Every insult she hurls is a strike intended to wound his ego, to make him feel the weight of her contempt. She calls him a "predatory vulture," a "disgrace to men," and a "man with the soul of a common streetwalker."

She attacks his character, his upbringing, and his very essence, painting him as a man who uses his virility as a weapon because he lacks the intellect to use anything else.

And through it all, Mike just watches. He doesn’t interrupt.

He doesn’t argue as well, but he simply listens with his gaze fixed on her moving form, tracing the way her massive breasts heave with her heavy, angry breathing and the way her hips sway in her fury. To him, her rage isn’t a deterrent; it’s an aphrodisiac.

The more she fights, the more she screams, the more he sees the fire in her a fire he knows he is going to enjoy extinguishing.

When she finally stops, gasping for air, her chest heaving and her eyes brimming with tears of pure frustration, Mike finally speaks. His voice is calm, smooth, and utterly unbothered by her tirade.

"Are you finished, darling?" he asks, his tone dripping with a condescending sweetness that makes her want to scream again.

He leans forward slightly, the smugness in his eyes deepening. "Because you’re quite beautiful when you’re losing your mind. The anger... it makes your skin flush so perfectly. It makes me want to see exactly how loud you can scream when you’re not insulting me, but begging for me."

He lets the silence hang, a heavy, mocking weight. "Call me a monster all you want, Marielle. Call me a parasite, a brute, a disgrace. But at the end of the day, the footage is still in my pocket, and you’re still the one who has to decide if your pride is worth more than Jay’s reputation. So, go ahead. Curse me. Hate me. But don’t forget... you’re still going to end up on your knees for me."

The silence that follows Mike’s mocking question is suffocating. Marielle stands there, trembling, her chest still heaving from her outburst, trying to reclaim the shattered pieces of her dignity. But before she can even draw a breath to retort, she feels the air shift behind her.

The heavy, rhythmic tread of his footsteps is slow and deliberate. She doesn’t even have time to turn around before she feels the sheer heat radiating from his massive body. Mike moves like a predator closing the distance, and suddenly, he is right there towering over her, his presence a physical weight that seems to suck the oxygen out of the room.

He leans down, his chest brushing against her back, and she can feel the hard, muscular contours of his torso through her thin blouse. His large, tanned hand reaches out, his fingers wrapping around her shoulder with a grip that is deceptively gentle yet possesses an underlying strength that makes her feel utterly fragile. It isn’t just a touch; it’s a claim. His grip is so firm that it sends a jolt of primal fear through her, making her knees feel suddenly weak, as if the floor might give way beneath her.

"You talk a lot about honor, Marielle," Mike whispers, his voice a low, vibrating growl right against the shell of her ear. His breath is hot, sending shivers of both terror and unwanted sensation down her spine. "But let’s talk about reality. Let’s talk about the reality of that footage."

He squeezes her shoulder slightly, a reminder of the power he holds. "You call me a parasite? Bitch~! Please...!"

"Let’s look at your fucking son named Jay!"

"He’s a boy playing at being a man, getting caught up in things he can’t control."

"He’s been taking money from the Schmith family, hasn’t he?!"

"That bullshit called ’scholarship funds,’ ’assistance’... it’s all just a polite way of saying he’s been living off the very people he’s currently disgracing."

Marielle gasps, her eyes widening. He knows. He knows the intricate, messy details of the financial ties that bind her son to the victim.

"If that footage hits the faculty board," Mike continues, his tone turning cold and clinical, "it won’t just be a scandal, but it will be a fucking massacre!"

"Tyler Schmith is the heir to a fortune that could buy and sell your entire world ten times over."

"I bet the Schmiths don’t just sue, but they’ll erase anyone with the power of being rich!"

"They will see Jay not as a victim of circumstance, but as a thief and a predator who took their money and then spat on their son’s name."

He moves his hand from her shoulder, his fingers tracing a slow, agonizing line down her arm, making her skin prickle. "They will come for every cent you have."

"They will dismantle your reputation, your house, your very lifestyle."

"They will make sure that by the time they’re done, you and Jay are left with nothing but the clothes on your backs and the shame of what you’ve done..."

"And the best part? They’ll do it all legally, with a smile on their faces, because they’ll be the ’victims.’"

He leans even closer, his lips almost touching her neck, his voice dropping to a lethal, intimate murmur. "So, go ahead."

"I fucking challenge you to keep your high ground and keep your ’dignity.’ But remember this..."

"Your dignity won’t pay the bills when the Schmiths come to collect."

"Your pride won’t protect Jay when he’s standing in the ruins of his future."

He pauses, letting the terror sink in, letting her feel the sheer, crushing weight of the leverage he holds.

"You’re not just fighting for a secret, Marielle..."

"You’re fighting for survival. And the only man who can keep the wolves at bay... is me."

He gives her shoulder one last, possessive squeeze before his hand slides down to the small of her back, pulling her slightly closer to his powerful, muscular frame, forcing her to feel the sheer scale of the man who is about to ruin or save her life.

Marielle stands frozen, the heat of Mike’s massive body pressing against her back like a branding iron. Her eyes are fixed on the window, but she isn’t seeing the garden anymore; she is seeing the wreckage of her life.

The silence in the room is no longer peaceful; it is the heavy, suffocating silence of a tomb.

’Oh no... he really got me... on a leash...’

’What should I do now...?’

Inside her mind, a tempest is raging. She feels a sickening cocktail of emotions: the burning embers of her wounded pride, the cold, sharp shards of terror for Jay, and a traitorous, shameful pulse of heat deep in her belly that she desperately tries to suppress.

She can feel the strength in his hands, the sheer, overwhelming masculinity of him, and it makes her feel small not just physically but existentially.

’He’s right,’ a voice whispers in the dark corners of her consciousness. ’God, help me, he’s absolutely right.’

She thinks of Jay, her sweet, brilliant, foolish Jay. She sees him in the university halls, laughing, unaware that a single digital file could strip him of his dignity and his future in a heartbeat.

She thinks of the Schmiths, with their endless coffers and their cold, calculating eyes. They wouldn’t just punish Jay; they would annihilate him.

They would turn their immense wealth into a weapon to crush anyone who dared to tarnish their golden boy.

She feels the weight of her own hypocrisy. She had spent her life cultivating grace, poise, and a sense of moral superiority, only to realize that all of it was built on the fragile foundation of a quiet life.

And now, a man like Mike, a man she has spent years looking down upon as a vulgar, unrefined brute, is the only one holding the lever to her destruction.

’How can a man so beautiful be so utterly, devastatingly cruel?’ she wonders, a single tear finally escaping and tracing a hot path down her cheek.