Chapter 2: Let the Game Begin

The door was open.

Not only was it open, it was breached.

The deadbolt she'd twisted shut that morning now hung useless.

Nadia's foot froze on the threshold of her apartment, her briefcase still clutched in her right hand, her mind running through the sequence:

She was sure she locked the door this morning, checked it twice, she always checks it twice.

The hallway light carved a wedge across her dark living room.

A sound came from the kitchen. Someone was moving through her space.

Her pulse hammered in her throat.

She didn't move or scream. Her body had already made the calculation, it was either she hurt the person or the person hurts her. She had won cross examination by staying still first. She could do this.

Nadia moved into the apartment without sound.

She walked softly trying not to make a sound.

She kept to the shadows of the hallway, her breathing controlled, her eyes adjusting to the dark.

A figure emerged from the kitchen, backlit by the refrigerator's glow.

It was her neighbor. He paused immediately, eyes shut like someone who's surprise package has been ruined.

"Whoa, hey it's just me. I wasn't... I just wanted..." He laughed nervously, the sound of his voice wrong in the quiet apartment. "I made you dinner. You've been working so hard at the firm. I thought you'd be starving."

Nadia's grip didn't loosen on her briefcase.

The adrenaline was still flooding her system, her breathing still controlled, her eyes still cataloging his position, the distance between them, the clear path to the door behind her.

"How did you get in?"

"Your keys. You leave them under the mat. I just took them from there."

She moved then. Fast.

Across to him in three strides, using her body as a weapon in a way the law school had never taught her.

Her voice dropped to something lethal.

"You broke into my home."

"No, I didn't mean to"

"You touched my things. You accessed my security. You waited in my apartment for me to come home." She didn't blink, didn't break eye contact.

"You're going to leave right now, and you're never coming back. You're never touching my keys, my lock, my property, or my person again. If you do, I will file a restraining order that will make your life unlivable. I will testify against you and I will win. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He nodded, backing toward the door, his face flushed with embarrassment or rage, she couldn't tell, and she didn't care.

He left without another word, mumbling something as he passed her, and she locked the door the moment his shadow cleared the threshold.

Both locks.

Then she pulled the chain through its slot and leaned her forehead against the cool wood.

Her hands were shaking now.

The adrenaline was wearing off and her body was remembering what her mind was trying to forget. The violation and the fact that he'd been standing in her kitchen, waiting.

That he had access, that he might have been watching her.

She looked at the kitchen. She saw the plate on the counter, the food cooling on it, still steaming slightly.

How long? How long has he been waiting?

She threw the plate away without touching the food. Then she made her way to her room.

She packed a duffel bag, clothes for tomorrow, her laptop and the documents she had been working on. She moved through the motions like someone on autopilot, locking her bedroom door when she finally sat on the bed.

She didn't sleep.

She listened to the building around her, the pipes, the neighbors, footsteps in the hallway.

Her mind still flashed back to her situation in the office and everything weighed down on her.

BASEFIVE CLUB - CALIFORNIA

The bass was a living thing. It moved through Roman Acheron's chest like a second heartbeat.

The VIP section of the club was crimson and shadow, leather and smoke curling through strobing light. He reclined across the sectional with the ease of a man who owned not just the space but the oxygen in it.

A woman in gold lamé approached first.

She didn't ask permission. They never did. She straddled him, hips rolling in a rhythm that probably worked on other men, men who felt things like want or gratification.

Roman watched her the way a scientist watches bacteria.

Twenty seconds. He tilted his head toward his security team.

They removed her, no violence, no drama.

She had been compensated in advance. She left smiling, already mentally spending her money.

The second woman was different. Leather, dark eyes, confidence that bordered on arrogance. She knelt between his legs and the promise hung between them like something physical.

For almost four minutes, Roman allowed her to work, he allowed her fingers to drag up his thigh, allowed her lips to brush his jaw, allowed himself to consider the possibility that she might be interesting.

Then he felt the absolute crushing weight of his own boredom.

"You're boring," Roman said quietly.

She left faster than the first one, understanding without explanation what that meant.

Another woman took her place. Then another.

The club ran with the precision of a machine. Women cycling through, none lasting more than three minutes. Roman's staff moved seamlessly around them, refreshing drinks, cleaning surfaces, maintaining the rhythm of his absolute indifference.

This was power. Not the kind that screamed or broke things.

The kind that sat still and watched everyone else scramble.

Roman tilted his head back against the leather and he let himself drift into the rhythm, the music, the rotation and the perfect clockwork of his own dominance.

In this place, he was unreachable and untouchable. A god in a temple built in his honor.

Then something changed.

He felt the weight of eyes on him.

Not the desperate women, not that of the terrified staff. This attention came from somewhere else, from someone who wasn't afraid and doesn't bow to him.

The realization hit him before he even turned his head.

There was a predator in his territory.

He found her on the catwalk overlooking the main floor. She smiled, slow and deliberate, the expression of someone who understood exactly what she was seeing and found it worthy of entertainment.

She tilted her head with the kind of slowness that communicated recognition. Not fear.

One predator acknowledging another.

Roman's hand froze against the woman currently in his lap.

She sensed the shift immediately, felt the sudden absence of his attention like a physical withdrawal.

"What is it?" she asked, trying to reclaim his focus. Trying not to understand what his stillness meant.

"Leave," Roman said quietly.

She didn't move. "I'm not done with you yet."

His eyes never left the catwalk, never left her. "Leave now, or you don't leave at all."

She scrambled backward, sliding off the sectional, disappearing into the crowd with desperate speed. Natasha had always been Roman's favorite in the club, and the sudden dismissal stung.

She pushed through the bodies on the main floor, her anger hot and immediate, knowing she'd lost what she thought was certain, and that was her bragging rights.

Roman rose from the sectional in one smooth motion.

His eyes never broke contact with the figure above.

She was still watching, her smirk never leaving her face.

The woman on the catwalk stood her ground, meeting Roman's gaze with the same perfect stillness.

In the pulsing red light of the club, something shifted in the balance of power.

For the first time in years, Roman felt less like a god and more like something else.

Like someone that could be challenged.

"Let the game begin." She mouthed menacingly, turned around and left, her footsteps following behind her silently and dangerously.