Adrian Blackstone was nothing like his photographs.
The corporate portraits scattered throughout Blackstone Industries captured the symmetry of his face, the clean lines of his tailored suits, the cultivated image of a man born into power and accustomed to wielding it. But photographs could never capture the stillness. That sharp, coiled quiet that surrounded him like a field of static, as if the very air recognized him and stood at attention.
Up close, he wasn't simply handsome, he was devastating, in a way that felt dangerous. The kind of man whose jawline could grace magazine covers, whose presence commanded rooms before he even opened his mouth. Yet his steel-gray eyes… those eyes didn't warm, didn't soften. They looked at Isla as if she weren't a woman standing in front of him, but an equation waiting to be solved. A specimen pinned beneath glass.
And right now, she was the insect.
"You're not what I expected," Adrian said at last, his voice low, steady, precise. Each word carried the faint polish of private schools, the Ivy League, a life lived far from fluorescent-lit subway platforms. He began to circle her with an unsettling calm, his footsteps measured and soundless on the polished concrete floor. Like a predator testing prey for weaknesses.
"When my security team pulled your file," he went on, "I assumed we were dealing with a scavenger. A desperate little opportunist who stumbled across something valuable and thought she could cash in. But you…" He stopped, his gaze raking over her, unhurried. "You came back. After what you saw. After my cousin made sure you understood the stakes. That's not greed. That's either remarkable stupidity...or remarkable courage."
Isla's back pressed harder into the cold metal of the loading dock door. She could feel Marcus and his men across the garage, their eyes burning into her. They hadn't moved, not since Adrian had raised a single hand to stop them. And that fact alone unsettled her more than Marcus's threats ever had.
They were waiting. Because Adrian told them to wait.
"Maybe I just forgot my lunch," Isla said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Her voice was steadier than she felt, laced with a defiance that surprised even her.
The corner of Adrian's mouth twitched, almost like amusement. "Deflection through humor." He tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle piece. "Interesting. Most people in your position would be begging. Crying. Bargaining."
"Most people," Isla said tightly, "haven't spent their lives watching everyone they love die slow deaths while men in suits decide their fate."
The words cut sharper than she'd meant, years of bitterness tearing through the fragile wall she'd built to survive. The memory of her mother wasting away, Emma's thin hands gripping hers during chemo, her father sinking deeper into debt with every failed gamble, it all rose like bile in her throat.
And for just a flicker, something shifted in Adrian's expression. Not pity, not warmth, he didn't strike her as a man capable of such things but maybe… recognition.
"Tell me what you saw tonight," he said, his tone suddenly harder, colder. Not a request. A command.
Isla met his eyes and didn't blink. "I saw your cousin murder a man in cold blood. I saw him order a body disposed of like it was laundry. And I saw the kind of casual cruelty money buys men like you."
Her voice didn't waver, though her hands trembled against the metal door.
From across the garage, Marcus's voice snapped like a whip: "Adrian, enough of this. She knows too much."
But Adrian only raised a finger—one small, dismissive gesture—and Marcus, Marcus who had made Isla's blood run cold just hours earlier, went silent. He obeyed.
And that silence… that obedience… terrified Isla more than Marcus's threats ever could.
"James Crawford was embezzling from our foundation," Adrian said calmly, as though discussing weather patterns. "Three million siphoned over two years. Money meant for children's hospitals. Cancer research. Programs for underprivileged youth."
Isla's chest tightened. That wasn't what she'd heard. That wasn't the truth.
"That's not.."
"No?" Adrian stepped closer, and she caught the scent of his cologne..subtle, expensive, threaded with something darker, almost metallic. "What did you hear?"
The memory hit her in fragments: Crawford's voice trembling, the words washing money through foundations, the panic in his tone about the SEC closing in. But to admit that… to admit she'd been listening… would be sealing her fate.
So she swallowed. "I heard a man beg for his life."
Adrian's eyes gleamed, not with compassion, but calculation. "Crawford was prepared to expose operations that keep thousands of people employed. Entire communities depend on Blackstone Industries. He would have destroyed lives to save himself."
"So Marcus killed him."
"Marcus killed him," Adrian agreed smoothly. "And there's a distinction."
