PRICED BY MY BILLIONAIRE NEMESIS

The elevator feels like a metal throat swallowing me floor by floor, and I am the idiot walking willingly into the stomach. The mirrored walls throw my reflection back at me from every angle, catching every uneven breath, every tiny twitch of uncertainty that I keep trying to iron out of my face. I square my shoulders and tilt my chin, as if posture could disguise the fact that I am completely out of my depth. The woman in the glass tries to look expensive and unbothered; the woman inside the skin knows she is neither.

I should have gone home instead of pressing that keycard to the reader. I should have taken the money, blocked his number that I don't even have anymore, and pretended this night never happened. I should have told Mia to find someone else to play dress-up with lonely old men in hotel dining rooms. Instead, I used the key, because apparently I like making catastrophic choices in tall buildings. Apparently, if there is a bad decision available above the twentieth floor, I will find it, gift-wrap it, and walk straight into it in heels.

The floor numbers climb and my stomach climbs with them. Every soft ding sounds like a countdown to something I already know I am not ready for. I try not to think about Adrian standing somewhere above me, calculating, turning this into a ledger entry in that ruthless brain, adding this night to whatever story he has written about me since the day I disappeared from his life. In his version, I'm sure this is the inevitable sequel: Lena Hale, Gold-Digging Disaster, Final Audit.

The doors finally slide open on the top floor, and the hallway is so quiet it feels staged. The carpet is thick enough to swallow sound, the sconces on the walls cast warm pools of light that look soft but feel accusatory, and everything smells faintly of expensive polish and quiet, smug money. The kind of money that never doubts its right to exist. The kind of money he has now and I never will. Even the air feels curated-filtered, cooled, scented-like oxygen with a superiority complex.

Penthouse 3501 waits at the end of the hall, the numbers polished and gleaming as if they have never once been touched by someone like me. The keycard sleeve has his name embossed on it, heavy and self-assured, as if even the stationery knows its place in the hierarchy. My hand hesitates for a fraction of a second, a microscopic pause that tastes like humiliation and fury mixed together. Then I swipe the card anyway, because pretending I have a choice is just another lie. If I walk away now, I still owe him fifteen thousand, if I walk in, I at least get to collect what's actually mine while he updates whatever disgusting valuation he's put on me. Those are my options. Luxury.

The lock clicks open with a small, traitorous sound, and I step inside.

The penthouse is low-lit and golden, light pooling along the edges of furniture and catching the glass and chrome like stage lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall and the city outside spreads itself like an invitation, every building lit up and busy, while in here everything feels suspended and still. The air is cool, faintly scented with something expensive and masculine, and under it all there is a tension that makes my skin feel too tight. It's the kind of room where deals are made and lives are ruined with a signature and a smile, and I am very, very aware which side of that equation I'm on.

For a second, it looks empty and my lungs almost loosen. Then a voice cuts through the quiet.

"Took you long enough."

The sound of him is a blade drawn slow. I turn toward it.

He is leaning against the built-in bar like the room belongs to him, which it does, and like I do not, which I don't. He holds a glass of amber whiskey in one hand, the light catching in the liquid and throwing sharp, poisonous glints across his fingers. He looks carved-precise, clean, merciless-like he was shaped specifically for moments where someone else has to break.

His eyes lift to mine, and there is nothing soft there. No echo of the boy who once walked me home in the rain just to carry my books. No trace of the idiot who stuttered the first time he said he loved me, holding out wilted roadside flowers like a trophy. The affection burned out of him a long time ago; what's left is steel and sharpened edges and the kind of intelligence that never misses a weak spot. Whatever we were is ash, and tonight he brought the lighter fluid.

"I wasn't aware we set a time."

He lifts a brow, unimpressed. "You knew exactly what you were doing the moment you used that key."

"That key was shoved into my hand."

"And you used it," he replies, voice low. "That's the part that matters." He lets the words hang there for a beat, then adds, "You got the card." His tone is flat, but the disdain lives under it like a current.

"As if I had a choice," I answer, my voice coming out sharper than I intended. I am not going to stand here and sound small. If he's going to carve me up, he can at least do it while I'm standing.

He takes a slow sip of whiskey without breaking eye contact. "Everyone has a choice," he says, his tone softening in the way that makes it more dangerous, not less. "Yours was just expensive."

The words land right under my ribs and punch. I absorb it, because I have been taking hits all day and what is one more. "If you dragged me up here to insult me," I say, keeping my chin up, "you could've done it in the lobby and saved us both the elevator ride."

"Why would I waste the show?" he asks. He pushes off the bar and starts walking toward me with that unhurried, predatory ease he has perfected. "You seemed very occupied down there. I thought it would be educational to see how the evening ended."

Heat prickles up my neck at the memory of him watching me from across the restaurant while Mr. Sutton talked about stocks and dead wives and I tried not to choke on my own mortification. "Mr. Sutton is not what you think," I say. The words come out tight, stripped down, because I know he doesn't care about context; he only cares that the picture matched the story he already wrote.

He doesn't move from his position-not right away. He studies me from across the room, gaze sweeping over me like he's tallying sins on a ledger. Every second of his silence feels like another line item: dinner, envelope, keycard, arrival. By the time his eyes meet mine again, I can practically feel the verdict sharpening between us.