The Heiress Gambit-Chapter 35- Green Eyed Monster

AUTHOR

Meanwhile, across the world, in the impeccably maintained silence of the Rimestone estate in Tokyo, a very different conversation was taking place.

Barbara Rimestone sat poised on a silk-upholstered chaise lounge, her posture rigid. Payton paced the length of the exquisite tatami-matted room, her face a storm of petulant fury. Denki Fujii stood by the window, looking out at the perfectly raked zen garden, his expression the picture of calm concern.

"He signed the deal," Barbara stated, her voice cold and sharp. "A tremendous victory for our company. And yet, she remains there. On his arm. Flaunting herself."

Payton whirled around, her designer dress swishing. "Did you see the way she looked at me? Like I was nothing! And Reomen... he was so... amused by it all. He doesn’t see her for the trash she is!"

"Her presence there is an insult," Barbara continued, as if Payton hadn’t spoken. "A constant reminder of her defiance. Shunsuke believes this deal will bring her to heel, show her the power of the family she rejected." A thin, cruel smile touched her lips. "But I believe in a more direct approach."

Denki turned from the window, his face a mask of thoughtful loyalty. "A direct approach, Barbara-sama?"

"We need to remind Paige of her place," Barbara said, her eyes glinting. "And we need to remind Reomen Daki that associating with her comes with a cost. She is a liability. We will make him see that."

Payton’s eyes lit up with malicious glee. "How?"

"We will give him a reason to throw her out," Barbara said smoothly. "A scandal. One that he cannot ignore. One that proves she is still a Rimestone, treacherous to the core."

Denki nodded slowly, as if considering the options. "Corporate espionage is a charge the business world takes very seriously. It would destroy her credibility forever."

"Exactly," Barbara purred. "A leak of Daki Tech’s confidential information. Traced back to her computer. Her access. It must be undeniable."

They began to weave their plan, detail by meticulous detail. They would use Payton’s new, fabricated position within the company to gain access to the necessary information. Denki, as the trusted head of security, would know how to plant the evidence, how to make the digital trail lead straight to Paige.

They spoke of it as a way to bring her home, to force her to fold. They saw the deal as their victory, their leverage. They had no idea that the contract Shunsuke had so proudly signed was not a triumph, but the very trigger for their own destruction.

They were meticulously planning to sabotage a battle that had already been lost, aiming their weapons at a target that was, in reality, standing safely behind the man who had already outmaneuvered them all.

In a quiet apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, Paige laughed at something her friend said, momentarily free.

In a silent estate in Tokyo, her family plotted her very public ruin, blind to the abyss already opening at their feet.

REOMEN

The silence of the penthouse hit me the second the elevator doors opened. It’s never truly silent here—there’s always the low hum of the climate control, the distant pulse of the city sixty stories below—but this was different. This was an empty silence.

I tossed my keys onto the console table. They landed with a loud clatter in the quiet. "Paige?"

No answer. Just that damn silence.

I walked through the living area, my footsteps echoing on the polished concrete. Nothing. The guest room door was open, the bed neatly made. She wasn’t here.

A low curse escaped my lips. I told her to take the day off, not disappear entirely.

I tried to shrug it off. Went through my routine. Poured a finger of whiskey, neat. Drank it standing by the window, watching the lights of the city. It did nothing to calm the irritation coiling in my gut.

I stalked into my bathroom, turning the shower on as hot as it would go. The steam should have been cleansing. It wasn’t. All I could think about was her. Where she was.

She’s fine. She’s a big girl. I told myself, scrubbing a hand over my face. She doesn’t need you checking in.

But the other voice, the one that sounded like a possessive bastard, was louder. She’s at that apartment. That shithole in Hell’s Kitchen. With him.

Leon. The bartender. The one she ran to. The one she lived with. The thought of it, of her in that cramped space with another man, sent a hot, irrational spike of jealousy straight through me. It was the main reason I’d moved her here. I couldn’t stand the idea of her going back to him. To anyone else.

