Elena's hand froze mid-air, her knuckles an inch from the wood grain. His voice hit her spine first—low, controlled, that baritone that made every word sound like a verdict. Her heart slammed against her ribs before her brain caught up.
She turned. Slowly. Forcing her face into something that resembled surprise rather than the terror clawing up her throat.
Liam stood at the end of the hallway, one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed. His black hair was tousled, his usual suit jacket missing. Without the perfectly tailored layers, without the polished armor he wore in public, he looked different. The white shirt stretched across his shoulders, sleeves pushed up, the open collar revealing a hint of skin she immediately wished she hadn't noticed. His blue eyes tracked her like she was the only moving thing in a still frame.
"I—" She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. "I was looking for you. Yes."
He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just waited, that stillness that was worse than any question he could have asked.
She needed time. A second. Three. Long enough to build something that sounded real. "I wanted to ask you something."
"So ask."
Her mind raced through options. The gala. The auction. The artist she'd bid on. The Montrose. All of it felt too heavy, too obvious. She needed something light. Casual. Something that would let her slip past this moment without him reading the truth written across her face.
"I was thinking," she started, and the pause stretched long enough that she saw his eyebrow twitch, "about the billiards game. From the other night."
His expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted. A fraction of an inch. A tilt of the head.
"I was wondering if you'd want to play again." The words came out faster than she'd intended. "If you have time. I know you're busy. It was just—I enjoyed it. The first time. And I thought maybe—" She stopped herself before she started rambling. "Anyway. If you're free."
He watched her for a long moment. Long enough that she felt the need to fill the silence, to offer an out, to take it all back and retreat to her room and lock the door.
"I have several things that still need my attention," he said slowly.
She nodded, relief already blooming in her chest. "Of course. Another time."
"But." The word hung in the air between them. Her relief curdled.
He pushed off the wall, taking a step toward her. Then another. The distance between them shrank until she could smell the rain on his shirt, the faint cedar of his cologne, something clean and sharp beneath it.
"I have time."
Her stomach dropped.
"The game room's still set up from last time." He was close enough now that she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. "Come."
The final word holding his authority.
"Ok." The word came out too fast. She caught herself and forced a smile. "I mean... yes."
He studied her for another beat, and she wondered what he saw. A nervous woman caught outside his door. A business partner with a casual request. She had no idea if the mask was holding, and the uncertainty made her want to crawl out of her own skin.
"After you," he said, gesturing toward the game room.
She turned before he could see her exhale, leading the way down the hallway with his footsteps steady behind her. Each step felt like a countdown. She'd bought herself time to think. Now she had to use it.
The game room was just as she remembered it—dark wood paneling, a single green-shaded lamp over the billiards table. A fire had been laid but not lit, the logs stacked neatly in the hearth.
Elena watched him move to the table, and there was something in the way he did it—the economy of motion, the certainty of every step—that made her chest tighten. He didn't walk around the table like a man considering angles. He walked like he already knew where every ball would fall and was simply confirming what he'd already seen.
She grabbed a cue from the rack, running her fingers along the wood. The last time she'd held one of these, she'd been on the other side of this table. On the other side of everything. His hands had been on her. His mouth. She remembered the weight of his body against hers, the way he'd pinned her to the felt like she was something he intended to keep.
Her face heated. She turned sharply toward the table, pretending to examine the tip of her cue.
Liam didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he gave no sign. He was already leaning over the far end of the table, racking the balls with the same deliberate care a surgeon might give a suture. His forearms flexed with the motion—those arms, bare to the elbow, the veins faintly visible beneath the skin. The white shirt pulled across his shoulders as he shifted, and she caught herself staring at the way the fabric draped over his back.
She looked away. Forced herself to breathe.
"You're quiet," he said, not looking up.
"I'm watching."
"Watching." He set the rack aside and straightened, meeting her eyes across the green felt. "And what do you see?"
