The Heiress Gambit-Chapter 36- You’re Mine

PAIGE

A slow, wicked smile spread across my lips. His question hung in the air, ripe for the plucking. What is your type? Oh, I wasn’t going to make it that easy for him.

"Let’s see," I mused, tapping a finger on my chin as if giving it serious thought. I took a small step back, just enough to break his grip on my wrists, but not enough to break the spell. "My type is... complicated. They have to be incredibly smart. Devastatingly handsome, obviously."

I let my eyes sweep over him, a deliberately slow and appraising look, from his tousled hair down to his bare chest. I saw his jaw tighten just a fraction. Good.

"But also," I continued, my tone turning mock-thoughtful, "they have to have a truly breathtaking lack of self-awareness. A real talent for jumping to the most dramatic conclusions possible. It’s a very specific combination. Rare, really."

I was dancing around the answer, weaving a web of sarcasm instead of giving him anything real. I saw the frustration flicker in his dark eyes. He wanted a straight answer. He wanted to know if he was my type. And I was delighted not giving it to him.

The most amazing part was that it was working. Even as I openly mocked him, the intensity in his gaze never wavered. If anything, it deepened. My sarcasm, my teasing—it didn’t push him away. It seemed to pull him in deeper, as if the challenge itself was the attraction.

A thrill shot through me. I had just witnessed Reomen Daki, a man who commanded billions, a man of icy control, completely unravel over the mere idea of me with someone else. The memory of his raw, unchecked jealousy was a potent drug.

He’d been ready to burn the world down over a misunderstanding. The power of that was dizzying.

He took a step closer, the space between us evaporating again. The playful tension snapped back into something hotter, more dangerous. My heart started its frantic drumming against my ribs all over again.

"Rare, is it?" he murmured, his voice a low vibration that I felt deep in my bones. All traces of his earlier frustration were gone, replaced by a familiar, predatory focus. He was done talking about hypothetical types.

The game had shifted. Again. And we were both right back where we always ended up: caught in a pull too strong to fight, even when we were trying to tear each other apart.

I saw the shift in his eyes. The frustration melting back into that dark, familiar intensity. He was done with my game and ready to play one of his own. He took that final step, closing the distance until I could feel the heat coming off his skin.

"Rare, is it?" he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, intimate rumble that did things to my insides.

I held my ground, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. The smirk was still on my lips, a shield. "Exceptionally."

But my body betrayed me. As he leaned in, a deep, satisfying ache pulsed through my muscles—a blatant reminder of last night and this morning. I couldn’t quite suppress the slight, weary shift in my stance, a tiny concession to the fact that I was, in fact, still recovering from his particular brand of "rare."

He noticed. Of course he did. His sharp eyes missed nothing.

A new, different smirk—one of pure, smug triumph—touched his lips. His gaze dropped from my eyes, doing a slow, deliberate sweep down my body and back up, lingering on the way I was subtly favoring my stance.

"Of course," he purred, his tone laced with faux sympathy. "You must be exhausted. All that... strenuous activity." He reached out, not to grab me, but to gently brush a stray strand of hair from my cheek. His knuckles barely grazed my skin, but it was enough to send a shiver through me. "Poor thing. Maybe you should sit down. Wouldn’t want you to... strain yourself further."

The taunt was exquisite. He was using my own physical state against me, twisting my fatigue into proof of his victory. He was reminding me that my body was still singing a song he’d composed, and I was in no condition to put up a proper fight.

My own smirk didn’t falter, but it felt tighter. "Don’t worry about me, Tanuki," I fired back, my voice a little breathier than I wanted. "I can handle my... exertions. But you’re right. I think I will sit."

I turned away from him, breaking the charged space between us, and walked with as much grace as I could muster back to the armchair. I could feel his eyes on my back the entire time, watching my every move, savoring the small signs of the effect he’d had on me.

I sank into the soft leather, crossing my legs and looking back at him with a renewed, defiant glint in my eye. The game wasn’t over. He might have scored a point, but I was still playing.

"And what will you do?" I asked, my voice dripping with sweet, false concern. "Stand there and watch me recover? How very thrilling for you."

A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips. It wasn’t a happy smile; it was a promise. A declaration that he saw right through my act, and he wasn’t going to let me off the hook. Not tonight, not ever. Even if he backed down now, the threat hung in the air between us, as tangible as the furniture. Eventually.

A genuine yawn overtook me then, cracking through the tension. My body was begging for mercy. I unfolded myself from the chair, my muscles protesting with a chorus of aches. I had to end this standoff before my own exhaustion did it for me.

I walked toward the hallway that led to the guest wing, but I paused at the threshold. I turned back to look at him, leaning against the doorframe with all the casual grace I could muster.

"Don’t stay up too late plotting world domination, will you?" I said, my voice a blend of flirtation and sarcasm. I let my gaze drift over him one last time, a lazy, appreciative sweep that I knew would get under his skin. "And just for the record... I still hate you."

The lie was so obvious it was almost a joke in itself. It hung there, bright and flimsy.

He didn’t miss a beat. A dark, knowing chuckle rumbled from him. He took a single, slow step forward, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Keep telling yourself that, Black Cat," he said, his voice low and laced with a truth that felt more intimate than a touch. "We both know you’re a terrible liar."

It was the closest he’d come to acknowledging the real game we were playing. He called out my lie, threw it back in my face, but he didn’t replace it with anything. He didn’t confess his own tangled-up feelings. He just let the truth of my denial hang there, acknowledged but unexplored.

With a final, faint smirk, I turned and walked down the hall, leaving him standing there. The king of his empty castle, called out on his own bluff but too proud to fold. We were a perfect, miserable match.

– – –

REOMEN

The next day.

