POV: Elena Vasquez
The cab's engine growled as I stared out the grimy window, Manhattan's glittering skyline shrinking behind me. My heart pounded, each beat a mix of rage and something sharper: humiliation, maybe, or the sting of Alexander's kiss still burning on my lips. The tablet's words kept flashing in my mind: Tame the spitfire in three months, or hand over the merger. You've got your mark. I was a bet. A game to him and that smirking bastard, Victor Lang. I'd trusted Alexander, let myself feel something for those blue eyes and that damn smile. Stupid, Elena. So stupid.
I clutched my duffel, the only thing I'd grabbed from the mansion before bolting. The emerald dress clung to me, a cruel reminder of the gala's fairy-tale lie. My phone buzzed in my lap; another unknown number. I ignored it. Probably Frankie again, sniffing for blood now that I'd quit the job that was supposed to save us. Five grand a week, gone. Mamá's meds, Marco's school, the eviction notice, all back to square one. My chest tightened, tears threatening, but I swallowed them down. Crying wouldn't pay the bills.
The cab dropped me at my Brooklyn apartment, the street alive with late-night noise: car horns, a distant argument, the rattle of a bodega gate. I paid the driver with my last twenty, my bank account screaming in protest. The stairwell smelled like piss and desperation, each step heavier than the last. I unlocked the door, expecting Mamá's cough or Marco's snarky greeting, but the apartment was dark, quiet. Too quiet.
"Mamá?" I called, flicking on the light. The couch was empty, Marco's mat untouched. A note on the fridge, in Mamá's shaky handwriting: At Tía Rosa's. Marco too. Stay safe, mija. Relief hit, then worry. Tía Rosa's place in Queens was a trek. Why'd they go tonight?
I sank onto the couch, the springs creaking under me. My phone buzzed again, same unknown number. I answered, anger overriding caution. "What do you want, Frankie?"
A chuckle, low and wrong. Not Frankie. "Ms. Vasquez," Victor Lang's voice slithered through. "Leaving the gala so soon? Trouble with Kane?"
My blood ran cold. "How'd you get this number?"
"I'm resourceful," he said, smug. "You saw the email. Smart girl. Kane's playing you, but I can help."
"Help?" I scoffed. "You're the one who bet I'd fall for him. You're as bad as he is."
"Worse, maybe." His tone was all silk and venom. "But I'm honest about it. Kane's lying to himself, thinking he's in love. Walk away, Elena. Before it gets messy."
"Too late," I snapped. "I quit. Leave me alone."
I hung up, hands shaking. Victor Lang knew too much: my number, the bet, my leaving. Was he watching me? The apartment felt smaller, the shadows sharper. I checked the locks, then grabbed my laptop, an old clunker from the restaurant days. I needed answers. Who was Victor Lang, really? And why me?
A quick search pulled up his bio: CEO of Lang Enterprises, rival to Kane Innovations. Thirty-five, slick, with a rap sheet of shady deals and a personal grudge, something about Alexander exposing his father's embezzlement years ago. No wonder he wanted to screw Alexander over. But why drag me into it? My fingers hovered over the keyboard, then typed La Isla Dorada bankruptcy. Old articles popped up: bad loan, predatory terms, a creditor named Frankie Russo. Nothing tied Frankie to Victor directly, but my gut screamed they were connected. Frankie's calls started right after I took the job. Coincidence? Hell no.
A knock at the door jolted me. My heart leapt to my throat. "Who's there?"
"Elena, it's me." Alexander's voice, low, urgent.
I froze. He'd followed me? To Brooklyn? I crept to the door, peering through the peephole. There he was, suit rumpled, hair a mess, those eyes pleading even through the fisheye lens. Part of me wanted to let him in, hear him out. The other part wanted to punch him.
"Go away," I said, voice steady despite my racing pulse. "I meant it. I'm done."
"Five minutes," he said. "Please. I need to explain."
"You explained enough. It was a bet. I'm not your toy."
"It stopped being a bet the moment I met you." His voice cracked, raw. "Elena, I'm an idiot, but I'm not lying about how I feel. Let me in. There's more you need to know:about Victor, about why he picked you."
I hesitated, my hand on the lock. Victor's call echoed in my head, "Before it gets messy". What did he mean? And why was Alexander here, risking his pride? I unlocked the door but didn't open it. "Talk. From there."
He exhaled, leaning against the frame. "Victor's not just after the merger. He's got a vendetta. My company ruined his father: exposed embezzlement, sent him to prison. Victor's been gunning for me ever since. This bet? It's personal. And you, you're not random. He chose you because of your family's debt."
My breath caught. "What do you know about my debt?"
"Not enough," he admitted. "But Victor's connected to people who hurt you. Loan sharks. I think he's using them to get to you, to get to me."
I flung the door open, glaring. "You're saying Victor's behind Frankie? Prove it."
"I can't, yet." He stepped closer, eyes locked on mine. "But I will. Stay with me, Elena. Not as my assistant, not for the bet. Because I need you. And because you're not safe alone."
I laughed, sharp and bitter. "Safe? With you? You broke my trust, Alexander. Why should I believe a word you say?"
"Because I'm here," he said, voice fierce. "In Brooklyn, in the middle of the night, begging. I don't beg, Elena. Ever."
My throat tightened. He looked wrecked, not the polished billionaire from yesterday. But trust? That was gone, shattered like that glass at the gala. Still, Victor's call, Frankie's threats,they weren't nothing. If Alexander was right, I was in deeper than I thought.
"One chance," I said, pointing at him. "You lie again, I'm gone for good."
He nodded, relief flashing across his face. "Deal. Come back to the mansion. We'll figure this out together."
I grabbed my duffel, heart warring with my head. I wasn't forgiving him, not yet. But if Victor was pulling strings, I needed answers. And Alexander, for all his lies, was my best shot.
As we stepped into the night, his car waiting, a shadow moved across the street: a figure, too quick to see. My skin prickled. Victor? Frankie? Or just my paranoia? I slid into the car, Alexander's hand brushing mine as he shut the door. Warmth sparked, uninvited, but I pushed it down.
This wasn't about feelings. It was about survival. And I'd be damned if I let either of these men play me again.