The closet wasn't a closet. It was a boutique the size of a small aircraft hangar.
I stood in the doorway, the light from the room spilling across a floor made of pristine white marble. Racks of clothes stretched out into the dim distance, organized not by color or season, but likely by designer and cost. The air smelled of cedar and fresh leather.
"Adequate," I whispered to myself, the sarcasm a thin shield against the rising panic.
I stepped inside, my bare feet silent on the cool stone. I didn't want to wear anything here. I wanted to wear my own clothes—my ripped jeans, my oversized sweaters, things that smelled like detergent and my old life. But those were gone, likely burned or tossed into a landfill somewhere.
I searched for the red dress Damian had mentioned. It didn't take long.
It hung alone in a glass case in the center of the room, illuminated by recessed lighting. It was a slash of crimson against the white backdrop.
I opened the case and touched the fabric. Silk. Heavy, expensive silk that felt like water running through my fingers. It was backless with a high neck, long sleeves that flared slightly at the wrists, and a slit that I knew would go dangerously high up my thigh. It wasn't a dress; it was a weapon. It was designed to draw the eye and keep it, to make the wearer look untouchable and available all at once.
"He wants a trophy," I muttered, pulling it from the hanger. "He wants to parade me in front of my father like a stolen artifact."
Getting ready was a mechanical process. I showered in the bathroom attached to my room—a space done in black onyx and gold that felt more like a tomb than a bathroom. I dried my hair, letting it fall in loose waves around my shoulders, knowing that fighting the natural texture would only make me look more like a victim. I needed control. I needed to look like I had chosen this.
When I slipped the dress on, it clung to my skin like a second layer. It fit perfectly, terrifyingly so. He hadn't just guessed my size; he knew it. I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The girl looking back was pale, her eyes wide and dark, but she looked... striking. The red made my skin look like porcelain. I looked expensive.
I looked like something Damian Tian would own.
There was a knock on the bedroom door. It was the silent maid again. She held a small box.
"Mr. Tian sent these," she said, placing the box on the vanity.
Inside lay a pair of diamond earrings—teardrops that caught the light and scattered it like rain—and a matching necklace. The stones were huge, gaudy, and undoubtedly worth more than the entire block I grew up on.
"He wants me to wear these?" I asked, picking one up. It was heavy.
"Mr. Tian believes in completing the picture," she said, her face blank. "May I assist you?"
I let her. I stood like a mannequin while she fastened the necklace around my throat, the cold diamonds resting against my collarbone. It felt like a collar.
When I finally walked out into the main living area, the sun had set. The city was a sprawling grid of lights below, a galaxy trapped on the ground.
Damian was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out. He had changed too. He wore a black tuxedo, tailored so sharply it looked like it could cut glass. His hair was slicked back, exposing the harsh, angular lines of his face. He looked like a movie star playing the role of a villain.
He turned as my heels clicked on the marble.
His eyes swept over me, from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. There was no heat in his gaze, no desire that a normal man would feel. It was an assessment. He was checking his investment.
"The red suits you," he said, his voice low. "It hides the pallor of fear."
"I'm not afraid," I lied, lifting my chin.
He walked toward me, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the vast room. He stopped inches away, reaching out to adjust the diamond necklace. His fingers brushed my neck, sending a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
"You should be," he said softly. "Tonight isn't a party, Elena. It's an execution. And you are the blade."
He offered me his arm. It wasn't a gesture of courtesy; it was a leash.
"Take it," he commanded when I hesitated.
I placed my hand on his forearm. The muscle beneath the jacket was hard as rock. He led me toward the private elevator.
"Your father is desperate," Damian said as the doors slid shut, trapping us in the mirrored box. "He has called every bank on the eastern seaboard. He has tried to reach the Japanese, the Saudis. No one will touch him. They know I am coming."
"Why do you have to destroy the company?" I asked, staring at our reflection. We looked like a power couple, the king and queen of the underworld. "If you hate him, kill him. Why take away the livelihood of thousands of people who work for him?"
Damian glanced at me, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "You think too small. Death is easy, Elena. A bullet, a knife, a push from a tall building—it's over in a second. Your father doesn't fear death. He fears irrelevance. He fears poverty."
The elevator opened, revealing the underground garage.
