The elevator feels like a metal throat swallowing me floor by floor, and I am the idiot walking willingly into the stomach. The mirrored walls throw my reflection back at me from every angle, catching every uneven breath and every tiny twitch of uncertainty I keep trying to iron out of my face. I square my shoulders and tilt my chin as if posture alone could disguise the fact that I am completely out of my depth. The woman in the glass tries to look expensive and unbothered. The woman inside the skin knows she is neither.
I should have gone home instead of pressing that keycard to the reader. I should have taken the money, blocked a number I do not even have anymore, and pretended this night never happened. I should have told Mia to find someone else to play dress up with lonely old men in hotel dining rooms. Instead, I used the key, because apparently I have a habit of making catastrophic choices in tall buildings. If there is a bad decision waiting above the twentieth floor, I will find it, dress it up as necessity, and walk straight into it in heels.
The floor numbers climb and my stomach climbs with them. Every soft ding feels like a countdown to something I already know I am not ready for. I try to anchor myself to physical things. The faint vibration under my feet. The hum of the machinery behind the walls. The way the elevator cable shifts weight. Anything except the image of Adrian standing somewhere above me, already calculating, already turning this night into a ledger entry in that ruthless brain of his. In his version of events, I am sure this is the inevitable sequel. Lena Hale, Gold Digging Disaster, Final Audit.
The doors finally slide open on the top floor, and the hallway is so quiet it feels staged. The carpet is thick enough to swallow sound completely. The sconces cast warm pools of light that look inviting at first glance but feel accusatory when I step into them. Everything smells faintly of expensive polish and quiet, unquestioned money. The kind of money that never doubts its right to exist. The kind of money he has now and I never will. Even the air feels curated, filtered and cooled and scented just enough to remind you that this place was designed for control.
Penthouse 3501 waits at the end of the hall. The numbers gleam, polished and confident, as if they have never once been touched by someone like me. The keycard sleeve has his name embossed on it, heavy and deliberate, as if even the stationery understands the hierarchy here. My hand hesitates for a fraction of a second, a pause that tastes like humiliation and fury mixed together. Then I swipe the card anyway.
Pretending I have a choice is just another lie. If I walk away now, I still owe him fifteen thousand dollars, and pride will not pay my father's debt. If I walk in, I at least get to collect what is actually mine while he updates whatever disgusting valuation he has already assigned to me. Those are my options. Luxury.
The lock clicks open with a small, traitorous sound, and I step inside.
The penthouse is low lit and golden, light pooling along the edges of furniture and catching glass and chrome like stage lighting. Floor to ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, and the city outside spreads itself like an invitation, every building lit and busy, while inside everything feels suspended and still. The air is cool, faintly scented with something expensive and masculine. Under it all there is a tension that makes my skin feel too tight. This is the kind of room where deals are made and lives are ruined with a signature and a smile, and I am very aware which side of that equation I am on.
For a second, it looks empty, and my lungs almost loosen.
Then a voice cuts through the quiet.
"Took you long enough."
The sound of him lands slow and deliberate, like a blade drawn with intent. I turn toward it.
He is leaning against the built in bar like the room belongs to him, which it does, and like I do not, which I do not. He holds a glass of amber whiskey in one hand, the light catching in the liquid and throwing sharp reflections across his fingers. He looks carved, precise, clean, merciless, like he was shaped specifically for moments where someone else has to break.
His eyes lift to mine, and there is nothing soft there. No echo of the boy who once walked me home in the rain just to carry my books. No trace of the man who stuttered the first time he said he loved me, holding out wilted roadside flowers like they were treasure. Whatever affection he once had burned out a long time ago. What remains is steel, sharpened edges, and the kind of intelligence that never misses a weak spot. Whatever we were is ash, and tonight he brought the accelerant.
"I was not aware we set a time," I say, forcing my voice into something steady.
He lifts a brow, unimpressed. "You knew exactly what you were doing the moment you used that key."
"That key was shoved into my hand."
"And you used it," he replies, his voice low and even. "That is the part that matters." He pauses, letting the silence stretch. "You got the card."
The disdain sits just beneath his tone, subtle but unmistakable, like a current you only notice when it starts dragging you under.
"As if I had a choice," I answer, sharper than I intend. I refuse to sound small. If he is going to dismantle me, he can at least do it while I am standing.
He takes a slow sip of whiskey without breaking eye contact. "Everyone has a choice," he says, his voice softening in a way that makes it more dangerous, not less. "Yours was just expensive."
The words hit low and hard. I absorb them because I have been taking hits all day, and one more does not change the outcome. "If you dragged me up here to insult me," I say, keeping my chin up, "you could have done it in the lobby and saved us both the elevator ride."
"Why would I waste the show," he asks. He pushes off the bar and starts walking toward me with that unhurried, predatory ease he has perfected. "You seemed very occupied down there. I thought it would be educational to see how the evening ended."
Heat creeps up my neck at the memory of him watching me across the restaurant while Mr. Sutton talked about stocks and dead wives and I tried not to choke on my own mortification. "Mr. Sutton is not what you think," I say. The words come out tight and stripped down, because I know he does not care about context. He cares that the picture matched the story he already wrote.
He does not move right away. He studies me from across the room, his gaze sweeping over me like he is tallying sins on a ledger. I feel each second of his silence as physical pressure. Dinner. Envelope. Keycard. Arrival. By the time his eyes meet mine again, I can feel the verdict sharpening between us.
And in that moment, I understand with unsettling clarity that whatever he plans next has already been decided.