He lit a cigarette, the tip glowing red in the dim light. Smoke curled toward the ceiling like a serpent, lazy and poisonous. His face was calm now expression blank, composed. The monster had tucked itself back into its suit, its grin replaced by a look of tired disinterest.
But she saw him.
Not the façade. Not the man with expensive tastes and too much money to spend on moments like this.
She saw the thing beneath, the one that fed off power, off pain.
And he saw her too.
Not the body lying in his bed. Not the curve of her bare shoulders or the hair tangled against her collarbone. No, he saw what was still trying to hold itself together.
And he wanted to rip it apart.
He leaned back in the chair by the bed, elbows resting on his knees, cigarette balanced like a lazy weapon between his fingers. His eyes scanned her, not with lust, but with disdain. Like she was a thing beneath glass, already cracked, waiting for him to finish the job.
"You girls," he said, almost lazily. "Always the same."
She didn't answer at first. Just pulled the sheet around her slowly, movements careful, measured. Like she refused to give him the satisfaction of rushing.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Her voice was quiet. Not soft controlled.
He smiled, thin and sharp. "Pretty. Polished. Fragile little liars. You pretend to be innocent. Pretend you've still got morals under that skin. But we both know that's long gone."
She narrowed her eyes, but said nothing.
He exhaled a slow stream of smoke. "You think I haven't seen the act before? The wide eyes. The fake nerves. Like this wasn't exactly what you came for."
"You don't know me," she said flatly.
"Don't need to." His tone was colder now. "You're just another name with a price. You walk in like you're different. You walk out like all the rest."
She turned her face, jaw tightening.
He stood then, moving with the deliberate confidence of a man who never doubted his control. He walked toward her slowly, the smoke trailing behind him like a shadow.
"There was one like you once," he said. "She even cried the first time. Said she needed help. Swore it wasn't who she was." His mouth twitched, but it wasn't a smile. "She left richer than she came. Thought she won. I let her think that."
He stopped beside the bed, towering over her. "Now I know better. I don't trust the tears. Don't believe the stories. I don't ask. I don't care."
Elena's eyes met his. Calm. Cold. There was no plea in her gaze. Just defiance, buried under exhaustion.
"I didn't offer you anything to believe," she said.
He laughed a low, bitter sound. "No, you didn't. You sold the lie without saying a word."
She sat up, still wrapped in the sheet, her voice like ice. "Is that what you need? To make every woman the villain so you can feel like the victim who finally got to win?"
He tilted his head. Something darker flickered in his expression.
"No," he said. "I just like watching the walls fall. You walk in pretending to be untouchable. I make sure you leave knowing you're not."
"You think that makes you strong?" she asked. "Breaking people who are already bleeding?"
He moved closer, crouching slightly so they were at eye level.
"No," he whispered. "It makes me honest. I don't sell comfort. I sell clarity."
She stared at him. For a second, something behind her ribs twisted. But it wasn't sadness. It wasn't shame.
It was fury.
She stood, letting the sheet fall from her shoulders. Unbothered. Unapologetic. Her body was no longer a weapon or a shield it was just hers.
He didn't blink.
"You want to believe I'm like her?" she said. "Fine. Go ahead. Spin your little story. But don't mistake silence for weakness. I'm not your sob story. And I'm not your redemption."
She began to dress slowly, not out of modesty but control. Her back was to him, but every movement dared him to speak, to push again.
He didn't.
And that silence?
It wasn't regret.
It was recognition.
She wasn't broken.
Not yet.
But he wanted her to be. And that unsettled him.
Not because he felt guilt, but because, for the first time in a long time, one didn't crumble like the rest.
She picked up her shoes, fingers steady.
"This ends here," she said without looking at him. "Whatever game you think you're playing? You already lost."
He laughed.
Not softly. Not kindly.
Cruel and sharp, like a blade dragging across bone.
"You didn't read the contract, did you?"
She froze.
"No?" he went on, dragging slowly on his cigarette. "Clause twelve. If you walk out without the client's permission, double repayment. Interest begins immediately."
Her spine stiffened. But she didn't turn.
"Don't act surprised," he added, his voice smooth now, almost amused. "You signed it. Desperation makes people sloppy."
She clenched her jaw, shoes still clutched in her hand.
He leaned back, satisfied. Watching her unravel was the real thrill not the body, not the night. This. The crack of pride, the collapse of defiance.
"You thought you could play the part, take the money, and walk out with your head high?" he said. "You're not the first girl with fire in her eyes. You all think you're different. Until you realize you're just another number in a system you can't afford to fight."
Silence stretched between them like wire tight, dangerous.
She didn't answer.
Didn't beg.
But she didn't leave either.
And that was the part that made him smile.
She could hate him. She could burn from the inside out. But she wasn't walking out that door.
Not tonight.
And in the silence that followed, her pride was the only thing screaming.