"He destroyed my family because he was greedy," Damian continued, leading me to a sleek, black Aston Martin. "He took our home, our land, our name. So, I will take his legacy. I will strip him of everything that defines him. When he stands in that gala tonight, smiling and shaking hands, he will know that every person in that room is watching a ghost. He is already dead, Elena. He just doesn't know it yet."
He opened the passenger door for me. I slid into the leather seat, the smell of his cologne—sandalwood and ozone—filling the small space.
The drive to the city museum was a blur of neon lights and rain. Damian drove with the same aggressive precision he did everything else. We didn't speak. The tension in the car was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest. I gripped the door handle, my knuckles white.
When we arrived, the scene was chaotic.
The Met Gala was the biggest social event of the year, a massive fundraiser for the city's arts council. Limousines stretched around the block. Floodlights swept the sky. Reporters lined the red carpet, shouting into cameras, desperate for a shot of the biggest players.
As the Aston Martin pulled up to the curb, the crowd surged.
"Damian! Damian! Over here!"
"Mr. Tian! Is it true you're acquiring Vance Tech?"
"Who is your date, Damian? Who is she?"
Damian stepped out of the car. The flashbulbs exploded like strobe lights, blindingly bright. He didn't blink. He didn't smile. He simply adjusted his cuffs and turned to open my door.
He offered me his hand again. This time, I took it, stepping out into the dazzling lights.
The roar of the crowd died down for a split second as they saw me. I saw the headlines forming in their minds: *Mystery Woman. The New Heiress? Who is the Girl on Tian's Arm?*
Damian pulled me close against his side, his grip possessive.
"Smile," he murmured, his lips barely moving. "Or they will think you are a hostage."
"I am a hostage," I hissed back through a frozen grin.
"Then you are a hostage who wears diamonds," he said. "Walk."
We began the march down the red carpet. It was surreal. I saw faces I recognized from magazines and business news. Senators. Movie stars. Tech moguls. They all parted for Damian. Some nodded respectfully; others looked away, fear evident in their eyes.
We reached the entrance of the museum. The heavy oak doors were opened by white-gloved doormen.
We stepped inside, leaving the noise of the press behind. The interior of the museum had been transformed. Flowers towered from crystal vases. An orchestra played a waltz from a balcony above. It was a scene of opulence and decay, a modern Rome before the fall.
"There he is," Damian said, nodding toward the far end of the hall.
I followed his gaze.
My father was standing near a large ice sculpture of a phoenix. He looked older than I remembered. His hair, usually perfectly coiffed, was thinning at the temples. His expensive tuxedo hung slightly loose on his frame, as if he had lost weight recently. He was holding a glass of champagne, but his hand was shaking.
He was surrounded by a small group of men, but they weren't listening to him. They were looking over their shoulders, checking the room, looking for an exit. They smelled the blood in the water.
"Stay close," Damian said, steering me toward the bar. "We don't approach him yet. We let him simmer."
He ordered two whiskeys. He handed one to me.
"I don't drink whiskey," I said.
"Drink it," he said. "You need the courage. And it will make your eyes look brighter."
I took a small sip. The liquid burned down my throat, settling like a hot coal in my stomach. It grounded me.
"So," I said, looking around the room. "This is your world. Everyone loves you."
"Love?" Damian laughed, a short, sharp sound. "They don't love me. They fear what I can do to them. Fear is a much more durable currency than love, Elena. Love is fickle. Fear is constant."
He took a sip of his drink, his eyes locked on my father across the room. "Do you see him? He is checking his watch. He knows the Asian markets opened an hour ago. He is waiting for the phone call that tells him his stock has hit zero."
"You're enjoying this," I said, the disgust evident in my voice.
Damian turned to me, his black eyes searching my face. "Enjoyment implies pleasure. I feel no pleasure. I feel... satisfaction. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place. Justice is being served."
"This isn't justice," I said fiercely, setting the glass down on a tray carried by a passing waiter. "This is cruelty. You're torturing him."
"I am teaching him a lesson he should have learned twenty years ago," Damian said, his voice dropping an octave. The air around us grew heavy. The people walking nearby seemed to give us a wider berth without realizing why. "Actions have consequences, Elena. Your father thought he could bury his sins under money and success. He was wrong."
He finished his drink in one swallow.
"Come," he said abruptly. "It's time."
He took my arm again and steered me across the room. The crowd seemed to part automatically, a wave breaking before a ship.
