Was she really considering that? Trading herself just to make it through the month?
Just to buy enough time in the hope that someone would pull her out of this pit?
And then, when she was just about to make that call—to a man she didn’t even respect, just so she wouldn’t lose her apartment—her phone lit up.
Unknown number.
She froze.
Heart pounding. Fingers trembling. Breath caught in her throat.
She picked it up and answered.
"Jane," said the voice on the other end. Smooth. Deep. Smug. Every syllable was dipped in poison and silk.
It was Ross.
"Have you thought about my offer?"
His voice was calm, almost bored, as if they were talking about something as mundane as a dinner reservation.
But Jane knew better. Every word dripped with power—his power—and the knowledge that she had none left.
For a moment, she couldn’t answer. The lump in her throat was too heavy.
Ross chuckled softly at her silence. "I figured you might e around eventually."
Ross didn’t waste time.
Once Jane gave in—once she picked up the phone and didn’t hang up—he moved with swift precision.
He set the meeting for two nights later, giving her just enough time to prepare, but not enough to reconsider.
He knew how to handle people like Jane—smart, proud, dangerous when cornered.
But now, she was cornered by life itself, and Ross had all the power.
The meeting was arranged in a luxury penthouse at the top of an exclusive downtown hotel—discreet, guarded, and far above the noise of the city below.
No cameras, no prying staff, no risk. Ross had paid generously to keep things quiet.
Everything about the evening was designed for control.
When Jane stepped out of the private elevator and entered the suite, the air shifted.
She wore a long, form-fitting black gown that shimmered like liquid obsidian under the soft lights.
The slit ran high along her thigh, and her back was bare down to her waist.
Her hair was swept up in a sleek twist, and diamond earrings glittered against her skin.
She looked like a queen summoned for sacrifice—radiant, posed, but undeniably haunted.
Ross stood near the bar, sipping a glass of wine, dressed in a tailored black tuxedo.
He turned when he heard the elevator open, and when his eyes landed on her, he smiled—not with warmth, but with possession.
"You clean up well," he said, setting down the glass. "But then again, you always did."
Jane’s heels clicked softly across the marble floor as she stepped into the room. "You said this would be private."
"It is," Ross replied smoothly. "No one here but us. Unless you’ve brought a wire?" He chuckled at his own joke, then walked toward her, offering his arm like they were about to make a public appearance.
She didn’t take it.
"Aren’t we a good pair?" Ross mused anyway, unbothered. "All black. Elegant. Dangerous. We look like we’re about to dance to the devil’s music."
"Stop romanticizing this," Jane said sharply. "Just take me to your room. Let’s get this over with."
Ross didn’t flinch. In fact, he seemed even more amused by her bluntness.
"Tsk, tsk," he said, circling behind her slowly. "I thought you of all people would understand. The foreplay always begins with power, Jane—not touch. We don’t rush into things. We savor them."
She turned slightly, keeping her chin high. "This isn’t a game, Ross."
"Everything’s a game," he said, his voice low, brushing past her shoulder. "Especially this."
He moved to the dining table set in the center of the suite.
A private chef had e and gone hours ago—only the plated courses remained, carefully timed to maintain warmth and elegance.
Ross gestured to the chair opposite his.
"Sit. We’ll eat. We’ll talk. Like civilized people." He smirked, pouring her a glass of wine. "The part you’re dreading... can wait. Patience makes everything taste better."
Jane hesitated. She wanted to scream at him, curse him, throw the wine glass across the room and walk out.
But she didn’t. Because walking out meant going back to her crumbling apartment.
It meant more unpaid bills, more ignored calls from lawyers, and the growing sense that her husband would rot behind bars because she was too proud to make the only move she had left.
So she sat.
The seat was soft. The wine was rich. The table was lit by low, flickering candles. The city sprawled beneath them like a graveyard of lights.
Ross took his seat across from her and lifted his glass in a mock toast. "To fallen empires... and the ones clever enough to rise from the ashes."
Jane didn’t respond. She stared at her plate. Her appetite was gone.
"Still pretending this is beneath you?" he asked, slicing into a perfectly cooked filet. "You’re not the first senator’s wife to sell her pride, Jane. At least you get to do it in a beautiful dress."
Her eyes snapped to his. Cold. Furious. "You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You want to see me squirm. You want me humiliated. Well, congratulations. You’ve already won. Do what you came here to do."
Ross leaned back in his chair, the knife and fork resting beside his plate. "That’s where you’re wrong. I didn’t e here just to fuck you, Jane. That would be easy." He reached for his wine again, eyes never leaving hers. "I came here to own you."
Silence stretched between them.
Jane swallowed, not from fear, but fury she could no longer hide. "I will never be yours."
Ross’s smile widened. "But for tonight... you’ll pretend."
He stood, adjusting his cuffs, then walked behind her chair and leaned close to her ear.
"After dessert," he whispered.
Then he walked toward the far end of the suite, into the bedroom, leaving Jane alone with candlelight, bitterness, and the scent of red wine in the air.
She didn’t cry.
She sat there, unmoving, for several long minutes.
And then, with quiet hands and hollow resolve, she reached for the wine glass.
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