Evil MC's NTR Harem

Three days later, Ross met with Emma Lewis at a high-end restaurant. The ambiance was luxurious, with dim lighting and soft music playing in the background, creating an intimate and sophisticated atmosphere.

Ross arrived promptly at 7:00 p.m., dressed in a tailored suit that accentuated his effortless charm.

He could have worn his signature white shirt and dark jeans but in a formal occasion like this, there was nothing wrong to conform.

As he stepped inside, his eyes immediately landed on Emma, seated near the corner of the room.

Just as his divine sense had revealed, Emma was a stunning black-haired beauty.

Her long, flowing hair framed a face that radiated elegance, but it was her figure that truly drew attention—a voluptuous silhouette that made her the embodiment of Ross's type.

She exuded confidence, though her nervous energy was evident in the way she fiddled with her wine glass.

Ross approached with his signature relaxed smile, the kind that had disarmed countless opponents both in and out of negotiations.

"Sorry if I'm late," he said smoothly, his deep voice carrying an effortless charm.

Emma looked up from her seat, her poised demeanor not faltering for a second. She returned his smile, warm but measured, and stood to greet him.

"You're just on time. I'm Emma," she said, offering her hand with a graceful confidence.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet me tonight, Mr. Oakley."

Ross took her hand, his grip firm yet friendly. His touch carried a subtle power, a reminder of the commanding presence he wielded in every room he entered.

"Ross," he corrected her gently, his smile widening.

"My friends call me Ross. And the pleasure's all mine."

Emma's smile deepened, her voice tinged with a hint of humor. "Then I'll call you Ross. Please, have a seat."

Ross stepped aside and gestured politely. "After you."

With a nod of appreciation, Emma sat, her movements smooth and deliberate, a reflection of years of practice in commanding attention.

Ross followed, settling into the chair across from her with a casual ease that belied his reputation as a hard negotiator.

As their evening began, Emma took a moment to steady herself. She was used to being admired, to having men falter under the weight of her beauty. But Ross was different.

His gaze wasn't clouded by infatuation but sharp, discerning, and calculating. She could feel his mind working as he assessed her, and it only heightened the stakes of their meeting.

The initial conversation unfolded like a carefully choreographed dance.

Ross inquired about her background, and Emma responded with polished answers, peppering her narrative with anecdotes that highlighted her expertise and achievements without venturing into arrogance.

She spoke of her years in the sports industry, the connections she'd cultivated, and the deals she'd closed.

Ross listened intently, his focus unwavering. There was no pretense of politeness in his engagement; he was genuinely absorbing every word, every nuance of her delivery.

His sharp eyes missed nothing—the slight changes in her tone, the confident lift of her chin, the fleeting pauses that hinted at deeper thoughts.

As the first course arrived, Emma allowed herself a brief moment to admire his composure.

He was charming without being overbearing, magnetic without effort, a man who could dominate a room with a single glance. He might not be handsome at all but he exuded real confidence.

Yet, even as she recognized his charisma, she reminded herself why she was here. This wasn't about being charmed or impressing him—it was about sealing the deal.

When the plates were cleared and the conversation naturally ebbed, Emma straightened in her chair, setting her utensils aside with precision. Her heart raced, though her voice remained steady.

"Ross," she began, meeting his gaze directly.

"Thank you again for making time tonight. I've followed your career closely, and I'm convinced that you're destined for greatness. But even the greatest need the right team behind them."

Ross leaned back slightly, his expression neutral but his eyes alive with curiosity.

"Go on," he encouraged, his tone calm yet inviting.

Drawing a deep breath, Emma pressed forward.

"I believe I can be the agent you need. I have the experience, the connections, and the dedication to elevate your career to unprecedented heights. I don't just want to represent you—I want to be part of the team that helps you make history."

She paused, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, awaiting his response. Ross remained silent, his gaze piercing, as though he were weighing not just her words but her very character.

Finally, his lips curved into a small, mysterious smile.

"I admire your passion, Emma," he said, his voice smooth yet deliberate. "You've gotten further than anyone else who's approached me. Most never even get past my assistant, let alone dinner. You're different, and I can see that. Because of that, I'm willing to consider your proposal. But..." He leaned forward, his tone shifting ever so slightly, an unsettling edge creeping in.

"There's one condition."

Emma's brow furrowed, her smile fading as a cold wave of familiarity washed over her.

"Please be clear, Ross. I don't play games, and I don't have time for riddles."

Ross's gaze didn't waver.

"It's simple," he said, his voice dropping just enough to make her heart sink.

"I want you to be my woman. That's my condition."

The air seemed to thicken between them. Emma didn't flinch, but her jaw tightened imperceptibly. When she finally spoke, her voice was like steel wrapped in silk.

"I'm sorry to have wasted your time," she said evenly, rising from her seat.

"But I'm disappointed. I thought you were better than this. The meal is already paid for. Have a good night, Mr. Oakley."

She turned to leave, but Ross's voice stopped her mid-step.

"One hundred million dollars," he said, his tone calm but his words explosive.

"A bonus. I'll transfer it to you before anything naughty happens between us."

Emma froze, her mind racing. A hundred million dollars. The figure hung in the air, impossible to ignore. She turned back, her expression conflicted.

"I admire your persistence," she said, her voice laced with both scorn and restraint.

"But no amount of money can buy my dignity." Although Emma desperately needed the money, if it meant striking a deal with the devil, she knew she would have to refuse.

Ross smiled, unperturbed, as if her resistance only intrigued him further.

"Even in the face of desperation, you refuse. That's admirable. But what if I offered you what you truly want—what you wish for most?"

Emma's eyes narrowed.

"There's nothing you could offer me that would change my mind."

She grabbed her purse and stood, her resolve unshaken. But as she took her fifth step away from the table, Ross's next soft words struck her like a bolt of lightning.

"I can cure your daughter."

Emma stumbled, her breath catching in her throat. Slowly, she turned to face him, her expression a mix of disbelief and cautious hope.

"What did you just say?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Ross leaned back in his chair, his smile now one of quiet confidence.

"You heard me. I can cure her. Completely."

For the first time that night, Emma felt her carefully constructed composure begin to crack.