I do not move.
The sentence lands like a physical impact, harder than any insult he could have chosen and somehow heavier because of the deliberate calm. For a second, my lungs forget how to work. My pride claws desperately for something clever and cutting to throw back at him, but the part of me that lives on numbers and overdue notices and threats is already counting zeroes like oxygen.
He tilts his hand a fraction, the check still hanging there like bait. "Go on," he says, quiet and merciless. "Isn't this what you came for?"
I hate him in that moment with a purity that frightens me. I hate the way he looks at me, as if he has me pinned to a board under glass. I hate that he thinks he has me all figured out. I hate that he might be right in the only way that matters tonight.
My hand lifts. It shakes, no matter how hard I try to will it steady, and that humiliation burns almost more than everything else. I close my fingers around the paper, feeling the crispness of it, the weight that is not physical but still crushing. His signature is there, neat and confident, the same hand that used to write my name in the margins of his notes.
The moment the check leaves his fingers and enters my grasp, something in his expression shifts. It is not pity and it is not triumph, because both of those require too much humanity. It is colder than that, a tiny click of confirmation as the last piece of his internal story about me falls into place.
He steps closer again, not because he needs to close the distance, but because he wants the vantage point. His voice comes out softer, but the edge in it is sharper than ever. "All right," he says. "Since the transaction is complete, let us remove the remaining illusions."
A chill slides down my spine. "What does that mean?" I ask.
"It means," he says, "you are going to do exactly what you implied you do when you accepted my money." His eyes hold mine, unblinking. "Take off my jacket."
For a second, my thoughts simply explode into static. My pulse jumps into my throat, and my brain scrambles for some foothold that is not there.
"I am not—" I start, but the words feel thin, and he cuts across them before they can grow teeth.
"You took the money," he says. "You took it knowing exactly what I would think. Now I want to see how far you will play the part." He studies my face like every reaction is a data point. "Or was it all just theater fluff for the old man downstairs?"
Anger and shame twist together in me so tightly they feel like the same thing. My fingers squeeze around the check until the paper bends. I could refuse him. I could tear it in half and throw it in his face and tell him he can keep his money and his judgment and his penthouse. I could pretend I am that woman, the one who walks away from half a million problems out of sheer principle.
I am not that woman and we both know it.
The silence stretches, thick and heavy and sharp around the edges. He watches me without blinking. He is not guessing. He is waiting for me to prove him right.
My feet feel unsteady when I move, but I move anyway. I step in close, the space between us narrowing until I have to tilt my head back a little to meet his eyes. He does not lean down to make it easier. He just stands there, a wall of heat and disdain.
I lift my hands to his jacket. The fabric is smooth and expensive under my fingers, the kind of suit material you only see on men who live in boardrooms and private jets. My fingertips catch lightly at the lapels before I slide the jacket back over his shoulders. His arms shift just enough to let it fall away, but he does not help beyond that. The jacket slips down, and I catch it before it hits the floor.
His gaze never leaves my face.
"Put it on the chair," he says. His voice is so calm it feels like another insult.
I lay the jacket over the back of the nearest chair, smoothing it out more carefully than it deserves. When I turn back, he is exactly where I left him, his expression unchanged.
"Now the tie," he says.
The words are no louder than before, but somehow they land deeper. I step back into his space, my throat tight and my palms damp. The tie lies draped around his neck, the knot slightly loosened from earlier, the silk dark and cool when I touch it. I focus on the fabric so I do not have to focus on his eyes.
My fingers work at the knot, clumsy at first and then faster as muscle memory from every formal event I have ever seen him get ready for kicks in. There is a cruel familiarity in it, undoing something I used to straighten for him before presentations and interviews, back when we were stupid and young and everything felt like it was on our side.
The knot loosens. I slide the tie free from his collar and let it pool into my hand. The silence throbs in my ears, broken only by the sound of my own uneven breathing.
"On the bar," he says.
I turn away and set the tie down next to his abandoned whiskey glass. The glass still glows with that sharp amber light, looking as poisonous as the man drinking it.
When I face him again, his gaze is colder.
"Now the shirt," he says.