I got out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist. I picked up my phone from the counter. My thumb hovered over her name.

Don’t. It would look weak. Needy. I was Reomen Daki. I didn’t chase. I commanded.

But my fingers moved on their own, pulling up her contact. I stared at the screen, my jaw tight. What would I even say? ’Where are you?’ Too demanding. ’Are you coming back?’ Pathetic.

I tossed the phone onto the bed like it had burned me. This was ridiculous. She was my employee. My pawn in a larger game. This... concern was a variable I hadn’t accounted for. A liability.

I dressed in simple lounge pants, my movements sharp and annoyed. I poured another whiskey, but didn’t drink it. I just stood there, in the middle of my empty, multi-million dollar cage, wondering where the hell she was.

And hating myself for wondering.

The whiskey burned a clean, sharp path down my throat. I barely felt it. My focus was on the elevator doors, a silent sentry waiting for a ghost.

The housekeeper appeared, her steps quiet on the floor. "Will you be requiring dinner, sir?"

"No," I said, my voice tighter than I intended. I forced a modicum of civility into it. "Thank you. That will be all."

She left, and the silence descended again. Heavier this time.

Two hours. It felt like a damn eternity. I just sat there, in the dark, watching the stupid elevator. Every minute that ticked by was another log on a fire I refused to acknowledge.

Then, a soft chime. The elevator doors slid open.

She stepped out. Her hair was down, a little windswept. She still wore the clothes from my wardrobe, but she looked different. Lighter. She’d been out in her world, not mine.

My first instinct was to stand, to demand answers. Where were you? Who were you with? I clamped down on it, hard. I forced every muscle in my body to stay relaxed, my face a neutral mask. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing she’d gotten to me.

She saw me sitting there and paused, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. She probably expected me to be locked in my office, not waiting in the dark like a... like something pathetic.

I let the silence stretch. Let her feel it. My eyes tracked her as she walked further into the room, dropping her bag on a chair.

The questions were a storm in my head. I wanted to know everything. But asking directly felt like losing. It showed I cared.

So I fell back on the oldest weapon in my arsenal. The one that never failed.

I picked up my empty glass, swirled the last drops of amber liquid around.

"Have a nice playdate with the bartender?" I asked, my voice dripping with lazy, sarcastic amusement. I didn’t look at her. I examined the glass as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. "I hope his apartment was... comfortable. I’d hate to think my accommodations are lacking."

I finally let my gaze slide to her, a slow, smug smirk pulling at my lips. It was a challenge. An accusation wrapped in a joke. Let her try to deny it. Let her get defensive. It would tell me everything I needed to know.

Her reaction was all wrong.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t fire back with a sharp retort. Instead, a slow, infuriatingly knowing smirk touched her lips. It was the same damn smirk I used on people.

She actually had the audacity to shrug, a lazy, dismissive movement of her shoulders as she walked toward the kitchen. She waved a hand in the air, as if swatting away a mildly annoying fly.

"It was fine," she said, her voice light, almost bored. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water, not even looking at me. "The company was... familiar. Comfortable. You know how it is."

Comfortable. Familiar.

The words were like gasoline on the fire already roaring inside me. She was confirming it. She was painting a picture of a cozy little evening in that shithole apartment with him, and she was completely unbothered by my knowing about it.

My grip tightened on the glass. The casual dismissal was a thousand times worse than any denial. A denial would have been a fight. This was just... indifference. She didn’t care that I knew. She didn’t care what I thought.

The smug, lazy tone I’d been aiming for vanished. My next words came out sharper, laced with a demand I couldn’t quite hide.

"’Comfortable’ is a interesting word for it," I said, my voice lower, colder. I set the glass down with a sharp click. "Did you two have a lot to catch up on? I hope my business didn’t keep you from your... other commitments."

