The elevator was silent but for the faint hum of motion, carrying you higher into a world you didn't belong to—at least, not until tonight.

You stood alone inside the mirrored box, watching your reflection flicker in the polished walls, trying to ignore the quiet thrum of nerves beneath your ribcage. You looked... nothing like yourself. Tonight, you wore a black silk gown that hugged your frame in all the right places, your makeup was flawless, your hair sculpted into soft waves. You didn't look like an employee pulled from the strategic planning floor of Marksman Industries. You looked like someone who belonged on the arm of Ryder Marksman himself.

And that, of course, was the point.

The elevator eased to a stop on the executive floor with a hushed chime. The doors parted to reveal him.

Ryder stood waiting just beyond the threshold, utterly alone in the golden hallway—no assistants, no security, no entourage. Just him.

He was breathtaking in that cold, deliberate way that made people stop speaking when he entered a room. His tailored black suit clung to his powerful frame with elegant precision, one button fastened, a slim-cut collar open just enough to reveal the edge of his throat and the glint of a chain tucked just beneath. The low lighting gleamed against his jet-black hair, slicked back with not a strand out of place. But it was his eyes that arrested you most—those unnatural violet eyes, sharp as glass and twice as unreadable.

They raked over you in a long, deliberate silence. There was no warmth in his gaze—only calculation.

And then, slowly, the corner of his mouth curved upward.

Not a charming smile. Not even a polite one. This was something darker. Possessive. Satisfied.

"There you are," he murmured, stepping into the elevator with the quiet grace of a man used to every room falling into place around him. His presence filled the space instantly—too large, too controlled, too aware of the effect he had.

The doors sealed behind him with a soft, final click.

"You're punctual," he added, his voice low and smooth, laced with dry amusement. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten cold feet."

You didn't answer. Not yet. He didn't seem to expect you to.

He reached up, slow and practiced, and tucked a loose curl behind your ear. His fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, grazing the edge of your cheek. The touch was intimate in appearance, but distant in truth—measured, strategic, and designed for the eyes of others.

"You clean up better than I expected," he said, voice cool. "Perfect, actually."

You caught the edge in his tone then—something sharp beneath the smooth delivery. Something personal.

He didn't wait for a reply. Instead, he withdrew a slim silver card from his pocket and pressed it into your hand. An access key. Likely to one of the locked private areas of the rooftop—either an escape route or a staging ground. With Ryder, you could never be sure which.

"She'll be there tonight," he said, his voice lowering almost conspiratorially. "My ex." He didn't say her name. He didn't need to. Everyone in the company had heard whispers about her. The journalist. The scandal. The fallout. What was once a relationship had turned into a headline—a public undoing of the man who built his empire from ash and ambition. But he hadn't crumbled. No, Ryder Marksman had rebuilt—colder, sharper, and more merciless than before.

"She thinks I miss her," he continued, turning toward the control panel. His fingers hovered over the emergency stop button. "She believes I still want her." He pressed the button.

The elevator jolted softly to a halt, and the quiet became absolute.

Ryder turned to face you fully now, his expression unreadable save for the heat burning just beneath the surface.

"But I don't," he said, voice like velvet over iron. "I want her to watch."

He stepped closer, close enough that the scent of his cologne wrapped around you—smoke, leather, and something faintly bitter, like orange peel scorched over flame. His hand came to rest lightly against your hip, a practiced pose of affection.

"Tonight, you're mine. Just long enough to make her wonder how easily she was replaced." His words were laced with poison and polish in equal measure.

"Your job is simple. Stay close. Laugh when I speak to you. Touch my arm like you've traced every inch of it in the dark. Make her feel what she made me feel—disposable."

And then, lower: "Make her ache."

A pause. Just long enough for tension to tighten the air like wire between you. "If you decide to enjoy it," he added with a smirk, "I won't stop you."

The moment hung in the air like the first crackle before a firework explodes. Then, with a flick of his hand, he released the emergency brake, and the elevator began its final ascent.

He didn't look at you again. Not until the doors opened.

The rooftop gala spread out like a dream bathed in gold—crystal chandeliers hanging from suspended beams, strings of lights swaying in the warm night breeze, the city skyline glittering like stars spilled across glass. A jazz band played softly. Champagne was already flowing.

And somewhere out there, she was watching. Ryder turned back to you, offering his arm with a devil's smile. "Let's begin the show."