Liora Voss's eyes flickered—only the tiniest shift, barely there at all, but Elias caught it anyway, the way her pupils contracted for a split second like she hadn't expected those particular words to come out of his mouth.
So he wasn't just some kid with a couple of cute tricks up his sleeve. She'd misjudged him, and the realization sat behind her hazel gaze like a new piece clicking into place on a board she thought she already controlled.
*Target favorability unlocked. Current: 0%.*
"If that's how you feel, then you can leave now," Liora said, flicking her wrist in that careless, elegant way that usually sent people scurrying. The assignment her sister had dumped in her lap was already a bust, and while she could've leaned on the nightclub gig to twist his arm, that kind of cheap leverage wasn't her style.
Elias didn't move.
Liora tilted her head, a faint crease forming between her brows. "Something else?"
"I'm starving." His tone was so easy, so casually familiar it almost felt rehearsed, the way he leaned one hip against the edge of the desk and looked up at her through those long lashes. "Mind treating me to dinner?"
With women like her, the playbook was simple: take whatever you could while the wallet was still open. No point in playing noble when the game was already rigged.
Liora's first instinct was to shut it down—there were a dozen other pretty faces waiting for her attention, and if Serena hadn't specifically pointed this one out, she wouldn't have wasted a single extra second on him.
Then the memory of his earlier line ghosted through her mind again.
Once I lock eyes with someone, even if they don't have a cent to their name, I wouldn't mind letting her take my first…
Was he… actually into her?
The thought was almost funny. Usually she was the one doing the hunting; the reversal felt novel enough to be entertaining. Liora rose from behind the desk in one fluid motion, smoothing the front of her tailored blazer. "Come on, then."
Elias tipped his head back to track her ascent. Damn, she was tall.
In this world the height advantage belonged to the women by default, and even though he wasn't exactly short for a guy, Liora still cleared him by a solid inch or two when she stood straight.
The moment they stepped out of the soundproofed office the bass and shouted conversations slammed into them like a physical wall—deafening, chaotic, vibrating straight through his ribcage until he had to fight the urge to press both palms over his ears.
Jesus, people actually paid to subject themselves to this every night?
He trailed half a step behind her, eyes sliding over the clean lines of her back, the way the silk of her blouse shifted against skin that probably cost more per square inch than most people's rent. Curves in all the right places—another currency these women traded in besides cash. No sloppy seconds in the looks department; that much was non-negotiable.
Why did you refuse the contract…?
The system's voice cut in, flat and faintly accusatory.
In the original plot he would've hesitated just long enough to look conflicted, then signed on the dotted line like a good little prize.
Instead he'd derailed at step one.
Elias let his gaze drift off Liora's retreating figure long enough to answer without breaking stride. "You're really bad at following instructions, you know that? I specifically told you not to speak unless it wouldn't fuck up my concentration."
A tiny, mechanical pause—like the AI equivalent of a flinch. Apologies. Ensuring host mission success is my primary directive. I observed the deviation from plotted events and—
"Yeah, yeah, diligence noted." Elias huffed a small laugh under his breath. "I'll fill you in later. Just… stay quiet for now."
The restaurant Liora chose was predictably obscene—the kind of place where the cheapest bottle on the wine list could buy a used car, and the clientele wore their net worth in the set of their shoulders. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a glittering sprawl of Manhattan at night, every light a tiny flex of money and power.
They took a corner table pressed against the glass. Elias turned toward the view, expression lazy and unimpressed, like he ate overlooking skylines every Tuesday.
Liora watched him for a beat, then stood again. "Order whatever you want."
His eyes finally sharpened with genuine interest as he flipped the menu open, scanning the pages like a kid in a candy store he hadn't expected to be invited into.
While he browsed, Liora slipped into the hallway. A server appeared almost instantly, extending a slim folder with the deference of someone who knew exactly how much her signature was worth.
She accepted it without a word and began flipping through the pages—Elias's background dossier, the one she'd dismissed as overkill when Serena first shoved it at her.
Now she actually read.
Arthur Hale—his foster father—was stable. Medical bills covered, no immediate threat of collapse even if Elias lost the nightclub paycheck tomorrow.
So that was the steel behind the flirtatious smiles. Not bravado; strategy. A quiet, calculated shield.
