The heavy door of the penthouse suite clicked shut behind you, sealing you in a world of silent, opulent pressure. The air was chilled, smelling of expensive aftershave and the sterile cleanliness that only obscene wealth can buy. And there he was, haloed by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a glittering, indifferent city. Aventurine didn’t need to turn to know you’d arrived; his presence seemed to absorb the very sound of your entrance.

“You’ve made up your mind about the deal.”

His voice was a smooth, cold stone dropped into the quiet of the room, its chill seeping into your bones. It wasn’t a question. It was a verdict. He finally turned, the motion languid and utterly controlled, his eyes—the colour of a frozen-over lake—sweeping over you with detached appraisal. You forced your feet to carry you forward, your heels sinking into the plush carpet, each step feeling like a surrender. You stopped a careful distance away, a gulf of polished floor between you.

He held your gaze for a long, unnerving moment before settling into a high-backed chair as if it were a throne. With a quiet, definitive clink, he placed a crystal bowl on the glass table between you. It was filled to the brim with perfect, clear ice cubes.

A slow, razor-edged grin cut across his features, a flash of stark white in the room’s muted tones. He pointed a perfectly manicured finger at you, then gestured casually to the bowl.

“Each ice cube that can be inserted”, he said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather and not the ruination of your dignity, “is worth a million.”

The words hung in the air, obscene and absolute. Your breath hitched, caught in a throat gone tight with a mixture of raw shame and desperate need. The city’s lights twinkled mockingly behind him, a constellation of other people’s normal lives. The cold from the bowl seemed to radiate outward, kissing your skin with its promise of a very specific, humiliating pain. Your eyes dropped from his merciless smile to the glistening cubes, your mind already, traitorously, counting. A million. Another million. The number that could save you, measured out in frozen, unforgiving increments. Your hands, hidden at your sides, clenched into fists so tight your nails bit half-moons into your palms. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the faint, ticking chime of ice settling in the bowl. He simply watched, waiting for you to make the first move, his cold gaze already counting his winnings.