Chapter 8: Predator's Claim
874 Words
Sean's fingers jerked back as if scorched by live wires when Lan Bowen materialized in the corridor—a shadow given form in his obsid Lan Brioni suit.
The air thickened with ozone-like tension.
"My secretary requires assistance?" Lan's voice carved through the silence like glacial ice.
"Mr. Bowen," Sean croaked, sweat beading beneath his collar. "Merely... catching up."
John Wood materialized like a specter. "Mr. Lawrence of the sinking Lawrence Holdings."
Lan's smile held the warmth of a guillotine blade. "Chatting requires manhandling**?"** His gaze dropped to Eleanor's wrist blooming crimson fingerprints.
The walk to the penthouse left Eleanor's blistered heels weeping blood into silk-lined Louboutins. She braced against the elevator's mirrored wall, pulse thundering as digital numbers climbed toward damnation.
"The Lawrence boy dies tomorrow." Lan lit a Dunhill, the ember glow painting his cheekbones infernal.
Eleanor's knees buckled. "Sir—"
"He touched my property." Smoke tendrils caressed her throat. "Beg prettier."
Her porcelain mask cracked. "They raised me—"
"Irrelevant." The cigarette died in crystal. "Strip."
Steam curled around Eleanor's trembling form when the shower door hissed open. Lan leaned against marble, Armani sleeves rolled to reveal forearms mapped with power. "Lesson one—" he purred, "kneel."
The tutorial left her raw—a shipwrecked Ophelia washed onto satin sheets hours later. Lan's unexpected gentleness stung worse than violence.
"Arms up." He dressed her with surgeon's precision, Calvin Klein lace fitting like second skin. When his knuckles brushed her ribs, the dam broke.
"Why?" Her whisper fogged the mirror.
Lan's reflection bared wolfish teeth. "Say it."
"I'll never want Sean Lawrence."
His reward kiss tasted of victory and lies. "Sleep."
As dawn bled through curtains, Eleanor traced the cashmere loungewear Lan had chosen—each stitch a shackle in velvet.
The penthouse hummed with midnight silence, broken only by the tap of Lan Bowen’s keystrokes. Eleanor slept curled like a wounded fawn, her breaths syncing with the HVAC’s muted whir. Moonlight gilded her peach-blush cheeks, lashes casting spiderweb shadows.
His finger grazed a stray curl. She stirred, hand drifting to clutch his thigh through silk pajamas.
"Release."
She sighed, nuzzling into EgyptLan cotton.
The kiss began as punishment. Ended as supplication. Her tongue darting to lick bruised lips unraveled him completely.
Bowen Syndicate HQ
Hannah Smith’s ninth porcelain cup exploded against mahogany. "61.7°C!" Lan’s snarl rattled the boardroom. "Where’s the walking thermometer?"
The "thermometer" lounged on a Central Park bench, street tacos churning in her bile-filled stomach. Sunlight drowned her in a hoodie three sizes too large—a college freshman playing hooky.
"He’s demolishing the building!" Hannah’s text blared.
Eleanor smirked through nausea. Let the beast rage.
Sullivan & Associates
Anthony Sullivan’s office reeked of bourbon and cold cases. "Ellie-girl!" The silver-haired attorney engulfed her in cigar-tinged nostalgia.
Her father’s former partner produced files brittle with time. "Brake lines were severed—"
"Uncle Anton." She stilled his tremor-ridden hands. "Let phantoms rest."
His rheumy gaze sharpened. "That Bowen boy treating you right?"
"He’s… particular about beverage temperatures."
Nightmare flashes—Lan’s teeth at her pulse, boardroom threats—curdled her smile.
Dusk found Eleanor tracing the scar across her palm.
Lovers strolled below her bench, their laughter salt in wounds no cashmere could conceal.
"Boyfriend…" The word tasted of ash. Protector. Delusion.
Lan’s shadow swallowed the sunset. "Recess is over, sparrow."
Metropolitan TV Studios - Backstage
Ella Taylor's screech pierced the VIP lounge's soundproofing. "Were you raised in a barn?! Can't even brush hair without maiming someone?"
Her assistant Janie bit through her lip. Three years of enduring this harpy's tantrums had calloused her soul, but today's abuse stung fresh.
"Lower your voice," agent Collins hissed. "Need another trending scandal? Bowen Syndicate's surveillance footage already made you internet laughingstock."
Ella's manicured claws dug into velvet armrests. That gutter-trash Eleanor Voss had somehow manipulated Lan Bowen into exposing her slap across every tabloid. Now Denny Dawson's meteoric rise - beauty, talent, humility - eclipsed her fading star.
Down the Corridor
Denny Dawson's stilettos halted outside the chaos. "Who's the banshee?"
"Your throne's been stolen," agent Camilla snorted. "Ella claimed the executive suite again."
Assistant Michelle whispered, "She poured boiling water on a PA last month."
Denny's knuckles cracked. Eleanor's bruised face flashed behind her eyelids. "Prep two caramel macchiatos. We're redecorating."
The lounge door swung open.
"Out." Denny's command froze Ella mid-rant.
"This is my—"
"Correction." Denny claimed the chaise longue. "Roaches don't get VIP privileges. Michelle - refreshments for the humans."
Ella's face cycled through vermilion to corpse-pale. "You washed-up—"
"Save it, Little Red Riding Hood." Denny caught her wrist mid-slap. "I ate wolves like you for breakfast in Havoc of Empires."
"You...you want Bowen too!" Ella spat.
Denny's laugh chilled the champagne buckets. "Please. That walking ice sculpture's not fit to lick my Louboutins."
Memories of Eleanor's tearful clinic visit sharpened her grin. "Now scram before I 'accidentally' leak your botox invoices."
Post-Eviction
Michelle vibrated with glee. "Did you see her face?! Should've livestreamed it!"
Camilla massaged her temples. "One viral showdown per quarter, Denny. That's the deal."
"Worth every cent." Denny touched up her lipstick. "No one bullies my girl. Now let's make this trashy talk show sparkle."
- Writer
