The elevator jolted, a mechanical groan echoing in the narrow shaft as it descended.
Elena stared at her palms. The blood was still warm—Dante's blood. It was a visceral, metallic reminder that the man who claimed to own her had just put his life between her and a blade. Her breath came in jagged gasps, but as the floor indicator ticked down—3... 2... 1—something inside her snapped.
The panic didn't disappear; it transformed. It became a cold, crystalline clarity. She was a Vance. She had spent eighteen years navigating ballrooms where smiles were sharper than knives. If Dante was a predator, then she was the one who had been raised in the lion's den.
Ding.
The doors slid open to the dimly lit basement—a labyrinth of concrete pillars, shipping crates, and the low hum of industrial fans. Elena didn't run blindly into the dark. She stopped, kicking off her emerald heels. The cold concrete bit into her soles, but she needed silence more than she needed height.
She remembered this place. Her father had been a major donor to the museum; she had played hide-and-seek in these very corridors during private galas as a child. There was a security sub-station near the loading docks, and more importantly, a manual override for the fire suppression system.
A heavy footstep thudded behind her.
"I know you're here, little bird," a voice rasped. It was the man in the gray suit, his voice strained from Dante's earlier blow. "Moretti can't help you now. He's busy bleeding out upstairs."
Elena flattened her back against a cold pillar. Her heart was a drum in her ears, but her hands stayed steady. She reached into her hair, pulling out the heavy gold pin that held her updo in place. It was sharp, and it was solid gold—a gift from her mother.
Think, Elena. You are not a prize. You are a Vance.
She didn't wait for him to find her. She spotted a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall ten feet away. She took a deep breath, then grabbed a nearby metal trash can and hurled it toward the far corner of the room.
The clatter echoed through the basement.
"There you are," the man hissed, turning toward the sound.
As he moved past her pillar, Elena didn't flee. She lunged. Not at him, but toward the fire extinguisher. She ripped it from the wall, turned the nozzle, and squeezed. A blinding cloud of white powder erupted, swallowing the man in a choking fog.
"Gah! You little—"
He stumbled, blinded. Elena didn't stay to watch. She sprinted toward the security sub-station, her bare feet silent on the concrete. She slammed the door shut and turned the lock just as the man's weight hit the wood from the other side.
She ignored the pounding. Her eyes scanned the monitor. Most were dark, but one showed the hallway outside. And another... it showed the service stairs.
Dante.
He was staggering, one hand pressed against his side, his white shirt now almost entirely red. He was holding a gun, his eyes narrowed into slits of lethal intent. Behind him, the two black-clad figures were closing in.
Elena's throat tightened. She looked at the control board. There were buttons for the Halon gas system—used to protect the artifacts from fire by suffocating the flames. If she triggered it in the stairwell, it would drain the oxygen. It would stop the men, but it would also kill Dante.
"No," she whispered.
Then she saw it—the emergency lighting override.
She hit the master switch for the stairwell. The lights didn't just turn off; they began to strobe with a violent, disorienting frequency. It was a trick her father's security chief had once shown her—a way to induce vertigo in intruders.
On the monitor, the two attackers faltered, covering their eyes. Dante, sensing the shift, didn't hesitate. He leaned against the wall, took aim, and fired two silenced shots. The figures collapsed.
Elena let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She grabbed the heavy gold pin, squeezed it until her palm bled, and opened the security door.
She met him at the base of the stairs. Dante looked like a ghost—pale, bloodied, and terrifying. He raised his gun as she approached, his finger tightening on the trigger before he realized it was her.
"I told you... to run," he wheezed, his body slumping against the railing.
Elena didn't listen. She stepped into his space, her emerald dress stained with the dust of the basement. She reached out, not with the weakness of a victim, but with the strength of a woman who had just made her first kill—even if it was only a psychological one.
"I'm not leaving you behind to be the only monster in this story, Dante," she said, her voice echoing with a new, sharp authority. She tucked her shoulder under his arm, taking his weight. "You bought my life for ten million. I'm not letting your investment die in a basement."
Dante looked at her, his dark eyes flickering with something that wasn't pain. It was surprise. For the first time, he wasn't looking at a Vance; he was looking at Elena.
"The girl... she has teeth," he muttered, a ghost of a bloody smirk touching his lips.
"And I'm learning how to bite," Elena replied.
As they moved toward the hidden exit, Elena realized the woman's note was only half-right. The ten million was a ransom, yes. But it wasn't just for her life. It was the price of her awakening. And if there was a second bidder out there, they wouldn't find a helpless princess. They would find a woman who had finally learned that in a world of predators, the only way to survive was to become the most dangerous one of all.