The elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open.
He stepped into the conference hall with deliberate ease—each stride precise, every movement laced with the quiet authority of a man untouched by last night's chaos.
Charlux's marketing team was already assembled. As he entered, they all rose to their feet.
"Good morning."
He gave a polite nod, his gaze sweeping over the room like a predator scanning for a scent—cool, unreadable, deadly calm.
Then, he saw her.
She stood at the far end of the room, in a crisp white blouse and a grey pencil skirt that hugged her hips with surgical precision. Minimal makeup. Controlled posture. A portrait of icy composure.
She saw him too.
And for a second, time stopped.
Her lips curved, just barely—a whisper of a smile, as if amused by some private joke. Her eyes held not even a flicker of recognition.
"This is our new Head of Communications, Charlotte Brown," someone introduced. "Just transferred in from the London office yesterday."
He smiled—polite, detached. "Welcome."
She returned the smile with elegant indifference. "The pleasure is mine."
A single line, but it slid in like a fine blade across exposed nerves.
His gaze lingered on her.
A low chuckle escaped his throat, barely audible. "Left a bit early last night, didn't you, Miss Brown?"
She didn't flinch. "It's a weekday. Beauty sleep is crucial."
She sat down smoothly, as though they were strangers who might've once passed in a crowded bar—nothing more.
The meeting began.
Numbers, strategies, deliverables—he heard every word but retained none. His attention was elsewhere, eyes flicking to her like a habit he couldn't unlearn.
She took notes, flipped pages, answered questions with the calm professionalism of someone who had nothing to hide.
As though the woman gasping under him the night before was a dream he'd imagined too vividly.
He smiled again.
A private, knowing smile.
The meeting adjourned.
At the end of the hall, her reflection moved in the polished glass. Heels tapping smartly against marble, she walked like every corridor belonged to her.
Her shirt clung to her back with the suggestion of secrets. The skirt emphasized legs designed to be noticed—and ignored.
Until he spoke.
"I got the money you left me."
She halted, didn't look back. A smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth.
Half a beat later, she turned—graceful, deliberate, like a cat stretching in sunlight. Her tone was breezy:
"Good. I distinctly remember paying in advance."
He stood a few paces away, dark suit tailored to perfection, silver cufflinks gleaming as he approached at an unhurried pace.
"You paid," he said mildly, "but only what you thought I was worth."
She raised a brow. "You setting your own rates now?"
"Do you know how much I make in a single night?"
She tilted her head, voice laced with teasing disbelief. "Don't tell me you charge by the minute."
He smiled.
"One billion."
She blinked. Just once.
Then his voice dropped lower as he leaned in, breath grazing her skin. "Which means, sweetheart… you're still in debt."
The words touched her ear like lips.
She paused. Then laughed, soft and sharp.
Her hand lifted to his chest, fingers trailing down to the open button beneath his tie—slow, teasing, almost reverent.
"That kind of quote, Mr." she said, her voice all sugar and venom, "doesn't sound like a regular service."
He didn't move. Just looked at her hand. "You're the first woman to pay me after sex."
"Female empowerment," she replied smoothly. "We like to take initiative—sometimes with tips."
"And how do you plan to compensate the rest?"
She met his gaze, mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. "I made sure you'd remember me. Isn't that worth something?"
He laughed. Dark and low.
"You overestimate your impact."
"And you," she whispered, stepping closer, breath ghosting his jawline, "are a man who pretends he doesn't want to be chased—when deep down, you beg for it."
His breath hitched.
She nipped at his earlobe, gentle and infuriating. A reward—or maybe a farewell.
Then she turned on her heel and walked away.
The air still smelled like her.
7:00 PM.
Charlotte sat at her new desk, flipping through project briefs when a knock landed on her door.
"Charlotte?" an intern peeked in. "There's a package at reception. Guy didn't leave a name—just said it was from 'your debt collector.'"
Her brow arched.
At the front desk, a sleek black box awaited her—no logo, no label.
She opened it.
Inside: a partnership contract.
Project name: Nocturne Campaign.
Listed under "Joint Creative Leads": her name.
At the bottom, a signature.
Before she could even react, her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
She picked up.
"Read it yet?"
The voice was silk and smoke—lazy, confident, unmistakably him.
"What the hell is this?"
"You still owe me that billion," he said casually. "I figured you should start paying it back."
She laughed. "How exactly? Cash or card?"
"Neither," he said smoothly.
"I want you," he added, voice dropping an octave, "on my time. Every night. Hourly rates apply."
She clicked her tongue. "Sounds like a contract relationship—with benefits."
"Not a relationship," he corrected. "A redemption plan."
She went quiet for a second, then murmured:
"You know what makes you dangerous, Mr. Xi?"
"Do enlighten me."
"You wear restraint like armor, but every word you say drips with sin."
"You're already neck-deep, Charlotte."
"I walked into the water on my own."
A silence stretched between them.
Then he whispered, "Don't get too flashy."
"Worried I'll cause trouble?"
"No," his voice turned dark, almost possessive. "Worried I will."
The call ended with a click.
Charlotte stared at her phone, then smiled slowly.
"Fucking psycho."