RUIN ME TENDER

The Ritz-Carlton, Manhattan. A fucking fortress of power. Not just a place to sleep, but a temple where the city's wealthiest come to play, where deals are sealed over five-thousand-dollar bottles of Macallan, and where the scent of polished mahogany and money lingers in the air.

The hallway stretches long in both directions, lined with men in tailored suits and women in sleek, custom-made dresses. They walk like they own the world because, in some way, they do. Even the waitstaff look like they were plucked from a damn fashion editorial, their crisp uniforms likely costing more than an average month's rent.

I remember the first time I stepped foot in this place. I was ten. My father and older brother were here for a meeting, and they sure as hell didn't want a kid tagging along. I had whined and tugged at my brother's sleeve until he caved, dragging me along with a sharp warning to keep my mouth shut. I didn't, of course. I had too many goddamn questions, and by the time the meeting was over, my brother had to physically yank me away before I asked the CEO of some conglomerate if he'd ever killed a man.

Can't believe I fucking remember that.

"Mr. Valente."A voice—familiar, clipped, edged with something icy—snaps me back to the present.

Isla Moreau stands before me, her expression a masterpiece of detached elegance. Controlled. Calculated. Like she was sculpted from marble, untouched by the filth of the world. She's in a black jumpsuit that fits her like it was stitched onto her body, accentuating long, lean lines. Her hair is a waterfall of gold, straight and sleek, cascading past her shoulders, and her lips are painted a red so sharp it could carve through steel.

My jaw clenches at the sight of her. Not just because she's beautiful—I've seen plenty of beautiful women—but because I fucking noticed.

I stand, offering a nod that's more formality than respect. "Miss Moreau."

She glides into the seat across from me, her movements precise, effortless. My fingers twitch, and for a brief, reckless second, I imagine sinking them into her hair, fisting the strands, and forcing her to her knees. A violent, intrusive thought that I shut down before it can root itself in my mind.

There are other ways to make a queen fall.

Her eyes, cool and assessing, meet mine. "Shall we begin?"I smirk, slow and deliberate. "Sure."

~

It's been ten minutes. Ten fucking minutes and she's already stepped on my nerves four times.

I exhale sharply, rubbing my temple. "Your insistence on that clause is pointless, Moreau. The numbers don't fucking add up."

Her sharp gaze narrows, lips pressing together. "It's not pointless, Valente. It's called strategy. You'd know that if you actually thought beyond brute force."

I exhale through my nose, forcing my irritation down. "Strategy? That's rich coming from you. You're deliberately complicating this just to have the upper hand."

She leans back, crossing one long leg over the other. "If you can't keep up, Valente, just say so."I let out a short, humorless laugh. "Oh, I can keep up just fine, sweetheart. I just don't entertain bullshit."

Her lips twitch, amusement flashing in her eyes. "Then I assume you'll be scrapping half this contract, because that's exactly what most of your clauses are."

I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. "You don't get to dictate how this deal plays out, Moreau. We both have stakes in this, and your little power trip doesn't mean shit."

Her nails tap against the glossy table, each click grating against my nerves. "You want an easy way out in case things don't go your way. That's not how real business works, Valente."

I exhale sharply, leaning back in my chair with a smirk that I know will piss her off. "That's exactly how business works, sweetheart. It's called leverage. I'm not about to chain myself to a sinking ship if your side fucks up."

Her nostrils flare, but she keeps her voice even. "You don't get to dictate all the terms."

I arch a brow. "And you do?"

She leans forward now, her gaze sharp enough to cut. "I make sure things are airtight. If that bothers you, then maybe you're not as confident in your empire as you pretend to be."

I chuckle, slow and dark. "Oh, I'm confident, Moreau. Confident enough to know when someone's trying to box me in with unnecessary red tape."

Her lips press together, and for a second, I think she might actually throw her coffee at me. God knows I'd deserve it, but I wouldn't regret a damn thing.

Her eyes flash, and she slaps the contract onto the table. "Fine. Let's break this down so even you can understand."

I scoff. "By all means, enlighten me, princess."

She glares but continues. "Resource allocation needs structure. Otherwise, your side could claim more than necessary under vague clauses."

I fold my arms. "And if there's too much oversight, we'll be stuck waiting for approvals while opportunities pass us by. Efficiency matters."

She rolls her eyes. "Efficiency doesn't mean recklessness."

"And structure doesn't mean suffocation."

Our voices have risen enough that a few people glance in our direction, but neither of us gives a shit.

Her jaw tightens, frustration evident. "You think everything is about control, don't you?"

I smirk. "No, but I know you love it. Must be exhausting trying to keep the entire world under your thumb."