The detached way he spoke of murder made Isla's stomach twist. He wasn't justifying. He wasn't excusing. He was laying down context like it was arithmetic.
"You're insane," she whispered.
"No." He leaned in, close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his gray irises. "I'm thorough."
He reached into his jacket and Isla's breath froze, he pulled out not a weapon, but a sleek silver phone. He tapped something into the screen with casual elegance. "How's Emma tonight?"
Her body went rigid. "What?"
"Emma Martinez. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Fourteen months into treatment at St. Mary's. Dr. Peterson overseeing care.
"Stop," Isla whispered, her throat tight.
But Adrian didn't stop. His tone stayed maddeningly calm, precise, each word cutting deeper. "Your father, Ramon Martinez, owes forty-seven thousand dollars to bookmakers. Unfortunately for him, he gambles with the Torrino family, and the Torrinos are… less forgiving than I am."
Her knees nearly buckled. He knew everything. Every vulnerability. Every fracture in her already broken life.
"But of course, you already live with this knowledge every day," Adrian continued, sliding his phone back into his pocket. "Working double shifts, selling everything you own, carrying the weight of your sister's failing body on your back. Watching her fade, one treatment at a time."
Tears burned hot at the corners of Isla's eyes. She bit them back. She refused to break here, in front of him. "What do you want?"
"The same thing you want," Adrian said softly. "A solution."
He gestured to the rows of polished cars gleaming in the garage light, symbols of wealth that could erase every problem she had. "I have resources. Unlimited resources. Dr. Peterson's experimental treatment? Approved and funded by tomorrow. Your father's debts? Gone with a single call. Your life will be untangled."
Hope flared like a cruel trick. "In exchange for what?"
"Your silence," he said simply. Then his eyes sharpened. "And your skills."
"My… skills?" A harsh laugh slipped out of her. "I clean toilets for a living."
"Three weeks ago, you corrected a dosage calculation on Dr. Peterson's whiteboard." Adrian's smile was sharp enough to cut. "An error our chief financial officer missed. Did you think nobody noticed?"
Isla's breath caught.
"You also read the financial reports you're supposed to discard. My IT department monitors every document shredded, every file trashed. You've been piecing together corporate finance like a hobbyist putting together puzzles."
It sank in like ice water: they'd been watching her. Every slip, every curiosity, every spark of defiance—logged. Cataloged. She was already on their radar long before tonight.
"You have the equivalent of an MBA without finishing college," Adrian went on. "You speak three languages fluently, taught yourself while caring for a dying mother. You have near-photographic recall. You're wasted scrubbing floors."
Her mouth was dry. "How do you even—"
"Know?" His voice turned razor-sharp. "Because I notice useful people. And you, Miss Martinez, are very useful indeed."
Across the garage, Marcus exploded. "Enough of this! Kill her and be done with it!"
Adrian didn't even glance back. His voice turned to steel. "Marcus. I thought I made it clear who makes decisions in this family."
The silence that followed was glacial, thick, suffocating. Marcus said nothing more. Isla could almost feel his humiliation.
"You're offering me a job," Isla said, her voice trembling despite her attempt to steady it.
"I'm offering you a choice," Adrian replied smoothly. "Work for me, and your sister gets the best care money can buy. Your father's debts vanish. Your family is under Blackstone protection, an umbrella that stretches farther than you can imagine."
"And if I say no?"
His smile was colder than the grave. "Then you become a liability. And we don't tolerate liabilities."
The words landed like stones in her chest.
"I need time," she whispered.
"Twelve hours." Adrian checked his watch, the gesture elegant, casual, as if he weren't dangling her life by a thread. My office. Be there, or…" He let it trail off, but the threat coiled sharp and unmistakable in the air between them.
"Twelve hours before I disappear," Isla said bitterly.
He tilted his head, those gray eyes gleaming like steel in the light. "Disappear? No. Disappearing means someone might look for you. What will happen is simpler. Cleaner. You'll just… cease to exist."
He turned, walking toward the elevator with the same predatory grace he'd carried since the moment she saw him. Marcus and his men fell into step behind him, shadows of violence trailing him like loyal dogs.
And Isla was left alone in the cavernous garage, her chest tight, her body trembling, the weight of his ultimatum pressing down like a shroud.
She had twelve hours to decide between damnation and survival.