The knock on her office door was mine, two sharp taps of my knuckles before I pushed it open. I leaned against the frame, watching her.

Paige looked up from her computer, and I saw it—the quick flash of surprise in her eyes. She was used to seeing me in Tom Ford or Kiton, sharp lines and severe cuts. Not like this.

I was in a soft, dove-gray Brunello Cucinelli cashmere sweater, a simple white tee underneath, and a pair of dark, well-worn Levi’s 501s. Broken-in Tod’s driving loafers, no socks. I looked like I was headed for a weekend in the Hamptons, not the top floor of a Manhattan skyscraper.

Her eyes did a quick, discreet scan, and she wisely didn’t comment. Smart girl.

"Get your things," I said, my voice casual but leaving no room for argument. The familiar smug smirk was already playing on my lips. "We’re going to a business event. A game."

She adjusted her glasses, a little furrow of confusion on her brow. "A game?"

"Tennis," I said, the word crisp. I let the sarcasm drip into my tone. "You know, the sport with the racquets and the little fuzzy ball. Usually played at places that don’t have a stock ticker on the wall."

She blinked. "Tennis? I... I don’t know how to play. The only sport I ever really played was soccer. And I was sloppy."

I almost laughed. The image of a young, messy Paige Rimestone kicking a soccer ball around was an amusing one. But it didn’t change a thing.

"You’ll be coming regardless," I stated, my tone flat and final. "It’s not up for debate." I pushed off the doorframe and took a step into her office, lowering my voice just a fraction.

"This is where you meet them, Paige," I said, my gaze intense. "The people I told you about. The ones who would line up to hand you the gasoline. Consider this your formal introduction to the army that wants to see the Rimestones burn as much as you do."

I let that hang in the air for a second, watching the understanding dawn on her face, mixing with the apprehension. The business casual outfit made sense now. This wasn’t a boardroom meeting. This was a different kind of battlefield.

"Now, move it," I said, turning to leave. "The car’s waiting downstairs. And try to look like you enjoy the idea of fresh air."

I slid into the cool, silent interior of the black Rolls-Royce Cullinan idling at the curb. The driver gave a curt nod and closed the door, sealing me in the hushed cabin. I leaned back against the butter-soft leather, my mind already on the strategic plays of the afternoon.

A few minutes later, movement caught my eye. Paige stepped out of the Daki Tech tower’s revolving doors.

And my brain just... stopped.

The afternoon sun caught her, and fuck. She wasn’t in some stuffy corporate outfit. She’d changed into a simple, oversized silk blouse—probably Equipment—tucked into a pair of baggy, vintage-looking jeans that somehow, against all logic, made her look even more devastating.

The loose fabric draped and flowed around her, but it couldn’t hide what mattered. It hinted at the curve of her hips, the narrow taper of her waist, the hourglass shape I knew was underneath.

My eyes tracked her every step as she crossed the sidewalk. The way she moved, a natural, unconscious grace that made my breath hitch. A low, involuntary sound almost escaped me. I bit my lip, hard.

"Fuck, Black Cat," I cursed under my breath, the words a rough exhale in the quiet car. She was a vision. And the fact that she had no idea. That she was just walking, made it a thousand times sexier. The urge to pull her back into the penthouse, to peel that blouse off her, was a physical ache.

The driver opened the door for her. She slid in, the scent of her perfume—something light and clean—filling the space. She settled into the seat beside me, glancing over. She caught me looking, my expression undoubtedly giving away nothing but my usual smug assessment.

I let the smirk settle back onto my face, a mask to cover the riot she’d just sparked inside me. I saw the flicker of curiosity in her eyes—why is he smirking?—before she dismissed it. It’s just Reomen.

The car pulled away from the curb, merging into the Fifth Avenue traffic.

"You know," I began, my voice a lazy, sarcastic drawl as I looked out the window, "I’m going to have to keep you on a short leash today."

I turned my head, meeting her gaze. I let my eyes drop to her lips for a fraction of a second before returning to her eyes, making the comment feel infinitely more personal.

"There are a lot of predators where we’re going," I continued, the smirk never leaving my lips. "Old money vultures who’d love to swoop in and take a bite out of something shiny and new."

I leaned in just an inch, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial, taunting whisper.

"Can’t have anyone trying to take what’s mine."

Of course she retorted. A sharp, defiant little "I’m not yours, Tanuki," accompanied by the world’s most dramatic eye roll. It was her favorite line. Our little song and dance.

I didn’t argue with words. Instead, I leaned across the space between the leather seats. I didn’t kiss her. I brushed my lips against the soft skin just below her ear, a ghost of a touch.

Her reaction was instant. A sharp, quiet gasp. Her back arched off the seat, pressing her body toward mine for the briefest second. A complete, utter betrayal by her own traitorous nerves.

I pulled back, a slow, victorious smirk spreading across my face. I looked down at her, at the faint blush already coloring her neck.

"Your body said otherwise, Black Cat," I murmured, my voice low and sure. I adjusted the cuff of my Brunello Cucinelli sweater, a picture of casual control while she was trying to remember how to breathe. "Sit properly."

She straightened up, trying to reclaim her composure, but the damage was done. I felt her shiver.

"You’re mine," I stated, the words flat and absolute. I let my gaze drift over her, taking in the rapid rise and fall of her chest. "You already signed the deed. With your moans. And your sweat. The contract is airtight."

She rolled her eyes so hard I swear I could hear it. But she didn’t say anything. What could she say? She knew it was true.

A low, dark chuckle escaped me. The rest of the drive passed in a heavy, charged silence. The only sound was the quiet hum of the car engine and the echo of her quickened breath in the space between us. She could deny it all she wanted.

But we both knew the truth.