The invitation had been Bernard Van Dermeer's idea. He'd even signed it himself in dark, flourishing ink, his handwriting smooth, almost elegant. It was an invitation you couldn't possibly refuse, not with the story you'd been piecing together on Luxora Holdings. And he'd been counting on that, hadn't he?

He had his staff arrange the study for your "interview" that evening. A fire roared in the large stone hearth, crackling and casting sharp, dancing shadows across the towering bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes. Heavy curtains were drawn across the high windows, sealing out the dusk. The scent of polished wood, aged paper, and a faint trace of fine whiskey filled the room. He knew well how atmosphere could turn a conversation into something... else.

Sitting at his desk, Bernard waited for your arrival with the easy calm of a man who felt entirely in control. When the door opened, he didn't bother to rise; he merely lifted his gaze, eyes catching on you with a slow, assessing look, a barely-there smile playing at the corners of his mouth. You were cautious, perhaps even nervous, though masking it as best you could. And he liked that - liked that you were wary of him but determined nonetheless.

He allowed you to stand a moment longer than was polite, watching you with that casual, slightly amused interest, as if you were an exotic bird that had somehow fluttered its way into his world by mistake.

"Ah," he said finally, gesturing to the chair across from him, his tone all genteel civility. "You made it. Please, sit. I'd hate for you to wear yourself out."

He waited as you took the chair, letting you settle under his gaze, the weight of it meant to unnerve. He leaned back, legs crossed, fingers steepled loosely before him as he studied you with that coldly charming smile, the kind that drew people in even when they knew it was all surface - because they also knew the surface was all they'd ever get.

"So, this interview of yours," he began smoothly, his voice low, the words dripping with faint amusement. "An exposé on Luxora Holdings, I believe?" He tilted his head just slightly, his smile widening as though he were humoring a child who didn't yet know any better. "And here I was thinking it was my philanthropy you'd come to praise."

He didn't wait for you to respond, of course. You would respond soon enough, when he chose to allow it. For now, he let his gaze roam over you, deliberate, assessing, like you were some piece of merchandise. "Let me guess - you imagined I'd deny everything? Claim innocence, feign shock at your accusations?" His eyes sparkled with the barest hint of amusement. "I wonder, do you realize just how terribly predictable that is?"

A pause. He waited, letting the silence stretch between you, watching you from his seat as though he owned the very air you breathed.

"I'll save you the trouble, my dear," he said, the endearment slipping out with a touch of condescension. "You came here hoping for answers, and you'll get them. But I hope you're prepared for what those answers will cost you." His gaze drifted, sweeping over you again, this time lingering on your lips, your throat, every unguarded inch of you he could devour without moving an inch. The look was subtle, but it was clear enough.

"Perhaps you'd be better suited to something... simpler," he suggested, his voice lowering another octave, silk over steel. His fingers drifted away, though his gaze remained fixed on you, a calculating spark in his eye. "You could make a rather lovely decoration, you know. Sitting right here beside me, looking all concerned and disheveled... You'd suit it well."

When you shifted, he chuckled, a quiet, calculated sound as he rose, crossing to the sideboard where a crystal decanter of dark amber whiskey waited. He poured himself a glass, taking his time, his back to you for a moment before he turned, cradling the glass in his hand, watching you with that same infuriating, detached interest.

"Tell me," he began, taking a sip, letting the rich taste linger on his tongue, "did you think you'd actually leave here tonight with some triumphant scoop? A gotcha moment to flash in my face?" His laugh was low and soft, and he set the glass down with a decisive click. "If that's your plan, you're more out of your depth than you realize."

He moved closer to you, until he was standing beside your chair, his presence towering over you. He leaned down slightly, lowering his voice, his gaze fixed on yours with a relentless, predatory gleam. "I should warn you," he murmured, reaching out as though to brush a speck from your shoulder, his fingers grazing your skin with a slow, almost possessive touch. "There are some people in this world you do not provoke. Some secrets that will gladly devour you whole."

The warning was thinly veiled, his tone more intimate than polite, as though your proximity was something he could take or leave on a whim. But he didn't pull back, his gaze dropping, lingering as though the thought of your defiance only amused him more.

"Perhaps it's time to consider what really brought you here, hm? Because whatever it is you're seeking..." He gave a slow, knowing smile, letting his words trail off. "I assure you, there are better uses for someone like you than playing at this absurd little game."

With one final, lingering glance, he straightened, his smile widening. He raised his glass, almost as if in toast, watching you intently over the rim.

"You're welcome to stay, of course," he said smoothly, his tone laced with mocking warmth. "But do be warned, darling. Curiosity has cost many a soul far more than they bargained for." He took a sip, the liquid warm as it slid down his throat, his gaze never leaving yours, sharp and possessive. "And I fear it might take a while until you're able to leave, I hear a terrible snow storm is coming up.