Victoria pressed the down button, the soft chime of the elevator echoing faintly in the quiet lobby. She waited, her posture straight, handbag resting lightly against her wrist. When the doors slid open, she froze.

Nathaniel stood inside.

Her pulse gave the faintest jolt, but her face remained composed.

“Going down?” His voice was smooth, low, almost casual—but behind it was steel, command. He held the button for her, gaze fixed, unblinking.

“Yes.”

Nathaniel caught a glimpse of her hazel eyes, cold and distant.

She stepped into the elevator, the sharp click of her ivory stilettos echoing softly against the polished floor. The doors slid shut, sealing them inside. Reaching for the panel, she lifted her hand to press B1, only to notice it was already lit. She almost frowned. Great—they’re headed the same way.

Inside, she kept her distance, a careful few steps separating them.

Nathaniel leaned casually against the mirrored wall, his gaze fixed on her. His eyes traced the lines of her silk-white dress—how it cinched neatly at her waist before flowing down to her mid-thigh, brushing against her pale skin. Her heels only emphasized the length of her legs, a quiet display of elegance, dangerous in its sultry restraint.

She could feel his stare—steady, unrelenting—but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

He pushed off the wall, closing the gap between them with unhurried ease.

Her breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. She kept her gaze forward. Unmoved. Unbothered.

“It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other,” Nathaniel said, his tone smooth, almost casual. “You still look stunning.”

Victoria stayed silent. Not even a flicker of emotion crossed her face.

Nathaniel arched an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing on his lips.

“Ignoring me, huh?”

Nothing. Not even a glance.

He studied her icy demeanor. Leaning a little closer, his voice dropped low, dangerously close to her ear.

“Don’t be a stranger, Victoria. Didn’t we share a past? Or have you already forgotten it?”

She felt his breath against her skin—warm, taunting, far too familiar. For a split second, her mask cracked. Her brows drew together in the faintest frown.

Nathaniel caught it, and a small, satisfied smile tugged at his mouth.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a soft hiss.

Victoria stepped out first, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

Nathaniel followed a moment later, his gaze fixed on her retreating figure—steady, watchful, unreadable.

“See you again next time, Victoria,” he said lightly.

She didn’t even acknowledge him.

The rhythmic thud of leather against canvas echoed through the gym. Nathaniel’s fists slammed into the punching bag—measured, powerful, relentless. Each strike was precise, fueled not by anger but by calculation. Sweat slicked his skin, tracing down the hard lines of his shoulders as he kept his rhythm steady.

When he finally stopped, he ripped off his gloves, chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths. Grabbing his sports drink bottle, uncapping it with slow, deliberate movements. He took a long sip, letting the cool liquid wash down his throat, then used the towel beside it to wipe the sweat from his face. His muscles began to loosen, but his mind remained taut, alert.

A soft chuckle escaped him—low, amused, almost disbelieving. He could hardly believe it—the old man had actually used Victoria as a bargaining chip.

Fidel. That old man really thought he could leash him with Victoria.

The notion itself was almost insulting. That was the move of a man who underestimated his opponent. Yet he remembered the brief pause in Fidel’s eyes, the subtle calculation as if he had been weighing every possible move. Victoria wasn’t just collateral—she was a piece in a game yet to be fully revealed. If Fidel wanted to put his daughter on the board as a piece, then Nathaniel would take that piece and turn it into his own weapon.

And then the thought sharpened, heated.

Victoria.

Her name somehow struck something deep in him. He remembered her back—the way she used to stand before him, always a few steps away, like a horizon he could see but never reach. Even then, she felt distant. And now, years later, nothing had changed. In the elevator, when he stood beside her, even the closeness felt like a reminder of how far she’d gone.

He exhaled sharply, a quiet scoff breaking through his thoughts. Her coldness stirred something dangerous in him. At first, it stung—like reopening an old wound he thought had forgotten. He could still recall the pain of watching her turn her back on him the day she ended things. 

Yet his mind kept returning to Fidel’s terms: the alliance would only succeed if he could keep Victoria from breaking the engagement and lead her to the altar. The words weren’t merely conditions—they were a deliberate challenge, testing whether he could bend the one piece that might defy him.

A thought struck him sharply. Come to think of it… why was she still unmarried after all these years? Eleven years ago, she had ended things with him, claiming she loved someone else. And yet she remained single. Curiosity pricked at him like a warning light.

If Fidel’s terms were never simply about leashing him, then this was a probe, a measurement of his ability to control, to anticipate, to succeed where others might fail. Nathaniel scoffed silently. Fidel may have anticipated failure—but he hadn’t accounted for the fact that he already held the leverage.

He took a measured sip from his sports drink, set it down with precise calm, then slipped his gloves back on. Every motion was deliberate, calculated—an unspoken ritual before the next move. His eyes hardened, steady and unflinching, burning with quiet determination.