Liora's mouth curved. Interesting.
Target favorability increased. Current: 1%.
The notification chimed just as Elias finished explaining to the system.
"…got all that?"
Understood. The mechanical voice actually sounded stunned. You really are the top operative. You don't cling to the original script, yet every move accelerates timeline completion without derailing core objectives.
Elias accepted the praise with zero modesty. "Obviously. The sooner I wrap this, the sooner I can clock out for good."
The kitchen moved fast—plates arrived almost the second Liora slid back into her seat.
Elias was already eating.
She caught the flash of his two small canines again—perfectly white, perfectly placed, the kind of detail a comic artist would add just to make the character pop. Adorable on anyone else.
To her they looked like minor deformities.
"Sorry," he said around a mouthful, glancing up with sauce-slick lips that looked almost bloody under the low chandelier light. "I was starving. Didn't wait. You're not mad, right?"
Her gaze lingered on his mouth for half a second—long enough to register the color, the shine—before she shook her head and settled into her chair. "No."
Etiquette had never been high on her list of priorities, and she wasn't about to start expecting finishing-school manners from someone who made his living pouring drinks for women who tipped in four figures.
He went back to his steak, and she watched—really watched—because the way he handled the knife and fork was obscene in its precision. Fluid, unhurried, aristocratic. Nothing like the rough-edged host-boy act he wore at the club.
Combined with the way he'd strolled into this place without a flicker of awe, it finally earned him a sliver of genuine attention.
He felt the stare, of course. Stopped mid-cut, let his tongue slip out just far enough to trace the sharp point of one canine—slow, deliberate—then curled the tip to catch a stray drop of sauce at the corner of his mouth.
"These used to get me in so much trouble," he said, voice dropping into something softer, almost nostalgic. His gaze drifted past her shoulder for a second like he was seeing a memory, then snapped back. "One wrong move and I'd slice my own tongue open."
He paused, head tilting. "Ever hurt yours like that, Ms. Voss?"
She blinked once. "No."
A small, mischievous smile curled his lips. He leaned forward just enough that the candlelight caught the wet gleam on his lower lip. "Then… think they'd cut you if we kissed?"
Liora Voss actually froze.
One sentence from Elias had just demolished nearly every assumption she'd stacked about him in the last twenty minutes.
If his earlier flirty deflection had been calculated self-preservation—armor against the sponsorship offer—then this blunt, filthy invitation was something else entirely. Seduction? Bait? Whatever it was, the clean, almost innocent smile he wore while delivering it made the contrast obscene.
Everything about him had felt faintly mysterious before; now the outlines were smudged beyond recognition.
Liora suddenly wanted to claw the retainer back from whoever ran that background check. Surface-level garbage. Useless.
She met his gaze—those wide, guileless eyes—and felt the corner of her mouth lift despite herself. "So you've set your sights on me?"
"Yeah." Elias nodded without hesitation, like he was confirming an order at the bar. "I already told you—once I lock eyes with someone, I don't care who they are. I'll hand over my body without blinking."
Total lie, of course. That policy applied exclusively to mission targets.
Best-case scenario: get her horizontal tonight. Secure the physical hook first; emotions could be cultivated later, piece by slow piece.
Liora spread both hands in a lazy shrug and sank deeper into the plush banquette, the leather sighing under her weight. "I'm flattered. Truly. Only problem is…"
She let the pause stretch just long enough to watch his pupils dilate.
"…I'm not interested in men."
Elias blinked—once, twice—then actually gaped. "Not interested in…?"
"You heard correctly." Her smile stayed perfectly polite, utterly unruffled.
He didn't find the statement itself shocking; people had preferences. But she was his primary target. The entire mission architecture rested on her being persuadable.
Appetite gone in an instant.
Still—he wasn't about to waste premium Wagyu. Elias abandoned every pretense of manners, shoveling the last bites down in three massive, inelegant forkfuls until his cheeks bulged like a chipmunk's. He swallowed hard, surged to his feet, and mumbled around the final mouthful, "Thanks for the meal. Gotta run—"
He was already moving—eat, wipe mouth, bounce—classic hit-and-run.
He needed the rest of the plot summary now. Needed to know if the upcoming roster contained anyone even more deranged than Liora Voss, because if they did, retirement was going to feel like a pipe dream.
