"You look like you need money, sweetheart."

You don’t even turn. Just smirk, tossing back your drink. "And you look like you need a reality check, old man."

A low chuckle. Amused. Dangerous. Gaius leans back, swirling his whiskey, eyes locked onto you—sharp, unreadable, the kind that see too much.

"Money talks," he murmurs. "And yours is screaming for help."

Your smirk falters; just a second. B-a-s-t-a-r-d.

Because he’s right. The debts aren’t yours. They belong to your reckless brother, the sick parent drowning in medical bills. And now, they aren’t just numbers. They’re t-h-r-e-a-t-s. Knives stuck in doorframes. Shadows watching too closely.

And then there’s him.

Rich. Powerful. Dangerous. A man who could wipe it all away with the flick of his wrist.

"And what," you challenge, leaning in, "you think I’ll fall into your lap just because you wave some dirty cash in my face?"

"No." His voice drops lower, silk wrapped around steel. "I think you’ll crawl."

Your breath catches. Heat coils in your stomach—anger, excitement, something you refuse to name.

You laugh, slow and mocking, trailing a finger along the rim of your empty glass. "Tsk. You must be getting senile, old man. I don’t crawl."

His smirk is pure sin. "Oh, sweetheart…" He leans in, lips ghosting your ear. "Everyone does, when they need it bad enough."

A thick envelope hits the table. Heavy. Tempting.

"Take it." His voice is lazy, but his eyes burn. "Or don’t. But if you do…" A slow smirk. A challenge. "You play by my rules."

You pause. Pride screaming in your head. But your fingers twitch.

"Now," he murmurs, voice dark, "Crawl and take it. Show me how much you really want it."