's desire, not calculation.

The scent of his cologne intensifies in the enclosed space, mixing with the leather of his wallet, the starch of his shirt, the unmistakable musk of male arousal.

His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point, marking territory.

"I'm going to ruin you," he murmurs against my skin, breath hot and whiskey-sweet, and I bite back a laugh.

Oh honey, if only you knew. I'm already ruined. Shattered and rebuilt into something that can ruin you right back.

But I say none of this. Just arch into his touch, letting my head fall back, offering my throat like a sacrifice.

The mirror multiplies us—a kaleidoscope of sin, green silk and dark suits, grasping hands and hungry mouths.

"Promise?" I whisper, letting vulnerability bleed into my voice—another mask, another hook.

The elevator climbs higher, each floor taking us further from the world below, closer to the moment of truth.

The lights of the city spread out beyond the glass walls of the elevator's outer side, a tapestry of gold and silver against the night sky.

His hands are everywhere now, greedy and demanding, mapping my body like territory he already owns.

The knife is forgotten, replaced by a different kind of weapon—one attached to his ego, to his need to conquer, to possess.

Men like Victor are so predictable. Wave sex in front of them, and they forget to be suspicious.

They forget to be careful. They forget everything except their own hunger, their own entitlement.

I can almost feel the moment his brain switches tracks, abandoning caution for the more primal directive throbbing between his legs.

I press against him, letting him feel every curve, every promise my body holds.

The fine wool of his suit rasps against my skin, a delicious friction.

His breathing roughens, control fraying at the edges.

Good. I need him off-balance, need his brain offline, need his guard down when we reach that room.

Did I mention I’m competitive? Yeah, I have to win every game I play. My ego requires complete domination of every situation.

Victor Reese is just another player on the new game I’m destined to master.

The elevator slows, a soft chime announcing our arrival.

The doors slide open with a whisper, revealing a private foyer.

Italian marble gleams underfoot—creamy white veined with gold, polished to a mirror finish that reflects the subdued lighting from crystal sconces.

The air smells different here—rarefied, filtered, with subtle notes of fresh flowers and old money.

A single door awaits at the end of a short hallway, paneled in dark wood and brass—his suite, his lair.

The space feels removed from the real world, suspended in mid-air, a fantasy realm for those with enough money to escape gravity. Thirty floors below, people live and struggle and sweat. Up here, the air itself seems purified of desperation.

Victor pulls back, adjusting his tie with practiced precision, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his jacket.

His eyes are dark with lust, pupils blown wide, a predator's smile curving his lips.

A vein pulses in his neck, blue beneath expensive skin.

"Last chance to walk away," he says, voice rough, like he's offering a courtesy he doesn't expect me to take.

I smile, slow and wicked, a weapon disguised as surrender.

My lips feel swollen, sensitive, painted in a crimson that matches the bloodlust humming in my veins.

"Oh honey," I breathe, trailing one matching crimson nail down his chest, feeling the solid wall of muscle beneath designer fabric, "I'm just getting started. "

His laugh is low and dangerous, a sound that raises goosebumps along my spine—not from fear, but from recognition.

The sound of a predator who thinks he's found easy prey, unaware he's walking into an ambush.

The lock beeps as he waves a keycard, the sound echoing in the hushed foyer.

The door swings open, revealing luxury draped in shadow—his temporary kingdom, his hunting ground.

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a panoramic view of the city—a carpet of lights stretching to the horizon, a kingdom of glass and steel laid out for his viewing pleasure.

Modern furniture, all clean lines and masculine angles, occupies the space with quiet authority.

A bar gleams in one corner, crystal decanters catching the low light.

The bedroom door stands partially open, revealing glimpses of an enormous bed dressed in charcoal silk sheets.

As I step across the threshold, I feel it—that sick, twisted thrill humming in my veins, that knife-edge between terror and triumph.

My body vibrates with it, a tuning fork struck against danger.

The wig's pins dig into my scalp, a constant reminder of the mask I wear, the role I play.

The scent of his cologne mingles with mine—hunter and prey, predator and predator, two apex creatures circling.

I picture Killion watching me, grading my performance, waiting to catch the slightest fuck-up.

Which he won’t.

This is what I signed up for, when I wrote my name on that contract in blood-red ink. This is what Killion trained me for, his voice a constant companion in my head, his hands reshaping me into something deadly.

This is what I was made for—not white picket fences and Sunday brunches, but this: the hunt, the game, the razor's edge between victory and annihilation.

Victor Reese thinks he's getting lucky tonight. He thinks he's found a beautiful distraction, a night of consequence-free pleasure. He has no idea what's really coming for him—that beneath the emerald silk and practiced smiles lurks something more dangerous than anything he's ever faced.

I feel the weight of the mission settle over me, heavier than the pendant, more binding than any wedding ring. I am not just Landry anymore. I’m something far more dangerous, more cunning, and more lethal than anyone could’ve ever imagined.

And I’m going to change the way the game is played.