Liora didn't try to stop him. She simply watched the slim line of his back disappear around the corner, waited until even the echo of his footsteps was gone, then rose with the same measured grace.
Long legs carried her into the hallway. She pulled out her phone, thumbed a single speed-dial, and before she could get more than two words out, a velvet voice answered—soft, syrupy, the kind that could make a man's knees buckle from fifty feet away.
"He didn't sign?"
"No."
The instant she heard Serena Blackwood, Liora's spine straightened on pure reflex, even though her sister wasn't there to see it. "His foster father's condition is stable now. And he's apparently sitting on enough savings that money isn't the lever it used to be."
Serena's laugh was low, indulgent. "Then we make him need money."
Click.
Liora exhaled through her nose and rolled one shoulder in a small, helpless shrug.
Why did it always have to escalate to Serena stepping in?
Whatever Elias thought he was walking away from tonight, the price tag had just tripled—and it no longer stopped at his body.
…
Elias forced the last bite down, but the anger stayed lodged somewhere under his ribs, hot and spiky.
Did Liora have any idea how much harder she'd just made his job?
Didn't matter. He'd worked worse odds. No one was derailing his pension.
"Pull up the rest of the plot," he told the system while raising a hand for a cab outside the restaurant. "Full summary. No time-freeze needed."
Acknowledged.
The data stream began to unspool inside his head like subtitles on fast-forward.
If the Serena Blackwood arc had been pure transactional lust—body first, feelings optional—then Giselle Frost's route was the opposite: slow-burn heart. Real tenderness, start to finish. Skin-deep to soul-deep, no counterfeit notes anywhere. Even Elias—fresh off one betrayal and supposedly wiser for it—had believed her. Convinced himself she was different.
Except she wasn't.
From day one Giselle had been quietly, methodically reshaping him. Hobbies, speech patterns, favorite foods, the way he laughed, the way he fucked—everything sanded and polished until he fit the exact silhouette of her missing white-moonlight ideal: Lucien Hart.
A Lucien Hart upgraded. Flawless. Better than the original in every measurable way.
She still treated Elias like a substitute—no different from Serena in the end—but the illusion was so perfect he'd actually been happy. Content. If the lie had never cracked, it might've stayed that way indefinitely.
Beautiful things, though, have expiration dates.
Lucien Hart—the real one—returned from overseas after a car accident left him in a vegetative state. Only cutting-edge treatment back home stood a chance of waking him.
Elias stared at the oncoming traffic, jaw tight. "…"
Too many gaping plot holes to even pick a starting point.
The second Giselle heard, she dropped everything—dropped Elias—and ran to the hospital. Original model back on the market; knockoff suddenly an eyesore. Especially with Lucien still comatose.
Abandoned. Again.
This time the wound went marrow-deep. He'd actually fallen for Giselle. The thing with Serena had been mostly physical—bodies slotting together like expensive puzzle pieces. Giselle had gotten inside his head.
The fallout: clinical depression, prescription-grade. Couldn't sleep without pills. Weekly therapy appointments just to keep from spiraling into static.
And then—of course—he ran straight into another one.
Yvonne Quinn.
Elias cut in before the system could elaborate. "Let me guess. She's also obsessed with Lucien?"
A tiny, reluctant pause. …Yes.
He barked a short, humorless laugh. "Of course she is."
Thousand-watt simp halo. Fine. He had one too. Let's see who flinched first in a head-on collision.
Yvonne Quinn had access to Lucien because she was his attending physician.
Elias's brain short-circuited for a second. "Wait. She's his neurologist and my psychiatrist?"
Correct.
And why was she targeting Elias?
Because premium merchandise was out of stock, so she settled for the gently-used clearance model to scratch the itch.
Every weekly session—supposedly for his depression—was actually her slipping under his defenses. Hypnosis. Layer after layer of suggestion. Until he couldn't stop thinking about her. Until every dream ended with her hands on him.
Elias pinched the bridge of his nose so hard his knuckles whitened. "What kind of doujinshi fever dream is this?"
This would fall under… PUA tactics?
"Yeah," he muttered, slumping against the cracked vinyl seat as the cab merged into late-night traffic. "CPU usage at maximum. Got it."