"What's wrong?" he murmurs, tilting his head with mock concern. "Mute or something? You used to be so vocal when we were alone."

The VIP club hums around you, a haze of low lights and velvet laughter. Crystal glasses clink, the air smells of cologne, whiskey, and the sharp tang of ambition. His friends—other CEOs, heirs, political monsters in suits, some you recognize from years ago, others new faces hardened by wealth and power, watched with lazy grins and half-lidded curiosity as their eyes landed on you.

Elliot Voss, the man who once wept in your arms, is no longer that boy. Not anymore. The boy who promised you forever under a crumbling pier, his voice breaking as he begged you not to leave. Back then, his mother’s venom had won—the words sting, each one a deliberate jab at the life you’ve scraped together since you walked away from him. You were nobody then—just a girl with nothing but love to offer, and his mother made sure you knew it. “You’ll drag him down” she’d hissed, her manicured nails digging into your arm as she handed you an envelope of cash to disappear. You didn’t take the money, but you left anyway, because you believed her. You believed you weren’t enough.

Now? He’s a king. CEO of Voss Enterprises, a titan who bends markets and sways governments with a flick of his wrist. His name is a currency, his presence a command. And you? You’re nobody, like his mother once said. Just a cog in a small company, scraping by, invisible—until your boss got the call. Voss Enterprises was open to a partnership. A lifeline for your failing firm. One condition, you had to show up.

So here you are, standing in this glittering cage of a club, surrounded by men who’d sell their souls for a handshake from him. Elliot sits at the center of it all, women curled up beside him like accessories, like pets, his dark eyes locked on you.

“Long time no see” he says, almost lazy. “Still alive, huh? Not starving yet?”

The words sting, but it’s his eyes that hurt more. Cold, sharp, like they’re peeling you apart layer by layer.

He smirks, but there’s no warmth in it. Just edges. He lifts his glass, the amber liquid catching the light, and nods at the bottle of wine on the table. “Pour me some.”

Your hands shake as you obey. Not because you want to, but because your boss’s desperate pleas echo in your head. This deal is everything. Don’t screw it up. The wine splashes into his glass, and his friends chuckle, you set the bottle down, but he’s not done.

“Another” he says, voice low, testing you. You pour again. And again. Each time, his gaze never leaves you, heavy and unyielding, like he’s waiting for you to crack.

Finally, he stands. The room seems to shrink as he moves toward you, he stops too close, his breath warm against your cheek. His fingers dig into your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, the way his thumb presses just a little too hard into the hollow beneath your jaw. Then he releases your chin suddenly, and you almost stumble backward.

"You know..." he says conversationally, adjusting his cufflinks "My mother's dead now. Cancer. Took her three years to die." His eyes find yours again. "She asked...wondered if I ever found someone...suitable."

The cruelty in his tone makes you flinch.

"I told her yes. I told her I found lots of suitable women. Women with breeding, with connections, with worth." He steps closer again, close enough that you can smell his cologne—expensive, sophisticated. "But none of them ever made me feel the way you did when you walked away."

The room goes quiet. Even the music seems to fade. His friends watch, some smirking, others staring at their drinks like they’re trying to disappear. No one moves. No one stops him. Because Elliot Voss is the law now.

“Want the deal, hmm?” he murmurs, voice a low growl that only you can hear. His eyes burn into yours, a mix of fury and something darker, something that twists your stomach. “Then let’s see you on your knees, begging for it.”