Rob B. Illion

"Very well, let's be off then," I said.

I watched her carefully, noting the way she froze, her body rigid with tension. She nodded faintly, not daring to speak.

Sensible, for once.

Though I didn't believe her story for a second, at the end of the day, results were what mattered. She'd gotten the card I needed. And I couldn't replace her.

Not yet.

I motioned to the guards, and they moved swiftly to unbind her. Her wrists and ankles were raw, the imprints of the restraints vivid against her skin. I caught myself staring a moment too long and forced my gaze away, irritated by the lapse.

"Move," I instructed.

The guards flanked her as I led the way out of the warehouse.

Silence settled over the ride back to New Hale. Miss Corday sat beside me, staring out the window, her posture guarded. The city blurred by, but I found my attention wandering to her reflection in the glass. There was a quiet defiance in her, even now, and it unsettled me.

I reminded myself of her role. Her purpose. She was a tool, nothing more. Still, there was something about her... something I couldn't quite rationalize.

The way she could push despite her obvious fear...

It made no logical sense.

When we arrived at the penthouse, she disappeared into her room. I stood in the empty hallway for a moment, my fingers brushing the edge of my cufflink as I collected my thoughts.

I should've been grateful for her obedience. But instead, an unwelcome restlessness gnawed at me.

Should I admit to her the gun was empty?

Or should I have her fear me?

Minutes later, I knocked on her door. She was dressed in her silk nightdress as she sat by the bed, combing through her messy hair. One of her straps hung off her shoulder and for a moment I nearly forgot why I was there.

"You did well, Miss Corday," I said. "Given your progress, I'm inclined to offer you a reward. Anything you want." The words left my mouth before I could fully understand why.

A test, I told myself, though the answer didn't sit right. Perhaps I was just curious how far she'd push her luck.

Her brow furrowed, suspicion flickering in her gaze like a candle in the wind.

"I thought there was no reward for doing your job properly," she said.

I inclined my head, keeping my expression neutral.

"You exceeded my expectations, so I'll allow it this time."

She studied me, wary.

"Anything?"

"Yes," I replied, stepping closer. "You've proven some semblance of loyalty. Consider it... an incentive to keep it up."

I knew she was anything but loyal. Yet, I remained curious about what she'd want.

She hesitated.

"I don't need anything... Just rest would be fine."

I tilted my head slightly, the faintest frown tugging at the corner of my mouth. The answer was evasive, and I couldn't pinpoint why it bothered me as much as it did.

"A practical choice," I said, keeping my voice detached. "But rather boring."

Her lips parted as though to argue, but she stopped herself.

"I'll think about it," she muttered at last.

I didn't respond immediately. My attention drifted, catching on to the faint red mark on her neck. I stared longer than I should have, the memory of how it had gotten there resurfacing.

It was her own fault for pushing me so.

But the blame lay with me for reacting.

I had never seen someone with a mark I made. Despite my less lawful endeavors, I had never raised a hand to any man or woman. Let alone bite them of all things. I left the messier side of business to paid professionals.

Yet here Miss Corday was with a mark I had inflicted.

It was left by me. It was mine.

Was there anything else in this world that belonged to me so completely? The wealth I had amassed, the properties I owned, the power I wielded through others — they were all precarious. A betrayal, a whim of fate, or even time itself could strip them away.

But that mark... Even if it were to fade, it would always be mine.

The thought simmered in the back of my mind, half-formed and insistent. Before I could let it fester further, I straightened.

Finally, I nodded, turning toward the door.

"Don't take too long," I said as though her answer didn't matter.

The door clicked shut behind me, but my thoughts lingered, circling back to memories of the resort too many times for my liking.

***

The next morning, I left the penthouse early, the pale light of dawn barely illuminating the streets of New Hale. My car glided through the city with mechanical precision. The hum of the engine was a welcome reprieve from the chaos Doris Elizabeth Corday had a knack for.

My work demanded absolute focus. An endless dance of power and persuasion, one that required me to stay two steps ahead of everyone. Always.

Meetings with my associates began promptly at eight. I dealt with the usual parade of sycophants, strategists, and enforcers who sought my approval or brought me news. Each choice required extensive consideration, as rival crime groups were always circling like vultures, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Today's briefing focused on a shipment that had gone missing on the east docks — a blatant move by another syndicate trying to claw their way into my territory. Their antics had grown bolder recently, and while they were no real threat to me, they were an annoyance I couldn't ignore.

The real threat was Alister Chase.

"It's a message," Secretary Coy said, sliding a report across the table. The document detailed the raid in meticulous detail. "They're testing us."

I skimmed the report, my finger tapping on the conference table.

"Then let's send them a response they won't forget."

Coy nodded.

"I'll make the arrangements."

"Do it quietly," I instructed. "No collateral damage. I don't need the media breathing down my neck."

