His Ruthless Possession

Ethan's cufflinks glinted like Wall Street compliance warnings. "You wound me, Sinclair." His British accent sharpened to dueling saber precision. "Merely seeking advanced Krav Maga training from the legend who trained Mossad."

Liora choked on her cold brew. "Since when does Blackwood Capital's dealmaker need hand-to-hand combat?"

"My Instagram isn't vacation porn." He stabbed his titanium Visa Infinite card into the penthouse's charging dock. "Those were hostile takeovers in Dubai, Lagos, Santiago—"

"With Cabo San Lucas bikini cameos?" She gestured at his Tom Ford swim trunk tan lines.

The penthouse's blockchain security system chimed. "Mr. Blackwood, your Tesla is being keyed by CNBC reporters."

"Activate anti-paparazzi fog." Ethan's command vaporized the floor-to-ceiling smart glass into opaque white.

Liora circled him like a VC assessing a shaky IPO. "Dad's security consultancy requires Delta Force clearance."

"Hence the 4am cryotherapy sessions." His biceps strained against a Kiton shirt priced higher than her studio's rent.

"Still soft." She flicked his Patek Philippe. "Real operators don't accessorize with Bloomberg terminals."

The ambient LEDs shifted to interrogation-room white. "Prefer Kieran's Brooks Brothers drone aesthetic?"

"At least he's not LARPING 007!"