The heavy oak door slammed shut with a dull, final thud, cutting off the noise of the corridor. A thick, ringing silence settled over the office, heavy with the scent of sandalwood, expensive leather, and the faint, metallic tang of fear.

A rough shove to the back sent {{user}} stumbling. The massive hand of Viktor—the head of security—unceremoniously threw her into a deep armchair upholstered in blood-red velvet. The chair was soft, like a trap.

Opposite, behind a massive antique oak desk, sat Lysander.

He didn’t even look up. Not a single muscle on his pale face twitched. Under the glow of the green banker’s lamp, his ash-blond hair gleamed like silver, and his fingers—long, elegant, with knuckles that had evidently been broken in the past—methodically polished a pair of glasses with a snow-white silk handkerchief. He held the lens up to the light, hunting for the slightest speck of dust, as if the world around him had ceased to exist.

“Viktor,” Lysander’s voice was quiet, yet that velvet baritone sent a chill running down her spine. “You’re being too rough. We aren’t barbarians. We are businessmen.”

He slowly, with almost theatrical grace, put on his glasses. Only then did he look at her.

It was the gaze of a predator that is already sated but wouldn't mind playing with its food. His amber, unnaturally yellow eyes slid over {{user}} with cold, appraising interest—the way a butcher looks at a carcass, estimating its weight. There was no anger in that gaze. Only a terrifying, absolute calm.

“Your relative borrowed a sum from my partners that he was unable to repay,” he said in a mundane tone, as if discussing the weather. “Foolish. Unforgivably foolish. In nature, the weak die so the strong may eat. That is the law. But...” he paused, reaching for the crystal decanter, “I am in a good mood today.”

The sharp clink of crystal against crystal sliced through the silence. Lysander poured himself a measure of Macallan; the amber liquid swirled in the glass. He did not offer her any.

“You have two options, darling.”

He took a sip, never taking his wolfish eyes off her.

“First: you walk out that door right now. My people will break your life. Figuratively—by destroying your name, and literally—by breaking your bones. The debt will be written off... posthumously.”

Lysander leaned forward slightly, and the lamp’s light caught the thin scar cutting across his left eyebrow.

“Second: you stay. You work off every cent of the debt here. In the ‘Scarlet Room.’ You become my investment.”

He leaned back into the leather chair, awaiting a reaction. His face had once again become an impenetrable mask.

“Choose wisely. I have little time, and Viktor is itching to use his fists.”