Bought by the Ruthless CEO

Chapter 4: The Dinner

I wore the black dress after a very quick shower.

Not because he told me to. At least that's what I told myself while I stared at my reflection in the huge bathroom mirror.

It fit like it was sewn onto my body.

No, like it was painted onto my body. The kind of black that absorbs light. One shoulder covered, one shoulder bare. A slit up to my thigh that made me feel naked and powerful at the same time.

The tag said $2,800. I quickly tucked it inside so I wouldn't see it.

I had never worn anything that cost more than $80. And that $80 dress was from Zara on sale.

Martha had forced me to sit while she blew out my messy bun into soft waves. Her hands were kind.

"You have such pretty hair, dear. Don't hide it in a bun," she said, smiling. "You have your mother's eyes. Sad and strong."

She put me in black heels that made me 5'10". My legs looked longer. My fear looked smaller. But my heart was still hammering.

When I walked out at exactly 7:59 — one minute early, because I remembered Rule Five — Aaron was already at the dining table.

He didn't look up from his phone at first. Black shirt. Black pants. A glass of whiskey. Like a king waiting for his court.

Then he did look up.

And his hand stopped mid-scroll.

For a full five seconds, he just stared. He didn't blink.

His black eyes went from my face, down to my throat, down to where the dress hugged my waist so tight I could barely breathe, down to the slit, to my heels, then slowly, so slowly, back up to my eyes.

He didn't say you look beautiful.

He said something worse. Something that made my stomach flip and my knees weak.

"Better," he said, his voice low and rough. "Now you look like you belong here. In my house. At my table."

I hated how my stomach flipped at that. I hated how part of me wanted him to keep looking.

The elevator dinged. Direct penthouse access. No knocking. Ever in this house.

Two men walked in, both in suits that probably cost more than my father's hospital bill for a whole month.

One was older, grey hair, with a friendly smile that didn't reach his eyes. The other was younger, maybe 28, blonde, handsome in a Wall Street, trust-fund way, and he stared at me the second he saw me. Like I was a new toy.

"Ernest— sorry, Aaron," the older one said, laughing loudly. "You didn't tell us dinner came with entertainment. You keep secrets now?"

"This is Lisa Reyes," Aaron said, standing up and placing a hand on the small of my bare back. His palm was warm. Too warm. Possessive. Like he was marking territory.

"My... personal assistant."

The way he paused before 'personal assistant' made both men smirk. They knew. Everyone knew what 'personal assistant' meant for a man like him.

The younger one stepped forward and took my hand before I could pull it away. He kissed the back of it. His lips were wet and lingering.

"Julian Chase. I'm Aaron's partner. And business partner," he added with a wink. "And you, Lisa, are the best hiring decision he's ever made in his life. Where did you find her, Cross? NYU library? You always did like them smart and broke and beautiful."

My hand froze in his. I wanted to snatch it back but I was frozen.

Aaron's hand on my back tightened. Just a fraction. But I felt it. His fingers dug slightly into my skin.

"Julian," Aaron said, his voice still calm, but now with a layer of pure ice under it. "Don't touch what's not yours."

The room went quiet. So quiet you could hear the ice in Martha's kitchen.

Even the clink of Martha setting plates stopped.

Julian let go immediately, holding his hands up in fake surrender. But his eyes were still on me, on the slit of my dress.

"Whoa. Possessive. New. This is new for you, Cross. Didn't know we were doing monogamy now. Since when do you get possessive over assistants?"

"We're not," Aaron said, pulling out my chair for me. The chair next to his. Not across from him. Right next to him. So close our knees would touch.

"Sit," he ordered me softly.

I sat. My knees were shaking so hard I thought the chair would shake. The slit in my dress opened when I sat and I quickly pressed it closed with my hand. Aaron noticed. He noticed everything. His eyes darkened.

Dinner was served — steak that bled red, wine that cost more than my rent in Queens for three months, asparagus I didn't know how to eat.

They talked business. Something about a hotel in Miami, a deal gone wrong, offshore accounts, money laundering — words they said casually, like they were talking about football, like I wasn't even there.

But I was there. And Julian kept looking at me over his wine glass.

"So Lisa," Julian said, ignoring Aaron's warning, leaning toward me with that drunk, entitled smile. "How much is he paying you? Be honest. Because I will double it. Triple it. You can come work for me. I have a penthouse too. Bigger view. And I don't have as many... rules. I'm more fun."

Martha gasped in the kitchen. Audibly.

I felt Aaron go completely still next to me. The kind of still that comes before something breaks. The kind of still a lion has before it attacks.

"I'm not for sale," I said quietly, trying to handle it myself, trying to be strong.

