The next night, Isabella stood before the sleek glass doors of Grey Enterprises once more — this time dressed to kill.
Her modest dresses were gone. In their place was a fitted black sheath that hugged her figure, her hair swept up, her heels sharp enough to cut diamonds.
If she was going to make a deal with the devil, she would look like she belonged in hell.
The receptionist barely looked up this time, simply gesturing toward the private elevator.
"He's expecting you," the woman murmured, her voice tinged with something like wariness.
Isabella stepped into the elevator and pressed the button. As the doors slid shut, she took a deep breath and forced her hands to unclench.
When the doors opened, he was already waiting.
Alexander stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, hands in his pockets, the city's lights glittering behind him like fallen stars.
He turned when he heard her footsteps, and the way his gaze swept over her — slow, assessing — sent a shiver down her spine.
"You clean up nicely," he said, his lips curling into a faint smirk.
"I'm not here to impress you," she shot back, stepping forward.
"Mm," he hummed, clearly entertained by her spark. "Pity. You're doing an excellent job."
She ignored the jab, stopping just a few feet from him. "You said you'd talk. So talk."
For a moment, he just studied her — as though trying to decide if she was worth his time. Then he finally spoke, his voice low and deliberate.
"You want me to destroy your father again. And what do I get in return?"
Isabella didn't flinch. "What do you want?"
He chuckled at that — a sound that was more dangerous than amused.
"You're learning," he murmured. Then, with deliberate slowness, he crossed the space between them, stopping just close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.
"I could ask for your family's company," he mused, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair from her shoulder.
"But that's already mine. I could ask for your silence. Your loyalty. Your soul."
His fingers lingered just long enough to make her pulse quicken before he dropped his hand.
"But no," he continued, his grey eyes gleaming with something she couldn't quite name.
"What I want… is you."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and electric.
Isabella's breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to stand her ground.
"You already destroyed my family once," she said evenly. "Why me?"
He tilted his head, his smirk deepening.
"Because you're the only one left who's interesting."
Her jaw tightened, but she met his gaze, unflinching.
"And if I refuse?"
His smile turned razor-sharp.
"Then you can walk out that door and go back to being nothing. Forgotten. Abandoned. Again."
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the city outside.
Then Isabella's lips curved into a cold, deliberate smile of her own.
"I hope you're ready for me, Mr. Grey," she said softly.
"Because once this starts, I don't stop."
His eyes flashed — and for the first time, his smirk faltered, just slightly, replaced by something darker.
"Good," he murmured.
"Tomorrow. Seven o'clock. My place. Don't be late."
As she stepped back into the elevator, her heart was pounding — but not from fear.
It was excitement.
If she was going to burn, she'd make sure he burned with her.