Undressed By His Arrogance Chapter 9: You Lost This One

His face was red, veins pulsing in his temple.

"You and I never had this conversation," Raphael said. "But if sothing were to happen to Winn, his wife and kids would take control of everything." He leaned back, letting the weight of the words sink in, watching Tom’s face closely.

"Ah... fuck !" Tom exhaled, dragging his hand down his face. "And if the wife and kids were to poof?" he asked quietly.

"Everything," he said, dragging the word out, savoring it, "goes to his wife’s family."

It took all of two seconds before Tom erupted. He shot up, hands flying as he spewed a flurry of curses that would’ve made a sailor blush. "Son of a—! Motherfucking asshole! Goddamn sneaky, smug, tight-fisted old bastard!"

The raw, feral frustration pouring out of him was almost codic—if not for the sinister undertones.

"Face it, Tom. You lost this one," Raphael said smoothly, swirling his whiskey. He enjoyed seeing Tom unravel, the years of carefully constructed pretense cracking like brittle glass.

Tom slumped back into his chair. "He didn’t even care about his granddaughter, Sylvia," he muttered, shaking his head. His eyes glistened from rage.

"Of course Winn is the golden boy. My own biological daughter is the reject. The failure...Well, no use pressuring Winn to get married anymore. What’s the point?"

"Weeeeeeell..." Raphael drew out the word, eyes glinting with mischief and nace. "What if you made a deal with his wife?"

Tom’s eyes snapped to him, brows furrowed. Raphael leaned forward, lowering his tone. "He gets married. He gets the inheritance. You... get rid of him. And then you split the inheritance with his wife. No one would be the wiser."

"It is a brilliant idea, except the fucker is almost forty and is not even considering marriage. He just fucks his way through life." Tom spat, bitterness dripping from every syllable.

"I know a lady. In our circle, we call her the shoot to kill. She shoots, she scores. Trust , if anyone can make Winn consider marriage—it’s her. She doesn’t miss. n crawl at her feet before they realize their throats are slit." He swirled his drink.

"I don’t know..." Tom muttered. The idea both tempted and terrified him. Tom drumd his fingers against the table, torn between his greed and the dread coiling in his gut.

"What if he doesn’t fall for it? His exgirlfriend made him ... colder. Harder."

"It’s up to you. She’s been the downfall of a great many n. Mostly, won hire her to trap their husbands into cheating—nullify prenups, take everything, walk away free." Raphael shrugged.

"Hmmm... I will think about it." Tom finally said, after letting the silence stretch long enough to weigh his greed against his fear. He rubbed at his jaw, imagining Winn taken down by lust, the Orchard wealth slipping free at last. Still, doubt gnawed at him.

*****

The rest of the week passed by in a blur, a haze of coffee-fueled mornings and late-night deadlines. Working for Mr. Kane was demanding. Yet strangely, he seed to trust that Ivy could handle the fire. He tossed her impossible tasks. And survive she did.

So nights she fell asleep at her kitchen table, her laptop still open.

Ivy prayed she could catch a breath over the weekend, maybe even squeeze in dinner with Steve—the sweet man who’d been patient with her constant cancellations. And her mother, too.

God, it had been weeks since she visited.

But Friday nights weren’t hers. They belonged to her other job—the one she hated, the one she swore she’d quit a hundred tis but never did. It paid well, more than well, and right now, every extra dollar was a lifeline.

She told herself it was temporary. She wouldn’t say no to cash—not when bills piled up, not when her mother’s dicine cost more than she made in a week. Pride didn’t pay rent. Survival did.

"Good night, Mr. Kane." She said. Winn didn’t look up from his phone, only gave a small grunt as he walked past her desk. Ivy locked up his office.

With her bag slung over her shoulder, she hurried downstairs, and handed over the keys to the night receptionist before slipping into the cool night air.

There wasn’t any ti to head back ho. If she tried, she’d only collapse on her bed and never get up again. So instead, she lifted a hand and hailed a cab, sliding in with a tired sigh.

The driver’s eyes lingered on her pencil skirt and blouse in the rearview, but she ignored it. She was used to being watched. The ride to Soriya blurred past in neon streaks and honking horns.

Each mile tugged her further from Winn Kane’s pristine empire and deeper into the shadowed life she kept hidden. She leaned her head against the glass, exhaustion gnawing at her bones.

When she arrived at Commissioned, the bass hit her chest before she even reached the door, a deep, pulsing heartbeat that set the pavent thrumming. The club was infamous—its high-paying clientele, its reputation for indulgence.

A place where city elites shed their masks and bathed in sweat, and secrets. The bouncer, a mountain of a man with tattoos creeping up his neck, broke into a grin the mont he saw her.

"My girl, Beyoncé!!!" he bellowed.

Ivy chuckled, bumping her fist against his. The fake na still made her cringe sotis, but she’d gone with it because the manager insisted. Said her curves, her ass, her sway were almost identical to the singer.

"You ready to shake that thang tonight?" the bouncer teased, wagging his brows.

"Just for a few minutes," she sighed, brushing a lock of hair back from her face. "Got a new job and I am exhausted. But I need the cash, so...Here I am."

Her heart whispered the truth: she hated it. She hated the way n drooled. But every bill, every tip, kept her life stitched together.