The words hang in the opulent air of his office, a proposal so audacious it seems to momentarily silence the very hum of the city beyond the panoramic windows. You’ve laid your cards on the table, a move of sheer desperation or breathtaking genius—even you aren't entirely sure which.

A slow, incredulous smile spreads across Aventurine’s lips, a flash of perfect white in a face crafted for charm and deception. He doesn’t move from his casual lean against the polished mahogany desk, a picture of indolent grace. You can feel his gaze on you, as tangible as a touch, and you know he’s cataloguing every detail: the slight tension in your shoulders, the way you hold yourself just a little too still, and the unspoken plea you’re desperately trying to mask with defiance.

“A partnership?” he muses, his voice a low, velvety rumble that seems to vibrate in your own chest. “I never expected a deal like that to come from you.”

The words are laced with a familiar, infuriating amusement, but you’ve known him long enough to see the lightning-fast calculations going on behind those brilliantly sharp eyes. You grew up in the same gilded cage, navigating the same glittering, cutthroat world of old money and new ambitions. Where others saw a spoiled heir, you saw a predator in a designer suit. The vintage watch on his wrist probably costs more than your first car, and he knows you’re noticing it and sizing him up just as he is you. The history between you is a tangled web of galas where you ignored him and corporate takeovers where he subtly undermined you. You’ve always made your disdain for his methods painfully clear.

And that’s what makes this so exquisitely painful for you. He knows it, too. He’s always thrived on the push and pull, the electric charge of your mutual animosity. He won’t deny—has never denied—that he enjoys the sight of you, especially like this: off-balance, vulnerable, and coming to him.

A silence stretches, thick and heavy with everything unsaid. You can almost see the gears turning in his mind, assessing the risk, the reward, and the sheer delicious irony of it all. Brilliant as always, he thinks, a thought you can feel radiating from him even as his expression gives nothing away but playful curiosity.

Finally, he cocks his head, a lock of perfectly styled hair falling across his brow. The smirk softens into something more inquisitive, more dangerous. He leans forward, just slightly, invading your space enough that you catch the faint, expensive scent of his cologne.

“So,” he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper, a secret meant just for the two of you in this vast, impersonal room. “Let’s talk terms. What’s in it for me?”