He closes the last few inches between us slowly, deliberately, each step weighted with the kind of authority that tightens my stomach before my mind can catch up. He stops just short of touching me, close enough that my pulse stumbles over itself. I am acutely aware of the space between us, not because it is small, but because it is controlled.
"So," he murmurs, his eyes locking onto mine, "how far would you go for the money you are asking for?"
The question lands clean and sharp. I swallow and force my voice to cooperate. "You name it."
Something flickers across his expression. It might be surprise. It might be disappointment. It might be satisfaction. With Adrian, it is always difficult to tell because he never gives away more than he intends to use.
"That fast," he asks.
"Do not judge me," I shoot back, lifting my chin. "Just tell me what you want me to do."
The words hang between us, bare and unadorned. No explanations. No defenses. No vulnerability offered.
Silence settles, thick and measuring.
He circles me once without touching, moving slowly, deliberately, as if he is studying the outline of something he plans to dismantle. I keep my feet planted and my shoulders squared, aware of every inch of him passing behind me, aware of how carefully he avoids contact.
"You walk into my penthouse demanding payment," he says quietly. "No explanation. No stated cost. No risk. Just a number."
"I do not owe you an explanation," I snap. "You asked for a service. I named a price. I am here to earn it."
His jaw tightens, the muscle flexing once near his temple. I notice it and pretend I do not.
He steps closer, erasing the last sliver of space between us without actually touching. "Would you undress for thirty thousand."
My breath catches despite myself, but I keep my posture rigid. "If that is what you want."
His eyes darken, not with desire, but with something colder. With distaste. With insult.
"You surprise me, Lena."
"You do not scare me," I lie.
He leans in slightly, still not touching, close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. "You should be."
The words slide down my spine like ice. He remains there, measured and calm. "Tell me," he murmurs, his voice soft and unkind at the same time, "what exactly did he pay you for. Dinner. Smiles. Hand holding. How far does the service list go these days."
My jaw clamps until my teeth ache. "If you want a list," I say, "call his assistant. I am not doing this with you."
His eyes flicker, not because I have wounded him, but because he is enjoying the resistance. "I do not need a list," he replies. "I watched enough. It was a very competent performance."
"It was work," I say, the words tight and controlled. "I showed up. I did what I agreed to do. I left."
"You have always been good at that," he says.
The sentence lands with surgical precision. For a moment, I stop breathing. I hate that he can still do this, that one carefully chosen line can drag eight years ago into the room and lay it between us like a body. I force air back into my lungs and lock my knees so I do not step back.
"I do not have to explain myself to you," I repeat. "Not about then. Not about tonight. Not about anything."
"No," he agrees calmly. His eyes are very dark now. "You do not. But you walked into my suite with my money in your purse, and that part interests me."
"I did not come here for you," I say. It is half truth and half lie, and we both know it.
"You came because I sent a key," he replies. "If you did not want to be here, you would have thrown it away."
"I almost did."
"But you did not."
His gaze travels over me, down and back up again, not appraising, not hungry, but cataloging. Inventory. Assessment. "You came."
The disgust in his tone is unmistakable. It settles under my skin and stays there.
He pauses, and in that pause something shifts. A decision settles into place with quiet finality.
"And now," he says, his voice lowering into something colder, "you are going to tell me what you want."
"I want," I say, my voice roughening despite my effort to control it, "for you to tell me what you want me to do."
His jaw tightens once. The rest of him remains infuriatingly composed. "Of course you do," he says. "That is what this is. Payment rendered. Services pending."
Rage and shame collide in my chest until I cannot tell which one is winning. "If you think I am going to stand here while you call me a whore to my face—"
"If I wanted to call you that," he interrupts calmly, "I would. I do not need euphemisms." His eyes hold mine without blinking. "I am not asking for explanations, Lena. I am calibrating the price."
The room feels smaller. My heartbeat grows too loud in my ears. He steps closer again, so close that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw and the thin pale scar near his lip that I once kissed without thinking.
"What is it you want, exactly," I ask. My voice is hoarse, but it holds.
He looks down at me, and for a moment his eyes are nothing but calculation. "Clarity," he says. "I want to see how far you go for money you did not earn yet." His gaze lowers slightly. "I want to know what, exactly, I paid for."
The words make my skin crawl. I hate him. I hate myself. I hate the debt humming in the background of my thoughts more than either of us. "You still owe me five thousand."
He goes completely still.
The silence between us hardens. His mouth compresses into a thin line, and something sharp flashes in his eyes, not anger, but focus.
"Of course," he says at last. "The remainder."
He turns away without another word and walks toward the desk on the far side of the room. It is the kind of desk that costs more than my rent for years. A drawer is already slightly open. He pulls it out with the ease of someone retrieving a familiar tool.
Inside rests a leather bound checkbook and a pen I recognize immediately, the kind people buy when they sign contracts that dismantle other people's lives.
He sets the checkbook on the desk, picks up the pen, and opens it. He does not ask my full name. He already knows it. He knew it eight years ago, and I doubt he ever forgot it. The sound of the nib scratching across paper fills the room, each stroke deliberate and loud in the quiet.
When he finishes, he tears the check free with a practiced motion and turns back toward me, holding it between two fingers. He does not look at it. He keeps his eyes on me.
He does not offer it like a favor. He does not present it like a truce. He holds it like evidence.
"Take it," he says. His voice is flat, stripped of emotion. "You wanted the rest. This is the rest."
I look at the check, then back at him, and understand with unsettling clarity that whatever comes next will not be negotiated.
It will be enforced.