The elevator doors slid open with a soft, expensive hiss, spilling Tina and her parents straight into Victor Kane's penthouse like they'd been delivered on a silver platter.
Marble floors gleamed under recessed lighting that cost more per bulb than Tina's monthly rent. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like a stolen painting: glittering towers, rivers of taillights, the whole restless beast of New York laid out twenty-eight stories below. The air smelled of leather, cedar, and something faintly metallic, like money with teeth.
Tina's sneakers squeaked against the marble. She hated how small that sound made her feel.
Her father adjusted his tie for the third time since they'd left the apartment. Her mother clutched her purse like a life raft. Neither of them spoke. The silence between them had grown thorns over the last forty-eight hours.
A man in a charcoal suit appeared from the hallway—tall, shoulders like a linebacker, eyes flat and professional. "Mr. and Mrs. Branston. Miss Branston. This way."
He didn't wait for a reply. Just turned and led them deeper into the lair.
They passed a wall of abstract art that probably had its own security system, a bar stocked with bottles whose labels looked handwritten, and a grand piano nobody was playing. Every surface screamed control. Every shadow felt deliberate.
The hallway opened into a dining room that could have swallowed their entire apartment.
And there he was.
Victor Kane.
He stood at the head of a long ebony table, sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms corded with quiet strength. Dark hair swept back, just long enough to look effortless. A jawline that could cut glass. When he turned, the light caught the green of his eyes—sharp, amused, and completely unreadable.
He smiled.
Not the polite curve people use at funerals. A real smile. Slow. Warm. The kind that promised secrets and made your pulse stutter whether you wanted it to or not.
"Frank. Elena." His voice rolled out low and smooth, like whiskey over ice. "Thank you for coming."
He moved toward them with the easy grace of someone who had never once worried about being denied entry anywhere. When he reached Tina's father, he extended a hand. The shake was firm, brief, final.
Then he looked at Tina.
Time stretched. The room shrank to the space between them.
His gaze traveled over her—not leering, not dismissive. Appraising. Like he was memorizing every freckle, every tense line of her shoulders, every flicker of defiance she couldn't quite hide.
"Tina," he said. Her name in his mouth sounded different. Dangerous. Delicious. "I've been looking forward to this."
She didn't offer her hand. Didn't smile. Just lifted her chin. "Have you?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Every day since your father first mentioned you."
Her stomach lurched. Not fear exactly. Something hotter. Angrier. A spark that wanted to catch fire and burn the whole place down.
Victor gestured to the table. "Please. Sit."
They did. Tina took the chair farthest from him. He noticed. His eyes sparkled with private amusement as he took his place at the head, close enough that she could smell his cologne: dark woods, citrus, and something faintly smoky.
Dinner arrived without warning. Waitstaff in black moved like ghosts—plates of seared scallops, truffle risotto, lamb so tender it practically melted. Wine the color of garnets poured into glasses that caught the light like jewels.
Tina didn't touch her fork.
Victor noticed that too.
"You're not hungry?" he asked, voice gentle, almost concerned.
"I'm not staying long," she said.
Her father coughed. A warning. She ignored it.
Victor leaned back, fingers steepled. "Fair enough. But while you're here, maybe you'll let me explain something."
He spoke to the whole table, but his eyes never left hers.
"I know how this looks. Old-fashioned. Barbaric, even. A debt repaid with a daughter's future." He paused, letting the words settle. "But I don't deal in coercion, Tina. I deal in choices. Your father chose to borrow. I chose to lend. And now I'm choosing to offer you something better than scraping by in a walk-up with a fridge that sounds like it's dying."
Her mother flinched. Tina's jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached.
Victor continued, unruffled. "I'm offering security. Luxury. A life where you never have to worry about rent, or medical bills, or whether the lights stay on. In exchange, I get a partner. Someone sharp. Someone fearless. Someone who doesn't flinch when the world gets ugly."
He smiled again, softer this time. "I think that someone is you."
Tina's laugh burst out before she could stop it—short, sharp, incredulous. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." He tilted his head. "I know you work double shifts at that coffee shop on 14th because you refuse to let your parents starve. I know you turned down a full ride to NYU because you wouldn't leave them behind. I know you've got fire in you that could burn cities down if you ever let it loose."
Her breath caught. How did he—?
"I make it my business to know the people I want close," he said simply.
The table was silent except for the soft clink of silverware her father had finally picked up. He ate like a man trying to disappear.
Victor leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to something intimate. "I'm not asking you to love me, Tina. Not yet. I'm asking you to consider that maybe—just maybe—the cage I'm offering has the best view in the city."
She stared at him. Really stared.
He didn't look like a monster. He looked like the kind of man who could convince you the cage was a throne.
And that scared her more than any threat ever could.
She pushed her chair back. The scrape echoed like a gunshot.
"I'm not for sale," she said, voice steady even though her hands shook under the table. "And I'm definitely not interested in being your pretty little trophy wife."
Victor didn't flinch. If anything, his smile deepened.
"I never said trophy," he murmured. "I said partner."
She turned to leave.
"Tina," he called after her, calm, almost playful.
She stopped. Hated that she stopped.
"When you change your mind," he said, "you know where to find me."
She didn't answer. Just walked out, sneakers squeaking again on that perfect marble, heart slamming against her ribs like it wanted to break free.
Behind her, the elevator doors closed with another soft, expensive hiss.
And somewhere in that glittering penthouse, Victor Kane lifted his wineglass to his lips, eyes on the empty doorway, and smiled like a man who had already won.
Because in his world?
Every refusal was just the opening move.