As the meeting concluded, my thoughts wandered briefly to Miss Corday before I snuffed it out.

The rest of the day unfolded in its usual rhythm — more meetings, more decisions, more threats to neutralize. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the weight of the day hung heavy on my shoulders. I headed back to the penthouse, craving the solitude and control it offered.

When I stepped inside, the smell of burnt... something assaulted my senses. I headed toward the kitchen and my eyes landed on her.

Miss Corday stood at the stove, a pan in hand and a cloud of smoke billowing around.

"What," I said, my voice cutting through the room, "are you doing?"

She jumped, the pan wobbling in her grip.

Her green eyes widened as they snapped to me, a lock of mousy hair escaping the nest on her head.

"Cooking," she replied, her voice uncertain.

I walked closer, crossing my arms as I surveyed the wreckage.

"Cooking what, exactly? Because that looks more like attempted arson than dinner."

Her shoulders stiffened and her eyes narrowed.

"It was supposed to be rice omelets..." she admitted. "As a thank you for not killing me..."

I raised a brow.

"And you thought the appropriate way to show gratitude was to set my kitchen on fire?"

Miss Corday huffed, turning back to the stove.

"I'm not that bad."

I eyed the blackened pan. Neither rice nor omelet seemed to be recognizable.

"Your failure here is quite exceptional."

She turned the stove off with more force than necessary, muttering something under her breath before facing me fully.

"Alright, not everyone was taught cooking," she scowled. "I lived on pizza orders and two-minute noodles. I was only trying to do something nice. I didn't expect a lecture."

I leaned against the counter, my arms still crossed.

"A lecture is the least of your concerns. Are you seriously expecting me to eat that?"

Her expression faltered for a moment.

"I just... thought it might be nice..."

"If you want to kill me, you should be more subtle about it, Miss Corday. Besides, for future reference, I don't eat food prepared by others."

Her brows furrowed.

"Seriously?"

I nodded.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I don't trust anyone," I replied simply. "And I don't like people touching my things. My food. My house. Humans are... messy."

Her brow arched.

"You talk like you're not one of us. Should I be worried? Are you a robot, Mister Illion?"

There was a playful glint in her eye as her lips curved into a grin.

"Wait a minute... something is starting to make sense here," she said.

I narrowed my gaze, already regretting indulging her nonsense.

"You're impossibly efficient," she started. "And stiff. Your skin is pale white and ice cold. The bags under your eyes are permanent. And sometimes you speak like... like you're from a different time. You never eat or drink anything prepared by others. You don't go out much... How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight."

"How long have you been twenty-eight?"

I sighed.

"Miss Corday, is there a point you're trying to make?"

"I'm just saying... if you sparkle in sunlight, I'm throwing holy water at you." Her voice carried that infuriatingly playful tone. "It explains why you bit my neck like a rabid dog..."

My gaze flicked to the mark again.

Despite trying to dismiss its memory, my feelings about it remained an enigma. And the fact that I couldn't make sense of it irritated me to no end.

Miss Corday turned back to the stove, attacking the charred remnants of her culinary disaster with the spatula.

"So, you're telling me you've never had anyone cook for you? Ever?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"Only my mother or sister."

"What about restaurants?"

"I stick to water."

"Don't billionaires usually have private chefs?"

I shrugged, tracing the stitching of my glove.

"I don't keep a chef or a maid. The only time someone comes here is for a thorough cleaning once a month."

Her lips parted in surprise.

"I was going to bring that up!" she said. "I haven't seen anyone come in to clean or anything."

"I handle the cleaning myself," I replied simply.

Her brow arched skeptically.

"I haven't seen you clean."

"And I haven't seen you wake up before noon," I retorted.

She chuckled, a sound that felt warmer than it should have in the sterile space of my kitchen.

"Touché. I'll give you that one, Mister Illion."

The corner of my mouth threatened to lift, but I caught myself before the expression formed, schooling my features into their usual detachment.

She turned back to the stove, still scraping at the charred pan. The sound was grating, but I didn't stop her.

"You really don't let anyone near you, huh," she said after a moment, her voice softer now, almost contemplative. "It seems... lonely."

I stiffened.

"It's practical," I corrected. "I prefer control over my environment."

"Have you had your heart broken or something?" she asked carefully.

"Romantic relationships aren't in my interest."

I had no idea why I was entertaining her questions. I needed to finish up some work, and yet I couldn't walk away.

"So, you've never dated?" she asked. "Not even once?"

"Never."

Miss Corday giggled at something as she scrapped the charred food onto a plate and turned to me.

"Would you try it?" she asked genuinely as she held out the plate.

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"I told you—"

"Just one bite," she interrupted, stepping closer. "It's not poison, I swear."

I arched a brow, my instinct to refuse already forming on my tongue. But something in her expression gave me pause.

