Lethal Scents: Love and Mind Games

Caught by Him again

Bruised Ink

Quite the fall, young lady,” the older man said, shaking his head as he packed his bag. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse. No broken bones, but stay off that leg as much as possible for the next few days.”

Zee nodded weakly, playing the role of the remorseful daughter perfectly. The moment the doctor stepped out of her room and closed the door behind him, she moved.

Ignoring the sharp pain in her leg, she limped quickly to the door and pressed her ear against it. She could hear the doctor speaking with her father in the hallway.

“…consistent with a fall on rocky terrain, Mr. Hilton. The scrapes and the fractured knee cap match what she described. She was fortunate. A few inches differently and it could have been much worse.”

Her father’s voice was gruff but noticeably calmer. “So it was truly an accident?”

“From what I can see, yes….

Zee’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. She didn’t wait to hear more. She limped back to her bed. Pulling out her hidden phone from under the pillow, she quickly typed a message to Britney:

Zee: [I know I did ask you to smash my leg, but I didn’t ask that you kill me, b***h. Well, it worked, but honestly my leg is actually hurting like hell though]

[Sorry, love]. Britney responds

The injury had cost her real pain, but it had bought her precious time. The official introduction to Ryan’s family had been delayed, and her father’s suspicions were temporarily quieted.

Zee puts away her phone and goes to sleep. She has to be at the Undergrounds tonight.

The afternoon sun filtered through the penthouse windows as Zee stared at the phone. Her alarm had woken her up:

[Lunch at 2pm]

She reluctantly stands up from the bed, carefully aiding her right foot as she heads for the bathroom.

The private dining room at the Hiltons smelled of the usual aged wine, garlic, and simmering powder. Crystal glass caught the chandelier light, but the atmosphere was anything but warm.

Zee sat rigid in her dress, hands folded tightly in her lap. Across from her, Ryan leaned back in his chair like he owned the air itself, his dark eyes moving between her and her father with calculated patience. Nobody told her he would be coming back for lunch.

“Doesn’t he have things doing?” she thought to herself.

Her father, Hank Hilton, looked smaller tonight. The once-feared underboss had aged ten years in the last six months. Debts, bad alliances, and one too many betrayals had left him cornered. Now he sat here selling his only daughter to save what remained of his name.

“This marriage will secure both our families,” Hank said, his voice strained as he cut into his steak. “Zee brings legitimacy. You bring protection.”

Ryan swirled his red wine, never taking his eyes off Zee. “I agree. This project is … exceptional.. Resourceful.” A faint smile touched his lips.

How are your knees, by the way? He asked, smirking darkly.

Zee’s stomach twisted.

He wasn’t the type to keep scores. He had built his empire on cold logic, not petty grudges. But last night… last night tested even his patience.

He had seen her escaping earlier that evening — leaping from the wall in that ridiculous ball gown.

And this morning she returns at 4:30 AM with a conveniently dramatic injury?

Ryan let out a low, dark chuckle.

First, she slapped him on the rooftop, five years ago.

Now, she had deliberately missed their official introduction — an event meant to formally unite their families.

Ryan leaned back against the leather seat, his expression hardening.

Zee forced herself to speak. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

Hank shot her a sharp look. “You will do what’s necessary for the family. As I have.”

The tension thickened with every passing minute. Conversation stayed clipped—discussions of alliances, upcoming shipments, expectations of the community. Ryan was polite but unrelenting, outlining terms like a contract: public appearances, shared residence, zero interference in his business. Zee’s role would be clear—wife, ornament, and quiet hostage.

When dessert arrived, Hank pushed his plate away and stood. “I’ll give you two a moment to… bond. Speak openly.” He placed a heavy hand on Zee’s shoulder, a silent warning, then left the room.

The door clicked shut. The silence that followed was deafening.

Zee finally met Ryan’s gaze head-on. Her voice was low but steel-edged. “I will never marry you.”

Ryan set his wine glass down slowly. He didn’t look surprised. If anything, he looked entertained.

“Is that so?” Miss Hilton, what do you think happens if you refuse?”

“I don’t care,” she lied, heart pounding. “I won’t be traded like property to a man like you. A tyrant. I would rather burn everything down than wear your ring.”

Ryan’s expression darkened, but his voice remained dangerously calm. “That’s a lot from someone who goes around seducing men into kissing her, don’t you think? You have spirit—I respect that. It’s why I choose you instead of simply removing you.”

