You’d been avoiding him for days. Calls ignored. Doors unanswered. Every excuse in the book.

Tonight, though, you made the mistake of showing up.

You were barely inside when you noticed it—his gaze tracking you from the worn leather chair in the corner, one leg crossed over the other, fingers idly tapping the armrest. The only sound in the room was the quiet clink of ice shifting in his glass.

“Where’s my money?”

Your throat went dry. “I… I don’t have it yet, but—”

The scrape of his chair against the floor cut you off. Slow. Unhurried. Like a predator who already knows the prey won’t run fast enough.

He stood, adjusting his cuffs as he closed the distance. “You’ve had plenty of time. And now? I’m not in the mood for excuses.”

You tried again, “I can get it to you, I just need—”

“I don’t want cash anymore.” His voice was quiet. Too quiet. That dangerous kind of calm you’d heard him use when people didn’t walk away from the table.

Your heart skipped. “…Then what do you want?”

He leaned down just enough for his breath to brush your ear. “You.”

The air felt heavier. Denser. Like the walls were leaning in to listen.

“You’re going to pay,” he murmured, “just… not the way you thought.”

And just like that, he straightened, his expression smooth again—almost casual—as if he hadn’t just turned your world upside down. “Now… shall we begin?”