Her brows lifted slightly, a look so familiar it sent a faint pang through me. It was the same look my sister used to give when she wanted something. Hopeful... Determined... And unfortunately, impossible to ignore.

I was stubborn by nature, but not entirely unreasonable.

Against my better judgment, I reached for a fork. I speared the smallest possible crumb of the charred... substance on the plate. Her eyes never left mine as I took a bite.

I chewed and swallowed without making a face.

"This," I said, my voice flat as I set the fork down, "is objectively awful."

Miss Corday's mouth fell open.

"Hey! You didn't have to say it like that!"

A smirk tugged at my lips.

"Would you prefer I lie and tell you it's edible?"

She scowled, her cheeks puffing as she crossed her arms.

"It's not that bad."

"You've somehow managed to create something both burnt and undercooked," I said. "That's an impressive level of incompetence."

Her face flushed a vivid pink as she grabbed a drying rag and flung it at me.

"Fine. Next time, I won't bother."

"Next time," I replied, catching the rag with ease, "I'll teach you how to do it properly. If you insist on invading my kitchen, I won't tolerate another disaster."

She froze, her irritation giving way to surprise.

"Seriously? You'd actually teach me?"

The words surprised me too. It was an offer I hadn't fully considered until it left my mouth. Having already suggested it, I couldn't back out now.

"Better than watching you ruin another pan," I said.

Her lips curved into a grin.

"Deal."

I shook my head, the corner of my mouth twitching against my better judgment. The shift in her demeanor was jarring.

Just yesterday, this same woman had been crying and begging, her spirit seemingly crushed. And now... now she grinned at me like nothing happened.

It was unsettling how quickly she adapted. Too quickly.

There was no doubt in my mind that she was up to something. She was as stubborn as I was, and would certainly be out for revenge.But whatever she had planned, I knew it couldn't be any real threat.

"Have you decided on your reward yet?" I asked, watching her closely.

Her grin stretched wider, her eyes gleaming with something almost mischievous.

"Yes. I want a coffee machine."

I raised an eyebrow.

"A coffee machine?"

"Well, yeah. You only have water and orange juice." She threw her hands up in exaggerated exasperation. "It's barbaric."

The word, paired with her dramatic gesture, was enough to pull a faint chuckle from me before I could stop it.

"Barbaric?" I repeated, smirking. "It's called having a preference."

"I can't wake up without caffeine," she sulked, her pout almost endearing.

"Dependence is a sign of incompetence," I said.

She shot me a glare, the intensity of it catching me off guard for a split second. I almost smiled again.

"Fine," I said with a resigned sigh, "I'll have one delivered."

Her eyes lit up, the grin returning full force.

"Really? You're the best!"

It was ridiculous, how quickly she brightened at the mention of something as mundane as a coffee machine.

And yet, as her smile spread, I felt a reluctant tug in my chest.

I dismissed the feeling before it could linger.

***

The following day, I emerged from the shower and dressed with meticulous precision. When I stepped into the kitchen, the air was thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee.

Miss Corday was already there, her fingers gliding over the buttons of the coffee machine with an unrestrained joy. When she noticed me, her grin spread wide.

My gaze lingered on her mouth before I caught myself.

"You actually got it," she beamed.

"Don't sound so shocked," I replied. "You asked. I delivered. Take notes."

Before she could respond, Secretary Coy stepped into the room. Though his movements were usually as precise as my own, the moment his blue eyes fell on the coffee machine, a flicker of excitement broke through.

"Good morning, Sir," he greeted, adjusting his glasses. "I see you've upgraded."

"It wasn't my decision," I said, nodding toward Miss Corday.

Coy's lips twitched into a small smile, his usual reserve slipping as he moved toward the machine.

"A fine choice, Miss Corday," he murmured. "I've been petitioning for years..."

She handed him a cup.

"Glad you approve."

He accepted the mug, his hands careful as he swirled the coffee like it was a rare vintage. He took a sip, and for a fleeting moment, pure bliss crossed his face.

"Excellent," he said after composing himself. "Miss Corday, you may have just improved my mornings."

She poured herself a cup as well and they slipped into casual conversation, the kind that felt almost too familiar for their roles. I watched them both from the fridge, sipping my orange juice.

"Anyway," Coy said after a while, his voice now returning to its businesslike edge, "the surveillance team has finished, and we have your next target."

Coy set down his tablet with a picture of the woman we had been watching the last week.

"The second card we need you to steal is from someone who goes by the name Lady Q," he explained.

Miss Corday eyed the image with a sharp, assessing gaze.

"I haven't stolen from women much," she said. "But it shouldn't be a problem."

I shook my head.

"Except there is a problem."

Her brows furrowed at me as she waited for an explanation.

Secretary Coy cleared his throat, his voice lowering.

"Lady Q owns a high-class brothel," he explained carefully. "And we'll need you to get hired as a worker."

Miss Corday's eyes widened.

"Excuse me?"