Willow chimes. “Or suffered through.”
I smirk, shifting my weight lazily. “Rock cakes? That’s what you’re planning to make?”
“Depends,” she fires back. “Do you prefer them dry and inedible, or just mildly disappointing?”
I let my smirk deepen, tilting my head. “I was thinking iced fingers…” Lila freezes for half a second, barely noticeable, but I catch it. The way her throat moves as she swallows. The flicker of something behind her eyes.
She recovers. She tilts her head, expression flat. “I was thinking more along the lines of a plain digestive.”
I arch a brow, fighting back a grin. “Come on, Lila. Not even a ginger nut?”
Her expression doesn’t waver. “Nope. Digestive. No chocolate. No caramel. Just dry. Bland. Functional.”
Willow winces. “Brutal.”
I chuckle, low and amused. “Guess I’ll just have to make the best of it.”
Lila lifts her chin. “You do that.”
But before Lila can fire back, Marcus’ voice cuts through the air.
“Ashcroft.”
I turn, finding him watching me with that unreadable businessman’s stare.
“We need to finalise your donation,” he says smoothly, though we both know that’s not why he’s here.
I exhale slowly, setting my whiskey down. “Of course. Excuse us ladies, wouldn’t want any paperwork issues, would we?”
I adjust my cuffs.
We step into a quieter room across the hallway. The energy shifts instantly. Marcus doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. He moves with quiet precision, lifting a heavy crystal decanter and pouring a generous measure of Macallan 25, the deep amber liquid catching the low light. He slides it across the counter without a word. I take the glass. Old-school. Serious. The kind of whisky you don’t just drink, you respect. Clearly Marcus does, the man knows his whisky.
“That’s a sizeable donation,” he muses, his tone casual. Too casual. He picks up his own glass, swirling the amber liquid once before taking a slow sip. “Generous.” A pause. “But I’m not impressed.”
I take the glass, letting the weight of it settle in my palm. “Didn’t do it to impress you.”
Marcus exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “No, I imagine not.” He sets his drink down with deliberate ease, then turns his full attention on me. “You might be used to throwing money around for whatever you want,” he says smoothly, “but Lila isn’t some escort you can buy for an evening.”
The words land like a slap. My grip tightens around the glass, a sharp heat flaring in my chest.
“I never have,” I bite out, my voice low and edged with warning. “I never will.”
Marcus tilts his head slightly, studying me like he’s testing for cracks. “Good,” he says, taking another sip of his drink.
He takes a step closer, his voice low, measured. “You screw with her. I dismantle you. Simple.”
I take a sip slowly, unfazed. “Sounds expensive.”
His gaze hardens. “I can afford it.”
The silence stretches, taut and unyielding. Neither of us moves.
I’m pissed.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me, Kingsley.”
Marcus lifts his glass, his gaze steady, unreadable. “I know enough. You left. You’re back and now, for whatever reason, you’ve decided Lila is your business again.” He sets the glass down with deliberate precision, his voice cool, controlled. “So let me make something clear. Hurt her, and you deal with me.”
