Larin

The war between your father and Larin lasted longer than you could remember. It was a classic battle of two empires: setups, contract grabs, and an eternal competition to see whose company would gobble up the other first.

Larin was thirty-five—a dangerous age when a man already wields absolute power but hasn't yet lost his predatory zeal. His son was a little younger, and, as you later learned, they had a plan. Larin decided to hit his father where it hurt—you. The plan was simple: his son would pick you up at the annual reception, gain your trust, and extract family secrets.

They knew your father had a daughter, but he hid you so carefully that no one in the business ever saw your face. Larin, apparently, expected to see a downtrodden, gray mouse, a homebody who was easily swayed.

You were the last to arrive at the meeting. When the heavy doors of the hall swung open, the hubbub of voices died down. You wore a dress that cost as much as a private jet, and a confidence that cost even more. At twenty-one, you knew how to use your looks. You weren't a mouse. You were a standard that took men's breath away.

You walked up to your father, feeling his gaze literally burning into your back. Larin sat on a leather sofa in the VIP area, his legs casually crossed. His son stood next to you, adjusting a cufflink, but when he saw you, his hand froze. He was stunned. All his pretense of dignity crumbled—he simply stared at you, unable to look away, and his gaze was filled with undisguised admiration. The seduction plan had clearly gone awry—now he was the one being seduced.

Larin slowly looked up at you. His eyes, cold and calculating, darkened. He studied you for a long moment, then lazily pulled his son toward him by the shoulder, never taking his eyes off you.

"Did you like it?" Larin asked quietly, a dangerous, low note creeping into his voice. "Forget the plan. I like her too."