Somewhere in the quiet backroom of an upscale underground bar — the kind with no name, no menu, and no digital footprint — Gregory Hills leaned back in a leather chair.
One leg casually crossed over the other, as the lights above cast a soft glow across the glass table in front of him.
A man in a navy coat stepped inside, slightly out of breath. In his hands, he clutched an envelope like it was radioactive.
"Pictures," he said, "Everything you asked for."
Gregory didn't reach for it at first.
He just looked at the man with a calm, unreadable stare that always seemed to strip a person down to the bone.
Then, slowly, he leaned forward and collected the envelope. One by one, he laid the photographs on the table.
Click.
One photo: Arnold Connor shirtless in a silk robe, standing at the foot of a bed. And a woman curled in the sheets with face half-turned, barely visible.
He studied the half-hidden face. Nothing distinct. Yet it lingered.
Flip.
Next: Arnold laughing at ease in the backseat with the same woman. She was trying to alight the car, her face obvious now.
Her eyes were sharp, not the usual dazed socialite.
Another shot caught her walking into a modest apartment building.
Then the next, she was pushing through the doors of a busy office tower with two coffees balanced in her hands and a press badge clipped to her jacket.
He stared at that one longer than the others. His fingers rested gently on the image, tracing it almost absentmindedly.
"She's not the usual type," he said at last, more to himself than to the person across from him. "Not a trust fund baby. Not a model."
The man shifted nervously.
"I checked the camera logs myself. No fakes. She spent the night."
Gregory hummed and leaned back. "What's her name?"
"Freya Davis. Journalist. Daily News."
He repeated it slowly, like he was trying to taste the truth in it. "Freya Davis... and she just wandered into his life?"
"No sign she was sent. No connection to us, or anyone else. I checked twice."
Then, a slow grin curled at the corner of his lips, neither amused nor joyful. Something darker.
"Dave, I've known Arnold for fifteen years," he said quietly. "And that man doesn't do sleepovers. He doesn't do emotional attachments."
"So why her?" He tapped the table once and the question hung in the room like smoke.
He stood and moved toward the tall windows. Rain tapped softly against the glass, blurring the view beyond, while his reflection stared back at him. He looked older and wearier than he remembered.
His jaw clenched for a breath. Then loosened. No room for old feelings now.
"She might be a weakness," he said softly, "Or… she might be leverage."
He turned. "Find out which."
Dave gave a short nod. "Want me to send someone to her?"
Gregory walked slowly back to the table and picked up a photo of Freya at work.
He studied it.
"No," he said finally. "We don't touch her. Not yet. I want to know who she is before we decide what she's for."
He moved to a small side door and opened it, revealing a brightly lit white room.
A tall, elegant woman was sitting on the stool. She wore a gray pencil skirt and a blouse that looked one breath away from coming undone.
Her legs were perfectly crossed like a model as she flipped through a magazine.
She looked up as he entered, and her lips curled in a sulky smile.
"Greg, you're late."
He shut the door behind him with a slow click. Didn't speak. Just stared.
"You know I hate waiting," she murmured, uncrossing her legs.
Greg said nothing.
Instead, he moved across the room, slowly, like a lion deciding whether or not to pounce.
When he stopped just in front of her, her breath hitched.
He reached out and wrapped a hand gently, possessively, around her throat.
Not squeezing. Just holding.
Her eyes fluttered.
"Is that how we're playing tonight?" she whispered, tilting her chin to give him better access. "Or are you here to give me orders?"
His grip tightened slightly. Just enough.
"Both," he said in a low voice.
Then he kissed her.
Hard.
"I hope this assignment involves more than lurking in elevators," she murmured, eyes locked on him as the heat intensified. "I'm bored, Greg."
"It's quiet work," he said. "Soft entry. No blood."
He grabbed her by the waist and shoved her back against the steel table. A flush bloomed in her cheeks.
"You still crave pain when you're bored?" he muttered against her skin.
"I crave you when I'm bored," she replied, breathless.
He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. "You like being owned, don't you?"
"Yes," she exhaled.
"You like being nothing but a tool."
"Yes, sir."
His mouth crashed into hers, and she melted into the kiss like it was oxygen. His grip in her hair tightened as he devoured her mouth, kissing her not with affection, but with claim. It was punishing. Completely hot.
She moaned into it, clawing at his shirt, trying to pull him closer.
His hand clamped on her thigh and spread her legs against the table, forcing her open.
"Who do you belong to?" he growled.
"You," she gasped.
"And what are you?"
"Your clean blade," she whispered. "Your favorite weapon."
His hand slid higher, only to stop right after.
"Why did you stop?" She whimpered.
"Not tonight," he pulled back, leaving her undone.
She blinked, dazed, lips sore, blouse askew. Her chest rose and fell fast.
"You do that," she panted, "just to remind me I'm not the one in control."
"You never were," he said simply.
Then he held out Freya's photo, and her mood shifted instantly.
"I need you to disappear into her world."
She straightened her blouse, fixed her hair and took the photo. After glancing at it, she raised an eyebrow. "As an intern?"
Greg nodded. "I want you to know her. What she likes. What she wants. Who she's loyal to. Everything."
She studied Freya's face for a long moment.
"She's not like the others. Is she a threat?"
"I don't know," he replied. "But Arnold doesn't let people get close. Not like that."
"If she's just a fling, she'll fade. But if she's something else…"
His voice drifted off.
She slipped the photo into her handbag, then adjusted her lipstick with a small silver mirror, pressing her lips together just slow enough to be noticed.
"When do I start?"
Greg held the door open for her. "Tomorrow morning. Daily News building. And be convincing."
"Aren't I always?" she winked and gave him a wry smile. "Call me Intern Flora."
"Hahaha, that's a good choice." He didn't smile back, but his eyes flickered with approval.
"Tell me when you want her destroyed," she said softly. "You know I love making messy girls disappear."
He didn't respond. Just watched her go.
Then he wiped her lipstick off his jaw with a slow thumb and went back to the rain-blurred window. He kept tapping against the glass like he was already playing his next move.
"After all these years, Arnold still thinks he can outrun consequences."
He smirked.
"Let's see what makes Freya Davis worth the risk."