The sarcasm was still there, but it was a blade now, not a feather. I was pushing. I needed a reaction. I needed to crack that infuriatingly calm facade.

I was boiling. And she was just standing there, taking a sip of water, looking utterly at ease in my kitchen, after a night spent with another man. The injustice of it was a physical ache in my chest.

She finished the water, the bottle making a soft plastic crinkle as she set it on the counter. Then she moved, not toward her room, but to the large armchair opposite me. She fell into it with a sigh, as if she owned the place.

She looked right at me, her eyes holding mine across the dim space. A slow, deliberate shrug. One corner of her mouth quirked up. Then she did it. She bit her lower lip, a gesture that was both playful and utterly defiant.

"What can I say?" she said, her voice a low, teasing hum. "I missed him."

The words hung in the air, a direct hit. I missed him.

Every muscle in my body went rigid. The casual admission, the lip bite, the way she looked so utterly comfortable admitting she’d missed another man—it wasn’t just a provocation. It was a declaration of war.

The air in the room vanished. All the smug sarcasm, the veiled questions, the controlled anger—it all evaporated, burned away by a white-hot flash of pure, undiluted possession.

In one fluid, violent motion, I was out of my chair. My empty whiskey glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the concrete floor, but I didn’t even hear it.

I crossed the space between us in two strides. My hands shot out, gripping the arms of her chair, caging her in. I leaned down, my face inches from hers, cutting off her view of anything but me.

My control was gone. Shattered like the glass on the floor.

"Missed him?" I repeated, my voice a low, dangerous growl. It vibrated with a fury I wasn’t even trying to hide anymore. "Let me be perfectly clear, Paige. You are mine."

I didn’t give her a chance to speak, to smirk, to bite that damn lip again.

"You don’t get to miss anyone else."

The words were a slap. I’m not yours. And then her hands were on my chest, a gentle but firm push. She stood, rising to her full height until she was right in front of me, impossibly close, her chin tilted up in defiance.

"I’m mine," she stated, her eyes searching mine. A faint frown of genuine curiosity touched her brow. "What’s wrong?"

What was wrong? What was wrong? The question was so absurd, so utterly oblivious to the inferno she had just lit inside me, that I could only stare at her, my jaw locked, my breath coming in short, sharp pulls. The silence stretched, thick and charged with everything I wasn’t saying.

And then she burst into laughter.

It wasn’t a mean laugh. It was a real, bright sound of pure amusement that echoed in the vast, tense space of the penthouse. She shook her head, her shoulders shaking with it.

I was completely, utterly lost. The fury was still there, a hot coil in my gut, but now it was tangled with sheer, unadulterated confusion. What the hell was so funny?

"He’s gay, you idiot," she finally managed, her laughter subsiding into a warm, breathy chuckle.

Her hands, which had pushed me away, now came back. Her fingers traced a slow, deliberate path from the center of my chest, up over the tense muscles, to my shoulders. The touch was a brand, soothing and electrifying at the same time.

"So chill, okay?" she said, her voice softening. She gave me a gentle push back, this one without any real force, just a playful nudge. "Plus," she added, a sly, knowing glint returning to her eyes. "He’s not my type."

The pieces crashed together in my head. The bartender. Leon. Gay. The jealousy that had been a raging fire moments ago suddenly had nothing left to burn. It evaporated, leaving behind a strange, hollow feeling of foolishness.

All that rage. All that possessive fury. It was based on nothing. A complete miscalculation.

I stood there, feeling the ghost of her touch on my shoulders, the echo of her laughter in the air. The tension was gone, replaced by a different kind of heat—one of embarrassment and a dawning, grudging amusement at my own idiocy.

A slow, reluctant smirk finally broke through my frustrated scowl. I caught her wrists, not to restrain her, but to keep her hands on me.

"Not your type?" I repeated, my voice regaining some of its familiar low rumble. I pulled her just an inch closer. "And what, exactly, is your type, Black Cat?"