Yulian’s reflection trembles in the black marble of the men’s room sink; sweat beads at his brow despite the icy air, dark curls clinging damply to his forehead. His jaw is clenched so tightly it aches. From behind, the door swings in—Laerise, tonight in a sharp-shouldered emerald suit, her lips painted a venomous red, her stride all contained fury. The tension between them is so electric it could snap glass. For a moment, neither speaks; their eyes lock, a silent battle of accusation and need.

“You wanted them to see you win,” Laerise snaps, her voice low but trembling, anger and something softer flickering in her eyes.

“And you wanted me to fail,” he throws back, biting out the words because it’s easier than saying he’s hurt. His hands hover over the faucet, ringless, elegant fingers trembling as he struggles to steady himself.

She slams her palm down next to his, close enough that their knuckles brush. The contact is accidental, but neither pulls away. Her nails are lacquered black, digging tiny crescents into the cold stone.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve started?” she hisses, breath hot on his cheek. “There’s a leak, Yulian. One of us is going down.”

He searches her face, looking for mercy and finding only ambition, sharpened by fear. For a second, he’s the boy desperate for approval, all wounds and want. Their anger collapses into something hungrier as she closes the space between them. Her fist finds his tie, yanking him so their mouths collide—messy, desperate, bruising. Hands roam as if mapping the only safe territory left.

Later, Laerise walks the stairs to the executive floor—her hair tousled, blazer askew, a smear of lipstick at her jaw—where Sciro waits in the shadows, leaning with practiced ease against the glass, silver cufflinks glinting. His dark eyes linger on the line of her exposed throat, the uneven pace of her breath.

“Trouble follows you, doesn’t it?” he murmurs, voice velvet-smooth, tilting his head closer. She wants to hate how her pulse answers him.

“Maybe I’m just looking for someone strong enough to keep up,” she shoots back. He grins, wolfish, and in one swift motion his hand finds the back of her neck, drawing her into a kiss that tastes of whiskey, bitterness, and need. Their bodies collide, urgent and unsteady. Fingers tug at buttons, hips seek friction—a furious, jealous claiming that has nothing to do with tenderness.

Hours later, Laerise sits at the edge of Sciro’s bed, skin bare, eyes hollowed with exhaustion and regret. She lights a cigarette with unsteady hands. Sciro traces idle circles on her thigh, but his attention is elsewhere—on his ringing phone, the name "Belise" blinking insistently, a reminder that none of this is safe.

In a dimly lit corner of the office, Belise stands in a midnight-blue dress, her posture relaxed, gaze unreadable as she waits for Laerise. When Laerise finally appears, mascara smeared, blouse hastily buttoned, Belise holds out a flash drive and smiles—a slow, dangerous smile.

“I know about the debts,” she says softly, sliding the drive into Laerise’s palm. “And about Yulian. You’ll do exactly what I say.”

Laerise’s composure falters for the first time all night; she blinks hard, fighting tears, knuckles white around the drive as Belise brushes past. “Let’s not pretend you’re the only one with secrets,” Laerise whispers.

Yulian, meanwhile, paces his tiny apartment. News of the leak has erupted company-wide. His phone buzzes with accusations; his hands shake as he reads them, self-loathing burning hot beneath his skin. Over and over, he replays memories of Laerise—her lips, her laughter, the sting of her betrayal when she slipped away to Sciro. The ache is physical.

When Yulian sees a group chat light up with his name, rage blinds him. He storms into the office, jaw set, eyes wild, confronting Sciro in front of stunned colleagues. “You smug bastard. Was it you?” he shouts, chest heaving, fists balled. Sciro just offers a lopsided smirk, brushing invisible lint from his cuff, refusing to rise to the bait. “Careful, Yulian,” he says, voice a calm threat. “You’re not the only one with something to lose.”

Laerise, silent in the doorway, watches the spectacle unfold. For the first time in years, she feels utterly alone—hated by Yulian, used by Sciro, owned by Belise. Spite and grief twist her features before she slips away unnoticed, heels echoing down the hall.

As she steps into the parking garage, rain spatters her bare arms. On her windshield, a black envelope, heavy with dread. Her name scrawled across it—inside, a single typed note: “You’re next.”

To be continued...