The question landed harder than it should have. She saw a man who had ruined her brother's life and pretended to save it. A man who had kissed her in this room, who had pushed her against this very table as he did, who had looked at her like she was a possession he was still deciding how to break in. She saw the mask he wore—the controlled, measured businessman—and beneath it, something that had shown itself in flashes. Hunger. Ruthlessness. A patience that felt more dangerous than anger.
"I see someone who knows how to handle a cue," she said carefully.
Something flickered in his eyes. Almost amusement. "I don’t believe that’s what you were thinking."
Her pulse skipped at his answer. “You don’t know what I was thinking.”
“No.” Liam’s gaze drifted toward the table, as if the arrangement of balls and polished wood held more interest than her expression. “But I do know you asked me to play.”
She blinked at that, caught off guard by the simple certainty of it. “And?”
“And I find that interesting.”
The corner of his mouth shifted, not quite a smile, but close enough to make her wary. “Why?”
“Because the last time we were in this room, you were determined to prove you could stand against me.” His eyes returned to hers, steady and unreadable. “Now you’re the one who came looking for another game.”
Elena looked away for only a moment, long enough to gather herself. “I thought you might enjoy the challenge.”
“I do.” The answer came too quickly, and something in his expression changed as if he had caught himself revealing too much. He let the silence stretch between them before he spoke again. “Then let’s make it one.”
She frowned. “Make what?”
“The game.” Liam reached for the coin resting on the table and turned it over between his fingers, the motion easy and deliberate. “A wager.”
“You’re serious?”
“Always.”
Elena folded her arms, studying him with narrowed eyes. “And what are you betting?”
His smile deepened, faint and knowing. “Something worth winning.”
“That sounds suspiciously vague.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver coin, flipping it across his knuckles with practiced ease. "I win, you accompany me for an entire trip I have planned in a couple of days. You come with me, you stay with me, you do what I need when I need it. No excuses. No backing out."
Her stomach dropped. "And if I win?"
"Then you get the time off. Free. Completely. Do whatever you want. No obligations. No expectations." He caught the coin and held it up between them. "A week. Your freedom against your company."
A week. A week of being near him. A week of playing whatever game he was really running. She should say no. She should walk out of this room and lock her door and never come out. But a week with him not here. A chance for her to explore and investigate.
"Deal."
The word came out before she could stop it.
His smile widened, just a fraction. "Good." He held up the coin. "Call it."
"Heads."
He flipped. The coin spun in the air, caught the lamplight, and landed in his palm. He slapped it onto the back of his other hand.
"Tails," he said. "I break."
She nodded, her mouth dry. She watched him move to the head of the table, setting the cue ball down with a surgeon's precision. He chalked the tip slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving the racked balls.
And then he bent over the table.
The line of his spine. The stretch of fabric across his shoulders. The way his hips settled as he found his stance. She could see every muscle engaged, every joint locked into place. He was a weapon aimed at a target, and the target was already dead.
He struck.
The crack of the break echoed through the room. The balls exploded across the felt, scattering in perfect arcs, and she watched in something close to horror as two striped balls dropped into opposite pockets in rapid succession. The rest settled into a spread that looked almost deliberate—every ball positioned for an easy follow-up, every angle open.
He straightened, not looking at her. "Your turn."
She stepped up to the table, trying to push down the flutter in her chest. She knew she was a great player. But so was he. She'd learned at her father's side, at dive bars and family gatherings, and she knew how to read a table. But today, for some reason, this table was reading her instead.
She sank a solid ball on her first shot. Then another. Found a rhythm that felt almost confident.
But he was behind her.
She could feel his presence like a heat at her back, a weight against her spine. Every time she bent over the table, she was acutely aware of where he stood, how close he was, whether he was watching her or the balls. And he was always watching. She could feel his gaze on her like a hand on her skin.
