Renesmee's Pov

My cheeks flush with a sudden, hot wave of embarrassment. I try to brush off what I have just heard, to play innocent or act like I misunderstood him, but he does not give me the chance. He simply leaves a crisp, white business card on the table and rises to his feet in one smooth, powerful motion.

"I didn't think you were going to be that way, Mr. Kensington," I manage to say, my voice tighter than I intended.

"In what way?" He raises a brow, his expression unreadable. "Aren't men societally posed as the chasers? I have seen something worth chasing, and I am pursuing it. It is a simple equation."

He thinks I am worth chasing? The thought is almost laughable, a bitter joke considering the complete wreck my life is currently. My reputation is in shreds, my career is gone, and my family is drowning in debt because of me.

"We just met... how could you possibly love me so quickly?" The question slips out, sounding naive and foolish even to my own ears.

"Love?" He acts repulsed by the very word, his lip curling slightly. Then he takes a deliberate step forward, his neatly polished black shoes glimmering in the morning sunlight streaming through the window. I glance at the timer; there are only five minutes left now. "I think love is something only God truly has, and He lets man choose if they want it or not. I do not want love. I do not think a fallible person can truly give it. I am quite a perfectionist, you see. I am not interested in the messy, unpredictable kind of love attributed to humankind."

"So is it just lust, then?" I get up too, trying to stand my ground and keep up with the intense, analytical gaze of his grey eyes, but I fail miserably when he closes the remaining distance between us. His presence is overwhelming.

"No," he says, his voice low and certain. "If it were merely lust, then I would want you right now and get it done with. Lust is for flings, for affairs and whatnot. I do not want that. I want something far more structured."

He has mentioned that he is very religious, which I now realize would logically mean he would want marriage. The implication hits me like a physical blow. I have just gotten out of a messy, humiliating relationship. My cheeks are burning heavily now, and my heart is suddenly racing a frantic, panicked rhythm against my ribs. I need to get out of here. This is too much, too fast.

I take a shaky step back, away from him. "I'm sorry...I can't," I whisper, the words feeling weak and inadequate.

"I would pay it all," he declares suddenly, his voice cutting through my retreat. I pull to an immediate halt, my body freezing mid-step. "The fifteen million dollars in damages. A bigger, better studio for your mother and your cousin. A prestigious career here at KSM, doing real journalism. Permanent protection from Dalton and his fans. And more, far more than you can possibly think of right now."

My mind reels, trying to process the sheer scale of the offer. "In exchange for what?" My voice is a bit clipped, sharp from the shock. He rolls off these life-changing declarations like he is listing grocery items, like it would all be done with a simple snap of his impossibly powerful fingers.

But no. The principle of it sticks in my throat. No matter how big the offer is, no matter how easy it is for him to fulfill, I cannot do that. I cannot sell myself.

He parts his lips to answer, then pauses, studying my face. A knowing look enters his eyes. "You are going to hesitate. You are going to turn me down."

I take a step forward again, a spark of defiance making me keep my voice low and steady. "I just need to know what I am dealing with, okay? I need to understand the terms."

"I have studied you," he states, matter-of-factly. "Since you started dating Dalton back when you were in college, and intensively after you  graduated. I know more of your personality, your family background, and even your genetics, which I found to be valuable. Now you know exactly whom you are dealing with. When you finally understand the full scope of this proposition, Miss Batista, pay me a visit." He reaches for my notepad on the table, his fingers brushing against it. He jots down an address with quick, precise strokes before sighing softly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "This was fun."

As he walks past me, his shoulder nearly brushing mine, I finally catch sight of the timer again. Oh shoot. My time is up. The final second ticks down, and the screen goes blank.

When I leave his office, my legs feel unsteady beneath me. Dawson is standing stiffly at the entrance, and he wordlessly hands me a styrofoam cup of coffee.

I take it with a shaky smile, my fingers trembling around the warm container, trying and failing to keep my composure. I can feel his disapproving stare on my back all the way to the elevator.

The offer Hayes laid out is too good to be true, it plays in my mind like some kind of unrealistic fantasy. I try to keep myself grounded in the present moment during the taxi ride home, focusing on the passing buildings and the sound of the engine, but my mind keeps violently drifting back to the entire encounter in his office. The look in his eyes, the calm way he said those unbelievable things.

Not having to sleep with Dalton for the last few weeks has been a bit refreshing, a small piece of freedom I did not realize I needed.

I have always secretly hated the experience, feeling used and hollow every single time. The idea of giving myself to another man, of being that vulnerable again, makes my skin crawl. I should not even be thinking about this. I should be focusing on survival.

While in the back of the taxi, I pull out my phone and my recorder. I force my hands to stop shaking long enough to transcribe the basic information he gave me, carefully cutting out our heated debate about Dalton and, of course, our entire private conversation at the end.

With a final, hesitant click, I send both the edited audio file and the text transcript to Eddie. I pray deep within me that it will work, that it will be enough. It simply has to work. I realize I have not prayed in years, not truly.

A fragment of Hayes's voice echoes in my memory. "I am quite principled and religious, a Christian."

No. My sudden desperate prayer cannot be because of him. It just cannot.

The taxi ride finally comes to a stop in front of my building. I pay the driver and get out, feeling a wave of relief when I do not see Kyra's car. I find the spare key hidden under the worn-out welcome mat and let myself in, kicking off my heels by the door with a tired sigh. The quiet of the apartment feels heavy.

Just as I am about to sink onto the couch, my phone buzzes violently in my hand. My heart twists into a tight knot as I see the train of chat bubbles from Eddie pop up on the screen. Each new message breaks me a little more as I read the words.

[You are lying. You think I am going to buy this?]

[Hayes Kensington agreed to do an interview with you? It is probably AI-generated. This was a really low move, Renesmee. You could get sued for this, and we cannot have a dishonest reporter in our station.]

The final message appears, and it feels like a door slamming shut.

[Don't ever call me again, Reneesme. It's really over.]

What in the world?