The digital clock on the corner of the monitor blinked: 19:00.
Evelina sat in the glass walled office attached to the suite, her body rigid in the expensive ergonomic chair. She had been staring at the glowing screen for six hours straight. Her eyes burned. Her stomach was a hollow, gnawing pit of hunger she refused to acknowledge.
She was wearing the clothes Dante's team had forced onto her earlier, a slate grey silk blouse that felt like ice against her skin and a pencil skirt so tailored it restricted her stride. They weren't clothes; they were packaging. She felt like a product sitting on a shelf, waiting to be sold.
But she wasn't just a product. She was a weapon.
Dante had given her a task: Audit the Sforza acquisition. It was a test. She knew it. He wanted to see if the "curator" was worth the millions he had paid for her sister's life. He expected her to find the financial value.
Instead, she had found a lie.
Evelina leaned closer to the screen, her heart rate picking up a dangerous, thumping rhythm. She magnified the high resolution scan of the 17th century Baroque canvas, The Penitent Magdalene, attributed to Guido Reni. It was the centerpiece of the deal Dante was closing with Count Sforza tonight.
It was beautiful. It was tragic.
And it was a fake.
A surge of cold, vindictive triumph rushed through her veins. It was the first time in three days she had felt powerful. Dante Valenti, the man who saw everything, the man who controlled every variable, was about to spend twelve million dollars on a forgery.
She could let him buy it. She could let him be humiliated.
No, she thought, her mind racing. If I let him fail, he takes it out on Chloe. If I prove his ignorance, he might punish me. But if I prove my value…
She needed leverage. Intelligence was the only currency she had left.
She began typing her report. She didn't write it like a subordinate. She wrote it like an executioner. She dissected the brushwork, the inconsistent chemical aging of the varnish, the microscopic anomaly in the signature. She laid out the evidence of the fraud with brutal, undeniable precision.
She hit Print.
The printer whirred in the silence of the room. Evelina stood up, her legs stiff. She picked up the single, warm sheet of paper.
Checkmate, she whispered to the empty room.
She turned to leave the office, intending to leave the report on the kitchen counter where he would find it.
But the door didn't open. It slid open.
Dante was standing there.
He didn't make a sound. He moved like smoke. One second the doorway was empty, the next, he was filling it, a towering wall of dark wool and menace. He had changed for the evening. He was wearing a tuxedo, black, sharp, and devastatingly tailored. He looked like a prince of darkness, beautiful and lethal.
He blocked her path. The air in the small office instantly grew heavy, sucked dry by his presence.
"You are finished," he stated. It wasn't a question.
Evelina stepped back, clutching the paper to her chest. "I completed the audit."
"And?"
"And you are being scammed."
She held out the paper. Her hand trembled, just once, a betrayal of her nerves she hoped he didn't see.
Dante didn't take the paper. He stepped into the room, forcing her to retreat until the back of her thighs hit the edge of the desk. He trapped her there, placing his hands on the desk on either side of her hips, caging her in.
He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could smell the faint scent of expensive scotch on his breath, mixing with the clean, sharp scent of his skin.
"Read it to me," he whispered.
Evelina swallowed hard. "Reni is a forgery. A very good one, likely Roman, mid 20th century. The pigment analysis in the digital file shows zinc white in the lower quadrant. Zinc white wasn't used until 1834. Count Sforza is selling you a lie for twelve million dollars."
She waited for the anger. She waited for the shock.
Dante stared at her. His eyes, dark and unreadable, dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes.
Slowly, a smile curved his lips. It was the same terrifying, thin smile he had worn when he broke the sugar bowl.
"I know," he said.
Evelina blinked, the wind knocked out of her sails. "What?"
"I know it is a fake," Dante repeated softly. "I have known for three weeks."
"Then… why?" Evelina stammered, her logic fracturing. "Why buy it? Why ask me to audit it?"
"To see if you could see it," Dante murmured. He reached out and took the paper from her frozen fingers. He glanced at it, then crumpled it into a ball in his fist. He dropped the paper ball onto the floor.
"You passed," he said. "You are competent. That is… convenient."
"Convenient?" Evelina felt a flush of heat rise up her neck, anger, hot and sharp. "I just saved you from a public humiliation. You're treating this like a game."
"Business is a game, Evelina. You just don't know the rules yet."
He straightened up, adjusting his cuffs. The movement was casual, dismissive. "Sforza needs the money. He is liquidating his family heritage to cover his gambling debts. He thinks he is tricking me. He thinks he is smart. I am letting him believe that."
"Why?"
"Because when I reveal the truth, after the contract is signed, but before the funds transfer, I will own him," Dante said calmly. "I don't want the painting. I want Sforza's shipping routes in the Mediterranean. And once I hold the proof of his fraud over his head, he will give me everything I want for a fraction of the price. Blackmail is so much more efficient than negotiation."
