Ira hated silence.
Especially the kind Arin carried with him.
The elevator doors slid shut behind them, sealing her inside a glass-and-steel cage that smelled like money and power. The ascent was smooth, almost silent—but her chest wasn't. Her pulse thudded too loud in her ears, every beat screaming that this was a mistake.
Arin stood beside her, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. Too relaxed. Like this was his natural habitat.
Like she was.
She broke first.
"Why am I here?"
His eyes flicked to her reflection in the mirrored wall—not her face, not directly. He studied the way she held herself. Guarded. Defensive. Ready to run.
"You already know the answer," he said calmly.
"No, I don't." Her jaw tightened. "You don't get to drag me into your building and act like I agreed to this."
The elevator stopped.
Penthouse.
The doors opened to a world that didn't feel real—floor-to-ceiling windows, the city spread out beneath them like it was bowing. Everything was clean, sharp, controlled. Just like him.
Arin stepped out first. Didn't look back.
He knew she'd follow.
And she hated him for being right.
The moment she crossed the threshold, the doors slid shut behind her with a soft click.
Final.
"You can leave anytime," Arin said, walking toward the windows. "But before you do, you'll listen."
Ira folded her arms. "To what? Another threat?"
He turned then. Slowly. His gaze pinned her in place—not aggressive, not angry.
Assessing.
"Your father's loan," he said. "The one he never told you about."
Her breath hitched.
"You bought it," he continued, voice even. "Along with the penalties. The interest. The time he bought with promises he couldn't keep."
She stared at him, heart pounding. "You had no right."
"I had every right." He stopped a few feet away. Close enough that she could feel him. "It became mine the moment he signed."
Silence stretched between them, thick and dangerous.
"So this is it?" she whispered. "Blackmail?"
Arin's lips curved—not a smile. Something colder.
"Call it leverage."
Her nails dug into her palms. "You think owning a piece of paper means you own me?"
His gaze dropped. Slowly. Deliberately.
Not to her body.
To her clenched fists.
Her shallow breathing.
Her fear.
"No," he said quietly. "I think you belong to me because you're standing here instead of walking out."
That hit harder than any threat.
Ira swallowed. "What do you want?"
For the first time, Arin hesitated.
Just for a second.
"Honesty," he said. "Obedience when it matters. And silence about things that don't concern you."
Her laugh was sharp, broken. "You're insane."
"Maybe." He stepped closer now. Too close. "But you'll still agree."
She lifted her chin, defiant even as her body betrayed her. "And if I don't?"
Arin leaned down, his voice brushing her ear—low, controlled, intimate without touching her.
"Then I'll ruin everything you're trying so hard to protect."
He straightened, giving her space again. Like a predator who knew the prey was already caught.
The choice sat heavy between them.
Ira looked at the city outside the window. At the life she was trying to save.
Then back at the man who could destroy it.
"Fine," she said, voice trembling but steady. "But this doesn't mean I'm yours."
Arin's eyes darkened.
"Oh, Ira," he murmured.
"It already does."