She exhales sharply, rubbing her temples like she's debating whether this contract is worth the aneurysm I'm giving her. "Let's cut the bullshit, Valente. You want flexibility, I want stability. There has to be a middle ground."

I tilt my head. "Depends. Are you capable of compromise?"

Her eyes meet mine, a challenge burning in them. "Are you?"

For a moment, there's silence. A charged, heavy pause where we just stare at each other, neither backing down.

Then she exhales, flipping the contract back open. "Let's go clause by clause. No theatrics. Just negotiation."

I click my tongue, exhaling sharply. "We've been doing that for the past half an hour and we haven't reached a single conclusion. All thanks to your fucking stubbornness."

Isla frowns for the nth time, crossing her arms. "You are one to talk."

I lean forward, scanning the contract with a bored look, running a finger along the edge of the page like I give a damn. I have no fucking idea what Arthur Orlando was thinking.

"The terms need balance. We cut unnecessary oversight while maintaining structure to prevent chaos. Priority tiers streamline resource allocation, ensuring efficiency without waiting for endless approvals. The exit clause stays, but with contingencies—no one pulls out without consequences."

I can see the gears turning in Isla's mind, her brows crinkling every now and then, lips pressed into a thin line as she listens. She's dissecting every word, probably looking for something to argue with.

"This is the most effective plan," I continue, voice edged with finality. "If you keep chasing perfection, you'll see a sea with no fucking destination. I've been in business longer than you, Moreau. I run a multibillion-dollar empire. I thrive on perfection, but I also know when to loosen the reins and cut through the red tape. You? You don't. You want everything pristine, controlled, wrapped in a perfect little bow."

She exhales, her gold bracelet clinking against the table as she shifts. "I agree," she says, finally, but—of course—there's always a but. "But the contingency needs a clause that prevents asset stripping in case of an early exit. That way, neither side can pull resources unfairly."

I scoff under my breath. Typical. Moreau just has to put her mark on everything.

Fine. I can adjust. If I want to find out the truth about my brother's death, I'll bend—a little.

She shoves the document into her bag and rises, her hair swaying behind her. I push up from my seat, adjusting my suit jacket, watching the way she smooths out her jumpsuit like she needs to shake off the entire conversation.

She flashes me a fake smile, all teeth, all challenge. "Well, this was thrilling, Valente. Can't wait for the next round of head-bashing negotiations."

I smirk, slow and dark. "The feeling's mutual, Moreau. Hope you don't bruise easily."

Her eyes narrow, a flicker of something dangerous sparking in them. "I don't. But I can't say the same for you."

Then, like this entire conversation hasn't been an exhausting battle of dominance, she stretches her hand forward for a handshake. A formality. A power play wrapped in civility.

I take it, but instead of a standard shake, I tighten my grip just enough to make a point—just enough to let her know that I'm not one to be handled like a goddamn pawn. Then, with a deliberate tug, I pull her toward me.

Her body tenses. Her eyes widen, her breath catching just slightly—small, almost imperceptible, but I fucking notice.

I smirk. "What's wrong, sweetheart? Didn't think I'd bite back?" My voice drops, dipping into something low and mocking, meant to get under her skin.

Her fingers twitch against mine, her pulse hammering so hard I can see it throb at the delicate curve of her throat. But Isla Moreau doesn't back down. No, she lifts her chin, sharp and defiant, and tightens her own grip, her nails pressing into my skin.

"I don't flinch, Valente," she says, voice like silk over steel. Then, without breaking eye contact, she bites.

Not literally—though I bet if I pushed her far enough, she might. But the words she speaks next are meant to cut, meant to slice through whatever restraint I have left.

Her lips barely part. "You reek of control issues."

I let out a low, amused chuckle. "And you reek of fucking floral, Moreau." I lean in slightly, letting my words brush against her skin. "It's driving me insane."

Her breath stutters, just for a second, but she masks it well. Still, I see it—I see the way the nerve in her neck betrays her, pulsing too fast.

Our faces are inches apart, and for a reckless second, my eyes drop to her lips.

Soft.

Lush.

Deceptively sweet for a mouth that wields words like weapons.

I wonder if she'll still run it like a pair of fucking scissors when I kiss her senseless. When I pin her to the nearest wall. When I fuck her until her sharp tongue is too busy moaning my name to throw insults.

Christ.

I clench my jaw and take a step back before I do something I'll regret. Before I cross a line neither of us is ready for.

She scowls, giving me the utmost look of distaste, but there's something else there too. Her cheeks are tinted, just slightly, like she hates that her body reacted before her mind could shut it down.

She doesn't say a word. Just snatches her hand back, spins on her heel, and stalks off, her hair whipping behind her like a golden curtain.

I watch her leave, rolling my shoulders as tension lingers in the air between us.