She missed her third shot. Just barely. The ball hit the pocket rim and spun out, rolling to a stop on the green felt like a last breath.
"Interesting," he said softly.
She forced herself not to react. Stepped back. Let him take his turn.
He played like a machine. Each shot was calculated, precise, inevitable. He didn't hurry. He didn't hesitate. He simply moved around the table, sinking ball after ball, and she watched her chances shrink with every drop.
But she fought back.
She found her focus somewhere in the second push of the game, pushing the awareness of him to the edges of her mind. She sank three in a row. Then four. The gap closed. The table shifted. She could see the path now—a clean run, if she could just sink the next ball, position herself for the eight, and end it.
She lined up her shot. The eight ball sat near the side pocket, a straight shot from where she stood. All she had to do was sink her last solid, and then she could end it.
She bent over the table, settling into the shot with careful precision. The cue slid through her bridge, steady and smooth, and for a brief moment everything felt right. The distance, the angle, the force—each piece lined up exactly as it should.
Then she made the mistake of looking up.
Not at him directly, but at his reflection in the glass cabinet across the room. Liam stood exactly where he had been, cue resting loosely in his hand, watching her with that unreadable expression that always made her feel as though there was a conversation happening just out of reach, one she wasn’t part of.
She looked back at the table too late. The rhythm was gone. Her focus had already slipped, and she knew it even before she took the shot. The ball struck the edge of the pocket and spun out, missing by a hair, a fraction of an inch, a breath!
She straightened, her heart hammering. The table was open now. Her solid lay useless near the rail, and the eight ball sat exactly where she'd left it—perfectly positioned for an easy bank shot into the corner pocket. And she knew, with the kind of certainty that settled into her bones like cold water, that she had just handed him the game.
She turned.
He stood at the edge of the table, the cue loose in his hand, and his face was not what she expected. She expected triumph. Satisfaction. That predatory gleam she'd seen before.
Instead, she saw disappointment?
It was there for a fraction of a second—a flicker across his features, a tightening of his jaw, something in his eyes that looked almost like loss. Not joy at winning. Not relief. Disappointment. As if she had let him down.
Then it was gone, smoothed over by that perfect mask, and he walked to the table without a word.
He bent over the cue ball. His shot was clean, precise, inevitable. The solid dropped into the side pocket. He moved to the other end of the table, adjusted his angle, and sank the eight ball in a smooth, practiced motion that barely seemed to require effort.
The ball clicked into the pocket and disappeared.
The game was over.
He straightened. Set the cue down on the table. And then he turned and walked toward the door, his footsteps steady, his back straight, not a word of triumph or consolation crossing his lips.
"Liam."
He stopped at the threshold. Didn't turn around.
She didn't know what she wanted to say. That she'd let him win? That she'd been distracted? That the disappointment in his eyes had cut deeper than any victory could have? She swallowed all of it.
"When is the trip?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Two days. Pack a bag for a week, including a swimsuit."
The door closed behind him.
Elena stood alone in the game room, the green-shaded lamp casting long shadows across the felt. The balls sat scattered, and still, the evidence of her failure lay out in front of her like a corpse. She set her cue down carefully, her fingers numb, and tried to convince herself that losing had been the plan all along.
It wasn't working.
She pressed her palm flat against the felt, feeling the residual warmth where his hands had been. Two days. She had two days to figure out what he was really doing. Two days to find proof of what he'd done to Marco. Two days to decide whether she was going to be his pawn or his undoing.
The trip would be her chance.
Or her cage.
She wasn't sure which yet.
She stayed there for a long time, the silence of the room pressing in on her ears. The scent of old leather and chalk hung in the air, and beneath it, the faint trace of his cologne. Cedar and something cold. She traced the edge of the table, her mind running in frantic circles.
A personal assistant and companion. Those words felt like a collar.
She’d agreed. She’d looked him in the eye and agreed to be his, for a week. No excuses. No backing out. What had she been thinking? That she could win? That she could outplay him in his own house, on his own table?
