Renesmee's Pov

How did he know? I sigh for what feels like the millionth time and let out a muffled scream into my pillow, the fabric swallowing the sound of my frustration. This is all too puzzling. He is too puzzling. He has somehow managed to slip into my mind without doing anything but just talking, his words echoing in my head on a relentless loop.

He is so different from Dalton, so much more put together and intellectual, but that unnerving calm of his is what truly scares me. Dalton was all loud anger and public drama. Hayes is a quiet, deep ocean, and I have no idea what is lurking beneath the surface.

I turn on my phone, the screen bright in my dark room, and click on Instagram, hoping to scavenge a bit of information from his page. I have to know more about this man. I skim through his profile quickly, but there is nothing personal there, only a collection of professional photos from games and corporate events, each with a carefully crafted, neutral caption. I also spot a post about an event he held to launch his book.

It is something about his autobiography and another book on entrepreneurship. I think I should buy one of those, just to get inside his head.

The thought is immediately crazy, given my current financial situation. I sigh and keep scrolling through the old posts when a new Instagram message notification dings on my phone, startling me. My blood runs cold when I see the name.

[You really do not need to stalk me, Reneesme. You could just ask for any information you need.]

My heart stops for a moment. How is he doing this? I clear my throat, my fingers trembling slightly as I type out a response.

[How did you know that I was on your page? And how did you know Eddie would say those exact things to me? Did you manipulate...]

I backspace, deleting the last part. I should not accuse him outright.

[Did you get involved in this?]

His reply comes almost immediately, as if he was just waiting for my message.

[You came into my office with knowledge built from blogs and news articles written about me. You left with a genuine curiosity. You were bound to check here next. It is simple behavioral pattern recognition.]

Oh. That actually makes a cold, logical sense.

[And as for Edison Chesterfield, that was so obvious, Reneesme. You were dismissed from your job without a proper investigation, which would imply someone, obviously Dalton, greased a few palms to see that plan through. Edison was never going to take you back, not unless you suddenly became more powerful than the person who paid him. Not even an interview with Christ in flesh would have convinced him.]

I read his words, each one cementing the reality I had been too desperate to see. He is right. Of course he is right.

[And his words?] I type back. [How did you predict what he would say so perfectly?]

[There is nothing magical behind my 'prediction'. That is simply the standard language of bitter, frustrated, and petty people in positions of minor power. They all pull from the same limited script.]

I let out an unintentional chuckle, a real one, as I lay back on my bed and rest my head on my pillow. The man is infuriatingly sharp.

[That really defines Eddie,] I reply.

There is a brief pause before his next message appears, and the subject shift makes my breath catch.

[Have you understood my proposition yet, Miss Batista?]

[I'm still trying to understand it,] I answer truthfully. My mind is still reeling from the sheer audacity of it.

[If you do not grasp it by tomorrow, do pay me a visit. I would like to have you for dinner.]

My cheeks flush with a sudden, intense heat. The phrasing is so blunt, so unexpected. For a single, wild second, my brain conjures a nasty, unbidden image: his head between my thighs, his hands gripping my hips, my own fingers tangled in his perfectly styled hair. I shake my head violently, quickly brushing the invasive thought away.

His next message pops up, a swift correction.

[I meant to say, I would like to have you over for dinner.* My apologies, the typo changed the context significantly.]

[I got it,] I type back, my face still burning. [Goodnight, Mr. Kensington. And thank you.]

I put the phone down, my heart hammering against my ribs. I am not sure if the typo was a genuine mistake or a calculated test, but either way, he has successfully gotten under my skin all over again.

I shove my phone aside like it's burned me and lay down flat on my back, staring blankly at the cracked ceiling. How could I even think of that? A hot wave of shame washes over me. I let out a long, weary sigh and start trying to put his words together again in my head, searching for some kind of logical sense. He mentioned genetics. What does that even mean? Does he know about my father, too, and his whole messy history? I am not sure he would want a kid from my line. My so-called 'genes' probably would not look appropriate for a man like him, not on some detailed report.

He could have dozens of women if he wanted just sex. He is Hayes Kensington. The thought makes me feel cheap, like I am being lined up for an auction. I suddenly feel like a whore, contemplating getting paid for sex. I should not be thinking of this. But then the other voice in my head whispers that all my problems, my mother's problems, could just disappear. The temptation is a heavy, dark weight in my stomach.

I woke up the next morning feeling even heavier than before, the weight of his offer and my own chaotic thoughts pressing down on me. Kyra is already at the small kitchen table. Her face is unusually bright as she shoves a spoonful of cereal into her mouth.

"You look like you are in a good mood today," I comment, sliding into the chair opposite hers. My own voice sounds tired and rough.

She grins, her eyes sparkling. "My mom came over last night after her shift. I am going back to stay with her in a few weeks."

I almost forget that she has her own life and her own family sometimes. She has been such a great companion through all of this, really. A small pang of loneliness hits me at the thought of her leaving.

"That sounds great, Kyra. Thank you so much for everything-" I start, meaning it.

"You did not let me finish," she shushes me with a raise of her finger, her smile going even wider and more excited. "You know my mom represented your mother in the civil court case, right?"

"Umm... yes?" I say, my guard going up immediately. I do not like where this is going.

"An anonymous donor called her yesterday and deposited sixteen million dollars directly into her client account for your mother!" she squeals, practically vibrating with joy.

I freeze for a second, my blood running cold. I force myself to react, to pick up her celebratory mood as she scoots out of her chair and comes around the table to hug me. My arms feel like lead as I lift them.

"This is..." I stammer, my mind racing.

"Great, right? I know! It is a miracle! Your mother is coming home today!" She hugs me tighter, her happiness so pure and genuine it almost hurts.

I hug her back tightly, using the embrace to mask my sheer shock. I did not need anyone to spell it out for me. I know Hayes paid it. I know he did, and the certainty of it makes my gut ache with a complicated dread. It is hard to know what his next move will be, now that he has made the first one so decisively.

When I am finally free from Kyra's giddiness, I mumble an excuse and stroll out of the room with my phone already in my hand. My heart is hammering. I open Instagram, my fingers moving on their own, typing out the question that is screaming in my head.

Before I can even hit send, a new message from him appears. It is like he has a direct line to my thoughts.

[I was going to pay it regardless. I do not want our dynamic to be that of a sex worker and a patron. The rest is for her studio. We will discuss your future eventually, Miss Batista. See you at dinner.]

I re-read the text again, then a third time. It is like he is inside my head, answering my panic before I can even voice it. He is always five steps ahead, and all I have to do now is survive dinner tonight. A simple meal. How hard could that possibly be?