PRICED BY MY BILLIONAIRE NEMESIS

He closes the last few inches between us-slow, deliberate, each step heavy with the kind of authority that makes my stomach tighten. He stops just shy of touching me, close enough to make my pulse trip over itself. He stops just shy of touching me, close enough to make my pulse trip over itself.

"So," he murmurs, eyes locking with mine, "how far would you go for the money you're asking for?"

I swallow hard. "You name it."

His expression flickers-surprise? Disappointment? Satisfaction? Hard to tell. Adrian never gives away more than he wants to.

"That fast?" he asks.

"Don't judge me," I shoot back, chin lifting. "Just tell me what you want me to do."

There. One mention. No explanations. No vulnerability.

A silence drops between us, thick and assessing.

He circles me once-not touching-just studying, like he's trying to peel away everything I use to hold myself together.

"You walk into my penthouse demanding payment," he says quietly. "No reason. No cost. No risk. Just a price."

"I don't owe you an explanation," I snap. "You asked for a service I asked for a price. I'm here to earn it."

His jaw tightens, the muscle flexing once-a warning I pretend not to see.

He steps closer, invading the last inch of space between us. "Would you undress for thirty thousand?"

My breath catches, but my chin stays high. "If that's what you want."

His eyes darken.

Not with heat. With distaste. With insult.

"You surprise me, Lena."

"You don't scare me," I lie.

He leans in-not touching, but close enough that I feel his breath. "You should be."

The words crawl down my spine like ice. He leans in slightly, enough that I feel his breath when he speaks. "Tell me," he murmurs, and there is nothing kind in the softness. "What exactly did he pay you for? Dinner, smiles, hand holding? How far does the service list go these days?"

My jaw clamps so hard my teeth hurt. "You want a list," I say, "call his assistant. I'm not doing this with you."

His eyes flicker, not because he is wounded, but because he is enjoying the fight. "I don't need a list," he says. "I watched enough. It was a very competent performance."

"It was work," I say, the words clipped and tight. "I showed up, I did what I agreed to do, and I left."

"You have always been good at that," he says. The sentence is quiet and so clean it slices.

For a second, I stop breathing. I hate that he still has that power, that one sentence from him can drag eight years ago into the room and set it down between us like a corpse. I force air into my lungs and lock my knees so I don't take a step back.

"I don't have to explain myself to you," I repeat. "Not about then. Not about tonight. Not about anything."

"No," he agrees. His eyes are very dark now. "You don't. But you walked into my suite with my money in your purse, and that part interests me."

"I didn't come here for you," I say, which is half truth, half lie, and we both know it.

"You came because I sent a key," he says. "If you didn't want to be here, you would have thrown it away."

"I almost did," I say.

"But you didn't," he answers. His gaze drifts down my body and back up again, not in hunger, but in inventory. "You came."

The disgust in his tone is not subtle. It lands and sticks.

He pauses, and in that pause there is a shift, something settling in him like a decision. "And now," he says, his voice dropping into something colder, "you are going to tell me what you want."

"I want," I say, my voice roughening, "for you to tell me what you want me to do."

His jaw tightens, just once, but the rest of him remains infuriatingly controlled. "Of course you do," he says. "That is what this is, after all. Payment rendered. Services pending."

Rage and shame war in my chest until I cannot tell which is stronger and which is simply pretending to be the other. "If you think I'm going to stand here while you call me a whore to my face-"

"If I wanted to call you that," he says calmly, "I would. I don't need euphemisms." His eyes hold mine, and the contempt in them is worse than any word. "I am not asking for explanations, Lena. I am calibrating the price."

There is a beat of silence where my heart is too loud in my ears, and the room feels like it is closing in. He takes one more step toward me, so close now that I can make out the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw and the thin pale scar just at the edge of his lip that I used to kiss without thinking.

"What is it you want, exactly?" I ask. My voice comes out hoarse, but at least it comes out.

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, just a fraction. "I want to know what, exactly, I paid for."

The words make my skin crawl. I hate him and I hate myself and I hate the debt in the background of my mind more than either of us. "You still owe me five thousand."

He goes very still.

The quiet between us shifts again, hardening, warping around that sentence the way metal twists under flame. His mouth compresses into a thin line, and something sharp and dangerous flashes in his eyes, not like a flare of temper, but like a sharpened focus.

"Of course," he says at last. The words are soft and poisonous. "The remainder."

He turns away from me without another word and walks toward the desk on the other side of the room, the one that probably cost more than what I have paid in rent in my entire adult life. There is a drawer already slightly open, and he pulls it fully out with the casualness of someone retrieving another weapon. A leather-bound checkbook sits inside, along with a pen I recognize immediately as the kind people buy when they sign contracts that end other people's careers.

He sets the checkbook on the desk, picks up the pen, and flips it open. He doesn't ask my full name, because he already knows it; he knew it eight years ago, and I doubt he ever really forgot anything, least of all that. The scratch of the nib over paper fills the room, each stroke too loud, a series of tiny cuts written in ink instead of blood.

He finishes writing, tears the check free with a practiced movement, and holds it between two fingers. He doesn't look at it. He keeps his eyes on me.

He does not offer it like a favor or a truce. He presents it like evidence.

"Take it," he says. His voice has gone completely emotionless, stripped of even the bitter amusement. "You wanted the rest. This is the rest."