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, the vibration startling her out of her thoughts. Elena pulled it free and glanced down at the screen, where a message from Lisa lit up the display.
How’s the haunted mansion? Any hot ghosts yet?
Despite everything pressing down on her, a small laugh slipped out before she could stop it. It was brief and thin, but it was real, and for one second it eased the tightness in her chest. She typed back with clumsy fingers.
Lost a bet to one.
The response came almost immediately.
EXCUSE ME?
Before Elena could even decide how to answer, another message appeared.
You cannot casually drop that sentence and expect me not to need details.
Elena stared at the screen for a moment, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. She couldn’t tell Lisa the truth. Not about Marco. Not about the contract. Not about the fact that every polished hallway in Thorn Manor felt like another reminder that she was trapped inside Liam Thorn’s world. So she gave Lisa the version that was easier to explain, the one that sounded ridiculous enough to pass as a joke.
Billiards. Liam made a wager. I lost.
The typing dots appeared at once.
A wager? C’mon, details, girl!
Then another message followed almost immediately.
Elena Rossi, are you telling me you were alone in a room with a dangerously attractive billionaire, and somehow this became a competition?
Elena rolled her eyes, though a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
That is not what happened.
Lisa’s reply came back without hesitation.
That is exactly what happened. You don’t want to admit it.
Elena read the message twice, then stared at it a little longer than she should have. If only Lisa knew how wrong she was. If only she knew that this wasn’t some ridiculous flirtation or a story Elena would laugh about later over wine. This was Liam Thorn, and whatever game he was playing, Elena had already lost more than she could afford.
She typed slowly.
I have to go on a trip with him for a week.
There was a pause this time, just long enough for Elena’s stomach to tighten.
Then Lisa answered.
A trip?
Yes.
Like a business trip?
Elena looked away from the screen, her jaw tightening.
I don’t know. He didn’t say.
The typing dots appeared, vanished, then appeared again as if Lisa were trying to decide which version of herself to be first.
Wait. So mysterious billionaire man invited you somewhere and didn’t tell you where?
Elena let out a quiet sigh and leaned back against the billiard table.
When you say it like that, it sounds worse.
Lisa’s response was immediate.
Because it is worse.
A second later, another message popped up.
Or better. Depends on whether he has a private resort and whether you’re wearing something expensive.
Against her will, Elena felt the smallest smile tug at her mouth. Lisa had always been like this—impossible, shameless, and somehow able to turn even the worst situation into a joke if she thought it might make Elena laugh.
You are impossible.
And you love me for it.
That was the problem with Lisa. She could make almost anything feel normal, even when it wasn’t. For a few seconds, Elena let herself pretend that maybe this was normal, that maybe she really was just complaining about some absurd billionaire inconvenience and not standing in the middle of a house that felt more like a cage than a home.
Then the weight of the truth settled back over her.
Two days.
She had two days to figure out what Liam Thorn was planning.
Her fingers tightened around the phone as she typed one last message.
Call me tonight?
Lisa’s answer came quickly, as if she’d been waiting for the excuse.
Obviously. I need the full billionaire romance scandal! I saw that article!
Elena stared at the screen for a long moment, the words blurring just slightly as the reality of her situation pressed in around the edges. If only it were that simple.
Tonight. I promise.
She put the phone away. The silence felt heavier now, personal. She pushed off from the table and walked to the rack, replacing her cue with a soft click. Her eyes drifted to the door he’d exited through.
Disappointment.
That was the thing that stuck in her ribs, sharp and wrong. He’d looked disappointed. Not victorious. Not smug. Disappointed. As if he’d expected more from her. As if he’d wanted her to win.
Why?
The question had no good answer. Maybe he wanted a challenge. Maybe he got off on breaking people who put up a fight. Maybe he was just that good at the game, and her near-win had been a fluke he’d resented.