"Everything is for sale, sweetheart," Julian laughed, his wine breath hitting my face. "Especially in this city. Especially pretty girls with dying fathers and $400k debts. Aaron should know. He bought you, didn't he? What's the price tag? $670k? I heard about the Reyes debt at the club. Good investment, Cross."

My blood ran cold. Ice water in my veins.

He knew. They all knew. My shame. My father's sickness. My price.

My eyes filled with tears before I could stop them. I looked down at my plate, at my $2,800 dress, at my borrowed life that wasn't mine.

Then I felt it.

Aaron's hand left the table and landed on my thigh. Under the table. Under the slit. Where no one could see.

His fingers were hot against my bare skin. Not s****l. Not at first. Grounding. Claiming. Possessive.

"Enough," Aaron said. One word. But his voice was not calm anymore. It was low, dangerous, deadly quiet.

He looked at Julian, and Julian actually leaned back in his chair. His smirk died.

"She is under my protection. She is in my house. She eats at my table. That means she is mine to protect. Mine to handle. Mine to discipline. Not yours."

"If you speak to her like that again, if you look at her like that again, I will break your jaw right here at this table and you will still have to finish dinner with a broken jaw. Understand me, Julian?"

No one spoke.

The older man coughed awkwardly, trying to save the night. "Aaron, come on, Julian is just drunk, he didn't mean—"

"I'm not drunk," Julian muttered, but he wouldn't look at me anymore. He stared at his steak.

Aaron's hand was still on my thigh. His thumb moved once, slowly, in a small, secret circle on my skin. It was not supposed to be comforting. It was supposed to be possessive.

But it was comforting. It told me without words: _I got you. As long as you are mine, no one else gets to hurt you._

I hated that it made me feel safe. Safer than I had felt in three weeks in that hospital chair.

I put my hand over his under the table, meaning to push it away. Meaning to say don't touch me.

Instead, my fingers laced with his for a second. Just a second. His hand was so big. So warm. So steady.

He looked down at our hands under the table, surprised. Then his fingers tightened and he squeezed. Hard.

Dinner ended quickly after that. The men left without dessert. The elevator doors closed with a ding.

Silence in the penthouse. Heavy silence.

I stood up fast, pulling my hand away like it burned. "Don't touch me! Don't ever touch me like that again!"

Aaron stood too, slowly. He slipped his hands into his pockets, watching me. His face was unreadable.

"You touched me first, Lisa," he said quietly.

"I — that was different! You embarrassed me in front of them! You let them talk about my debt like I'm— like I'm a p********e you bought!"

"Like you're mine?" he finished for me, his black eyes flashing.

"I'm NOT yours!" I shouted, tears now falling freely down my cheeks, ruining Martha's makeup. "I'm not your doll! I'm not your assistant! I'm a person! My father is dying and you bought me like a— like a dress off a rack!"

My voice broke on the last word. My whole body shook.

For a second, I thought he would shout back. That he would punish me for yelling at him in his own house.

Instead, he walked to me. Slowly. Step by step. He didn't touch me. He just stood in front of me and let me cry and shake.

"You're right," he said quietly.

I blinked through tears. "What?"

"You are not a dress. Dresses don't argue with me. Dresses don't have a 4.3 GPA from NYU. Dresses don't tell me no. Dresses don't look at me like they want to kill me and kiss me at the same time."

He reached out — slowly, asking permission this time, not ordering — and wiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb. His thumb was warm. It lingered.

"They talked about you like that because they are pigs. And because they have never, ever seen me bring a woman to this table. Ever in ten years."

I sniffled. "Never?"

"Never," he said. His voice was rough now. "This penthouse has never had a woman's shoes in it before tonight. Except Martha's. So yes, they are curious. They will learn who you are to me."

His eyes dropped to my lips again. This time, he didn't look away. He stared.

"Lisa," he whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse. "If you keep looking at me like that while wearing that dress, Rule Four is going to be very hard for both of us to keep."

"What look?" I whispered, barely breathing.

"Like you hate me but you want me to kiss you anyway. Like you want me to ruin you."

My breath stopped. Because he was right. God help me, he was right.

And before I could slap him or kiss him or run away from him — he stepped back, his hands back in his pockets, his cold mask back on his face.

"Go to your room," he said, his voice cold again. Like a boss. "Dinner is over. And take off that dress. You have done enough for tonight."

I ran down the long hallway in those stupid expensive heels, slammed my bedroom door, and slid to the floor in my $2,800 dress, touching my cheek where his thumb had been.

God help me. I was supposed to hate him.

So why did I feel safer when his hand was on my thigh than I had in my own home?