"Oh, one more thing, Master."

"Yeah?"

"You are going to be extremely annoyed when you try to enter."

I frowned. "Why."

"Sable didn't tell her security team you were coming," ARIA said sweetly. "She assumed you'd just… walk in. Like a normal person. As if you don't exist in a completely different category of problem."

"What?"

"Her mistake," ARIA said brightly. "You'll see. It's going to be hilarious."

"For who?"

"For me."

"ARIA—"

"Have fun!"

She went quiet, but I could feel her attention hovering like a smug god.

I pulled into the executive level of Rivera Next Media's parking structure and parked between a Rolls-Royce Phantom and a Bentley Continental.

I killed the engine, checked my reflection.

Black Henley. Dark jeans. White Converse. Hair perfect. Stubble at that dangerous halfway point between clean-cut and bad decision.

I looked good. Always did.

Time to see Sable.

The elevator ride down was silent, smooth, expensive. Just me and architecture designed to intimidate people with less money.

The doors opened.

Glass. Steel. Marble. The kind of lobby that screams we matter in capital letters.

Security desk dead ahead. Two guards. Former military energy. Bored faces. Power-trip posture.

I walked up. "I'm here to see Sable Rivera."

The older one—buzz cut, eyes already dead—scanned me. Henley. Jeans. No suit. No badge. No visible deference.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Yes."

"Name?"

"Eros."

He typed. Paused. Frowned. Typed again. Frowned harder.

"I don't see you on the schedule."

"I texted her an hour ago. She confirmed."

"I don't see you on the schedule," he repeated, looking up. "If you're not on the schedule, I can't let you through."

I felt irritation spark. "Call her office."

"Sir, if you don't have an appointment—"

"I just told you I do," I said flatly. "Call. Her. Office."

The second guard—muscles, posture, that please give me a reason look—stepped forward. "Sir, you need to leave. Now."

"I'm not leaving. I have a meeting with Sable Rivera. Call her and confirm."

"We don't have you in the system," Buzz Cut said, standing. "That means you're not authorized to be here."

"Are you fucking serious right now?"

And I had the sudden, sinking realization that this was about to become a very educational moment—for everyone involved.

"Sir," Muscles said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Leave. Or we'll escort you out."

The touch did it.

That casual, presumptive hand on my shoulder — like I was a problem to be managed instead of a force to be respected — snapped something loose. The irritation that had been simmering finally crossed a threshold and became something colder, older, and much more dangerous.

I hadn't meant to let it out.

Didn't decide to.

Didn't even think about it.

The aura simply unfolded.

Not Lust Presence. Not attraction. Not desire.

This was the other one.

The one you don't show unless you're done pretending to be polite.

The lobby changed.

Nothing dramatic. No lights flickering. No cinematic bullshit. The temperature didn't drop, but suddenly everyone felt like it had. The air didn't get heavier, but breathing became harder anyway. Space itself seemed to lean away from me, like the building had suddenly remembered that it was just a structure and I was something else entirely.

Predator.

Threat.

Authority without permission.

Muscles' hand fell away from my shoulder like he'd touched a live wire. His eyes went wide, pupils blown, instincts screaming at him faster than his training could catch up. He staggered back a step, then another, body reacting before pride could interfere.

Buzz Cut went pale. His hand hovered near his radio, then stopped — not because he didn't think to call for help, but because something deep in his brain told him that escalation was a bad idea.

And the rest of the lobby?

They felt it.

A receptionist froze mid-keystroke, fingers locked above the keyboard, staring at me with an expression caught between fascination and fear. A man in a tailored suit near the elevators stopped walking entirely, briefcase dangling uselessly from his hand, eyes fixed on me like I was a wild animal that had wandered indoors by mistake. A young woman near the wall pressed herself back against the marble, one hand clamped over her mouth, breath shallow.

This aura didn't make people want me.

It made them understand.

On a level below language. Below rational thought.

That I was something they should not fuck with.