I do not move.
The sentence lands like a physical impact, harder than any insult he could have chosen and somehow heavier because of the deliberate calm. For a second, my lungs forget how to work. My pride claws desperately for something clever and cutting to throw back at him, but the part of me that lives on numbers and overdue notices and threats is already counting zeroes like oxygen.
He tilts his hand a fraction, the check still hanging there like bait. "Go on," he says, quiet and merciless. "Isn't this what you came for?"
I hate him in that moment with a purity that frightens me. I hate the way he looks at me, as if he has me pinned to a board under glass. I hate that he thinks he has me all figured out. I hate that he might be right in the only way that matters tonight.
My hand lifts. It shakes, no matter how hard I try to will it steady, and that humiliation burns almost more than everything else. I close my fingers around the paper, feeling the crispness of it, the weight that is not physical but still crushing. His signature is there, neat and confident, the same hand that used to write my name in the margins of his notes.
The moment the check leaves his fingers and enters my grasp, something in his expression shifts. It is not pity and it is not triumph, because both of those require too much humanity. It is colder than that, a tiny click of confirmation as the last piece of his internal story about me falls into place.
He steps closer again, not because he needs to close the distance, but because he wants the vantage point. His voice comes out softer, but the edge in it is sharper than ever. "All right," he says. "Since the transaction is complete, let us remove the remaining illusions."
A chill slides down my spine. "What does that mean?" I ask.
"It means," he says, "you are going to do exactly what you implied you do when you accepted my money." His eyes hold mine, unblinking. "Take off my jacket."
For a second, my thoughts simply explode into static. My pulse jumps into my throat, and my brain scrambles for some foothold that is not there.
"I am not—" I start, but the words feel thin, and he cuts across them before they can grow teeth.
"You took the money," he says. "You took it knowing exactly what I would think. Now I want to see how far you will play the part." He studies my face like every reaction is a data point. "Or was it all just theater fluff for the old man downstairs?"
Anger and shame twist together in me so tightly they feel like the same thing. My fingers squeeze around the check until the paper bends. I could refuse him. I could tear it in half and throw it in his face and tell him he can keep his money and his judgment and his penthouse. I could pretend I am that woman, the one who walks away from half a million problems out of sheer principle.
I am not that woman and we both know it.
The silence stretches, thick and heavy and sharp around the edges. He watches me without blinking. He is not guessing. He is waiting for me to prove him right.
My feet feel unsteady when I move, but I move anyway. I step in close, the space between us narrowing until I have to tilt my head back a little to meet his eyes. He does not lean down to make it easier. He just stands there, a wall of heat and disdain.
I lift my hands to his jacket. The fabric is smooth and expensive under my fingers, the kind of suit material you only see on men who live in boardrooms and private jets. My fingertips catch lightly at the lapels before I slide the jacket back over his shoulders. His arms shift just enough to let it fall away, but he does not help beyond that. The jacket slips down, and I catch it before it hits the floor.
His gaze never leaves my face.
"Put it on the chair," he says. His voice is so calm it feels like another insult.
I lay the jacket over the back of the nearest chair, smoothing it out more carefully than it deserves. When I turn back, he is exactly where I left him, his expression unchanged.
"Now the tie," he says.
The words are no louder than before, but somehow they land deeper. I step back into his space, my throat tight and my palms damp. The tie lies draped around his neck, the knot slightly loosened from earlier, the silk dark and cool when I touch it. I focus on the fabric so I do not have to focus on his eyes.
My fingers work at the knot, clumsy at first and then faster as muscle memory from every formal event I have ever seen him get ready for kicks in. There is a cruel familiarity in it, undoing something I used to straighten for him before presentations and interviews, back when we were stupid and young and everything felt like it was on our side.
The knot loosens. I slide the tie free from his collar and let it pool into my hand. The silence throbs in my ears, broken only by the sound of my own uneven breathing.
"On the bar," he says.
I turn away and set the tie down next to his abandoned whiskey glass. The glass still glows with that sharp amber light, looking as poisonous as the man drinking it.
When I face him again, his gaze is colder.
"Now the shirt," he says.