Evelina stared at him with horror. He wasn't buying art. He was buying a man's destruction. And he had used her to sharpen the knife.
"You're disgusting," she whispered.
Dante's expression didn't change. He reached out and ran the back of his hand down her cheek. The touch was cold, smooth, and possessive.
"I am effective," he corrected. "And tonight, you will be too."
He dropped his hand and walked to the door.
"We are leaving in twenty minutes. The gala is downstairs. Sforza will be there."
"I'm not going," Evelina said, crossing her arms. "I won't be part of a swindle."
Dante stopped. He turned slowly. The air pressure in the room dropped.
"You are confused," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "You think you have a choice. You think your morality has a seat at this table. It does not."
He walked back to her. This time, he didn't stop until his body was pressed against hers, pinning her to the desk. The heat of him was overwhelming.
"You will attend," he said, his voice a velvet lash. "You will wear the green silk dress hanging in the dressing room. You will take my arm. You will smile at Count Sforza. And when he asks you about the painting… you will lie."
Evelina shook her head, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "I can't. My reputation is the only thing I have left. If I authenticate a fake, "
"Your reputation belongs to me," Dante hissed. He grabbed her chin, forcing her head up. "Your name belongs to me. Your voice belongs to me. If I tell you the sky is neon green, you will convince the world it is true."
"I won't lie for you," she defied him, her voice trembling.
Dante's grip tightened. His thumb pressed into her lower lip, dragging it down, exposing the soft pink inner flesh.
"You will lie," he promised darkly. "Because if you don't… if you embarrass me, or hesitate, or give Sforza even a hint that we know… I will pull the funding for your sister's treatment tonight."
The threat hit her like a bullet. It was always Chloe. He always went for the throat.
"You wouldn't," she choked out.
"Test me," he dared her. His eyes were black pits of obsession and cruelty. "Try me, Evelina. See how far I will go to get what I want."
He stared at her, waiting for the break. Waiting for the surrender.
Evelina felt tears stinging her eyes. The rage was there, burning hot, but the fear was colder. She thought of Chloe, safe in a hospital bed, breathing because of his money.
She slumped against the desk, her body going limp in his grip.
"Fine," she whispered. "I'll do it."
Dante stared at her for a moment longer, savoring the victory. He ran his thumb over her lip one last time, a caress that felt like a brand.
"Good girl," he murmured.
He released her and stepped back.
"The green dress," he repeated. "Twenty minutes. Do not make me come get you."
He turned and walked out.
Evelina stood alone in the office, the crumpled report on the floor at her feet. She felt dirty. She felt used.
She walked to the dressing room. The green dress was hanging there, suspended like a ghost. It was emerald silk, backless, with a neckline that plunged dangerously low. It was a dress meant to distract. A dress meant to seduce.
She stripped off the grey suit and pulled on the green silk. It was cold against her skin. It fit perfectly, clinging to every curve, exposing her back, her arms, the swell of her breasts.
She looked in the mirror. She didn't see a curator. She didn't see an academic.
She saw a lure. Beautiful, shiny, and hiding a hook.
She applied the lipstick he had provided, a deep, blood red. She pinned her hair up, exposing her neck.
She looked like a weapon.
If I have to be a weapon, she thought, a dark, cold resolve settling in her chest, then I will be sharp.
She walked out to the living room.
Dante was waiting. He was pouring a drink. He turned when he heard her heels on the floor.
He stopped. His hand paused on the glass. His eyes swept over her, starting at her heels and traveling slowly, agonizingly up her body. He lingered on her hips, her waist, the exposed skin of her throat.
For a second, the cold, calculating mask slipped. Evelina saw something else in his eyes. A flash of raw, dark hunger. A flicker of obsession.
He set the glass down. He didn't compliment her. He didn't say she looked beautiful.
"Adequate," he said, his voice rougher than before.
He walked over to her. He stood behind her, close enough that she could feel his body heat. He leaned down, his breath ghosting over her bare shoulder.
"Tonight," he whispered, "you are not Evelina Thorne. You are mine. Remember that."
He offered his arm.
Evelina looked at it. The sleeve of his tuxedo was black and sharp. She reached out and placed her hand on his forearm. Her skin looked pale and fragile against the dark wool.
"Let's go," she said, her voice dead. "Let's go lie to the world."
Dante led her to the elevator. The doors slid shut, trapping them together in the mirrored box. As they descended toward the gala, Evelina realized the true horror of her situation.
He didn't just want her submission. He wanted her complicity. He was dragging her down into the mud with him, ensuring that when she finally looked in the mirror, she wouldn't recognize herself anymore.
And the terrifying part was… in the green dress, standing next to the devil, she looked like she belonged there.