"What the fuck—" Muscles tried, voice cracking.

"Call Sable Rivera," I said.

Not loud.

Not raised.

Flat. Final. The kind of voice that didn't argue and didn't repeat itself.

"Tell her Eros is in her lobby. Tell her your security team was about to remove me. Then listen very carefully to what she says."

Buzz Cut swallowed, already reaching for his phone with hands that had started to shake. He dialed. Waited.

"Ms. Rivera? We have a… situation. There's an Eros in the lobby claiming he has a meeting. He's not in the system and—"

Pause.

His face drained of color.

"Yes, ma'am. Understood. Immediately. I'm— I'm very sorry."

The call ended.

He looked at me the way people look at a storm they didn't see coming.

"Ms. Rivera is on her way down personally," he said quickly. "She asked that you be... accommodated. Can we get you anything? Water? Coffee? Anything at all?"

"No."

I drew the aura back in. Let it collapse. The pressure eased. The room exhaled as one. People blinked like they were waking up from a shared nightmare. The woman by the wall sagged with relief. The businessman shook himself and looked embarrassed for freezing.

"Just tell her I'm here."

"Yes. Of course."

"I'll stand."

Buzz Cut nodded like a man who had learned a valuable lesson. Muscles had retreated to the far side of the desk, eyes locked on me like I was radioactive.

Smart.

The lobby went quiet — air conditioning, distant footsteps, the faint click of heels on marble.

I turned.

Sable Rivera was striding toward me in a power suit that could've cut glass, hair perfect, posture sharp — and she was laughing.

Not nervous laughter.

Not apology laughter.

Real laughter. Rich, delighted, I-won laughter.

She took in the guards, the lobby, the people still shaking off what they'd felt — then looked straight at me and laughed harder.

"Oh my god," she said, stopping in front of me, eyes bright with mischief. "Your face. That look you get when you're irritated but trying not to show it. Perfect."

I stared at her.

"You planned this."

"Of course I planned this," she said, extending a hand, still grinning. "You think I forgot to inform my own security team? Please. I wanted to see what happened when someone treated you like a normal inconvenience instead of a goddamn inevitability."

The puzzle pieces snapped together.

Every time we'd met—at events, at parties, in passing through business circles—I'd flirted with her. Pushed that edge of seduction. Let the Lust Presence whisper just loud enough that she felt it. Made her want me.

And then walked away. Every. Single. Time.

Left her frustrated.

Left her wet and wanting and unable to do anything about it because I was Madison's boyfriend, Charlotte's partner, connected to people she couldn't afford to offend by making a move. I'd been playing with her.

And she'd just returned the favor.

"Revenge," I said.

"Revenge," she confirmed, grin widening. "You've been walking into rooms for months, wrecking my focus, making me feel things I absolutely shouldn't — then disappearing like you didn't just derail my entire afternoon. I wanted to see you lose control for once."

She leaned in slightly, voice lower now. "And you did. That aura? That predator thing? I felt it three floors up. I came down because I had to see it."

I laughed softly.

Because she was right.

That was clever.

"You got me," I said. "That was well played."

"Thank you." She gestured toward the elevators. "Now — can we have our actual meeting? Or do you need a moment to recover from being mildly inconvenienced?"

"I'm fine."

"Good."

She turned and walked toward the elevators without checking if I'd follow.

I did.

Because now I was interested.

The doors closed behind us.

Just the two of us.

"That thing you did," Sable said, her tone shifting, curiosity overtaking amusement. "That wasn't anger. That was danger. Most people would've run."

I met her eyes.

Held them.

Let a controlled whisper of pressure leak back into the space — not fear this time, just presence.

Her breath hitched. Just slightly.

"It says," I said calmly, "that you enjoy standing close to things you don't fully understand."

Her smile returned. Slower. Sharper.

"And you think I'm going to lose?"

"I know you are."

The elevator kept climbing.

And Sable Rivera looked at me like someone who had just realized she'd picked a very dangerous game — and decided to play anyway.

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