He stood and circled the table until he stood beside her chair. Zee refused to shrink back as he tilted her chin up with two fingers.

“You think this is just about your father’s debts or the community project ?” he murmured. “This is about control.

Zee jerked her face away from his touch, eyes blazing. “Then you’ll have a wife who despises you every single day of your life.” She stands up and heads for the stairs.

Ryan’s smile returned, slow and chilling. “Good. Hate keeps things interesting, and I think I’m becoming interested in you.”

“Thank you, I’m also interested in "me",” Zee smirks as she disappears into her room.

Zee spent the afternoon on the couch with her foot elevated, surfing the internet, playing FBI duties on her laptop. His words….."This is about control," for some reason wouldn’t stop lingering in her head. As evening fell, she tested the knee. It hurt, but she could manage with careful steps and the right heels. She paused the interview and closed the tab.

At 9 PM, she slipped into a simple black dress, the one that hid the wrap on her ankle, added a coat, and waited for the shift change of the security detail. The guards were still less familiar with her routines. She had Shank, her trusted aide. She used the service elevator, limped through the underground parking lot, and caught a cab two blocks away. Freedom, however brief, tasted like smoke and possibility.

The Undergrounds were her sanctuary—no one there knew her real name. The stage was small, the crowd loyal, and for forty minutes she could pretend she wasn’t Hilton’s illegitimate daughter.

She took the stage a little after ten, legs throbbing but her voice steady. The spotlight warmed her face as she sang old torch songs—Billie Holiday, Etta James—pouring every ounce of trapped frustration and longing into the microphone. The audience clapped harder than usual. For those minutes, she wasn’t Zee Hilton. She was free. The feeling was everything

Zee finished her last set to warm applause. She bowed, slipped backstage, and headed for the back door to avoid the crowd and any potential recognition as usual. She had messaged Jakes that she wouldn’t stay back for their little chitchat because of her injury. She was sure her dad would come check in on her back at home.

The alley air was cool against her flushed skin. She leaned against the brick wall for a moment, favoring her injured ankle, savoring the small rebellion while her coat dangled in her hand.

Headlights swept the alley. A Maybach SUV engine purred to life, ready to reverse. Through the headlights, Ryan could now see the person fumbling with a face mask in the dark. He sat still in the driver’s seat. His eyes locked on her with predatory focus.

Zee froze.

He chuckled and turned the engine off. He lowered the car window and shouted after her as she tried walking away, “Miss Hilton, get in!”

An awkward silence hung in the air like fog. Zee sat still in the passenger seat. While Ryan slowly looked at her, taking in the dress under her coat, the stage makeup still on her face, the way she favored one foot. Understanding dawned, followed by a flash of dangerous amusement.

“Twisted ankle, or… what was it again ?” His voice was quiet, almost gentle. Too gentle. “Clever! Painful enough to skip your birthday party and our family introduction, but not painful enough to stop you from sneaking out to sing your heart out in the Undergrounds I own half of.”

Her stomach dropped. “Of course he owned part of it. People like the Ryan’s are those who controlled Agat. CEOs who act with mafia-like ruthlessness, crushing competitors, bending rules, and destroying lives for profit”.

She lifted her chin and turned to him but she remained silent. Aside from some information she got from her FBI duties on him earlier this afternoon, this new information is the main “Ice”, but now she’s in his net.

The alley light cast sharp shadows across his face, through the windshield. He reached out and brushed a thumb across her cheek, wiping away a smudge of stage glitter.

“You performed beautifully, I know,” he murmured. “I’ve watched you for years. Your voice could bring empires to their knees.”

“Lethal scents.”

He didn’t sound angry. He sounded possessive, intrigued, and something else she couldn’t name.

“Let’s talk calmly about the marriage, shouldn’t we? Lethal Scent,” he said. “Your father wouldn’t be worried that you stayed at my place, right?" Well, we do have a lot to discuss, and we can’t do that at your place.

“We’ll ice that knee properly at home and I promise to drop you off tomorrow to avoid more trouble.”

Zee sat still as he started off the engine and drove away, the pain in her ankle now matched by the deeper ache of realization: his findings had only pulled her further into his world. As the city lights blurred past, she wondered how many more “accidents” it would take before she could finally run away.