It had been three days since the "Liquidation Proposal."
Three days of a new, refined, and far more systematic hell. Rossie was no longer just a prisoner. She was a function. An "engine of suffering," as he had so clinically defined her.
The revelation had broken her. She now moved through the penthouse in a state of hollow, silent obedience. She was no longer fighting. She was no longer angry. She was simply… running. A human engine, idling on the fumes of her own despair.
She was in the library, a vast, two-story room of dark wood and the scent of old paper, tasked with re-shelving a stack of astronomical charts. It was a pointless, mundane task. "Engine maintenance," she supposed. Keeping the parts moving.
She was on a rolling ladder, reaching for a high shelf, when she heard the voice.
"You're a fool, Xander. A sentimental fool."
Rossie froze. Her blood turned to ice.
Ayumi.
She was back.
Rossie pressed herself against the bookshelf, hidden in the shadows of the upper landing. Her heart, which she thought had become incapable of fear, began a sick, heavy thud.
"Your 'logic' was flawed," Ayumi's voice purred from the lounge below. She sounded different. Not corporate and sharp, but low, intimate, and smoky. She was trying a new tactic. Seduction. "You know my proposal is cleaner. You're just… attached. You're letting this… pet… cloud your judgment."
"My judgment is perfectly clear," Maher's voice rumbled. Flat. Analytical.
"Is it?" Ayumi laughed, a sound like breaking crystal. "You chose a leaking faucet over a pristine, gilded tap. You chose mess over perfection. You're lonely, Xander. After five hundred centuries, you've gone soft. You've mistaken a bug for a feature."
Rossie heard the rustle of silk. She crept, silent as a ghost, to the edge of the library's mezzanine, peering down through the ornate balustrade.
Ayumi was standing in front of Maher, far closer than was proper. She placed her perfectly manicured hands on the lapels of his dark suit. "Forget the contract for a moment. Forget the 'engine.' Let's talk about… us. An alliance. A true partnership. Power for power. Not… power for pain."
"Your proposal was rejected," Maher stated. He did not move.
"My business proposal was rejected," Ayumi corrected him, her voice a whisper. She traced a finger down his shirt. "This is… a personal one."
She rose onto her toes, her beautiful, cruel face lifting to his. Her amethyst eyes glowed. "Show me I'm wrong. Show me you're still the cold, logical pragmatist I've always admired."
She leaned in and pressed her lips to his.
Rossie's breath hitched. Her hand flew to her mouth.
This was it. The ultimate test.
Maher remained perfectly still. He was a statue of granite. His hands were at his sides. He was not responding. He was, Rossie saw, about to push her away. He was rejecting her.
A tiny, stupid, and agonizing spark ignited in Rossie's hollow chest. It was the most dangerous, toxic emotion of all: Hope.
He doesn't want her. He... he...
And in that precise, fatal microsecond, Maher's silver gaze flickered.
He lifted his head just enough.
His eyes, cold and ancient, moved past Ayumi's shoulder.
They locked directly onto Rossie's.
He saw her.
He saw her hiding. He saw her watching.
He saw the fragile, pathetic hope in her eyes.
And his face changed.
The cold, analytical mask remained, but a new, terrible intent sharpened his gaze.
Rossie had misunderstood. The hope... that was the flaw. That was the bug.
His engine wasn't running on pure despair. It needed maintenance.
Slowly, with a deliberate, crushing intent, Maher's hand—which had been poised to reject—moved. It snaked around Ayumi's waist, gripping her with a possessive, brutal strength.
He pulled her against him.
And he kissed her back.
It was not a kiss of passion. It was an act of violence. A performative, dominating, punishment. He tilted Ayumi's head back, his mouth devouring hers, his eyes—cold, silver, and utterly merciless—still locked on Rossie.
He was not kissing Ayumi.
He was destroying Rossie.
The tiny spark of hope in Rossie's chest did not just die. It detonated. It exploded, taking her heart, her lungs, and her entire soul with it.
The sound that escaped her was not a word. It was a small, strangled, dying sound.
Gasp.
Shatter.
She stumbled back, her hand hitting a small globe on a stand. It toppled, crashing to the wooden floor with a sound that echoed the breaking of her world.
She turned and fled.
Her bare feet slapped against the cold marble stairs as she ran—ran from the library, ran from the lounge, ran from the sight that had been burned onto her retinas. She ran, not to her room, but to the darkest, coldest corner of the penthouse she could find, collapsing in a heap of pure, unadulterated agony.
She had been a fool.
It was not suffering he wanted. It was this. This specific, targeted, torture.
She was not an engine. She was a toy.
Down in the lounge, the instant the sound of Rossie's running footsteps faded, the performance ended.
Maher tore his mouth from Ayumi's.
He shoved her.
Not gently. He shoved her, hard, sending her stumbling back several feet.
Ayumi caught her balance, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock, confusion, and genuine arousal. "Xander… I... I knew..."
Wipe.
Maher raised the back of his hand to his mouth, wiping away the kiss with a gesture of profound, physical disgust.
"You," he said, his voice a blade of ice, "are a terrible analyst."
Ayumi's confusion vanished, replaced by cold fury. "What… what was that? You used me!"
"You presented yourself as a tool," Maher corrected her, his silver eyes flat and dead. "I simply tested your utility. Your data... your personal proposal... is unpersuasive."
He turned his back on her, adjusting his cuffs. The act was a final, complete dismissal.
"You used me!" she shrieked, her voice losing its seductive purr and regaining its sharp, furious edge. "You used me to hurt that… that human!"
"Yes."
The admission was cold, simple, and absolute.
"Now get out," Maher Xander said, looking out the void-wall at his city. "The maintenance is complete. The engine is running perfectly."