As we got closer, I saw my father's face change. He saw Damian. The color drained from his cheeks, making him look like a wax figure. He whispered something to the men around him, and they quickly dispersed, leaving him standing alone by the melting ice sculpture.
Damian stopped three feet in front of him.
"Alexander," Damian said. His voice was polite, pleasant. Like they were old friends meeting for a round of golf.
My father swallowed hard, clutching his champagne glass. "Damian. I... I didn't expect to see you here."
"I rarely attend these things," Damian said, looking around the room with feigned disinterest. "But the cause is noble. Art. Culture. Things that survive long after the men who try to own them are gone."
My father's eyes flicked to me. They widened in shock.
"Elena?" he breathed. "Oh, thank God. Elena, are you alright? Come here, sweetheart."
He stepped forward, reaching out a hand.
I instinctively moved toward him, but Damian's grip on my arm tightened. It wasn't painful, but it was immovable. I stopped.
"She isn't going anywhere, Alexander," Damian said softly.
My father froze. He looked at Damian's hand on my arm, then up at Damian's face. The realization hit him like a physical blow.
"You... you have her?" My father's voice cracked. "You took my daughter?"
"I didn't take her," Damian corrected. "I found her. She was in the back of a van, bound and gagged, on her way to a very unpleasant evening. I simply... provided an escort."
"You bastard," my father hissed, his face turning red. "You arranged it. You did this to get to me."
"Did I?" Damian tilted his head. "Or did your own past actions finally come back to roost? You have made many enemies over the years, Alexander. I am simply the most dangerous one."
"Let her go," my father said, his voice trembling with a mix of rage and terror. "This is between us. She has nothing to do with it. Look at her, she's innocent."
"Innocent?" Damian laughed. He pulled me closer, wrapping an arm around my waist. It was a possessive, intimate gesture that made my stomach churn. "She wears your name, Alexander. She enjoys the money you spilled blood to get. She is as much a part of this as you are. In fact..."
He looked down at me, and for a second, his mask slipped. I saw the ghost of the boy he used to be. The pain.
"She is the reason I haven't killed you yet," Damian whispered. "I look at her, and I wonder... how could a man who creates something so beautiful be capable of such monstrosity?"
My father looked at me, tears welling in his eyes. "Elena, tell him. Tell him I never hurt anyone."
I looked at my father. I remembered the safety of my childhood, the warm hugs, the birthdays. But I also saw the fear in his eyes now. The guilt. And I remembered Damian's voice in the dark, telling me about a little sister who used to braid hair.
"I don't know, Dad," I said, my voice shaking. "I don't know what you did."
My father flinched as if I had slapped him.
Damian smiled. It was a cruel, victorious smile.
"You see, Alexander? Even your own daughter doubts you." Damian steered me away, turning his back on my father. "Enjoy the party, Mr. Vance. Drink the champagne. It might be the last expensive thing you ever taste."
We walked away, leaving my father standing by the melting ice, alone and humiliated in a room full of sharks.
We walked out onto a terrace overlooking the city gardens. The air was cool, damp with the spray of the fountains. I ripped my arm out of Damian's grip the moment we were out of sight.
"You enjoyed that," I spat, wiping a tear from my eye. "You humiliated him."
"I crushed him," Damian corrected, leaning against the stone balustrade. He lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating his sharp features. "There is a difference."
"You're a monster."
"So you keep telling me." He exhaled a plume of smoke into the night air. "Yet, you stood there. You didn't scream for help. You didn't run to him."
"Where would I go?" I asked, my voice breaking. "You own the police. You own the banks. You own the city."
"You could have tried," Damian said, turning to look at me. The moonlight caught the black depths of his eyes. "But you didn't. Why?"
I looked away, staring at the dark, manicured hedges below. "Because I saw his face."
"Whose face?"
"Yours."
Damian went still. The cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers.
"When you looked at him," I said, turning back to face him, "you weren't looking at a business rival. You were looking at the man who killed your family. I saw... I saw the little boy in the cupboard. I saw the pain."
I stepped closer to him, ignoring the warning bells screaming in my head.
"I hate what you're doing to him," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. "But I don't hate you. I can't. Because you saved me. And because I can see that you're hurting more than he ever could."
Damian stared at me. He looked stunned, as if I had reached into his chest and physically squeezed his heart. For a long moment, the wall of ice cracked. The indifference melted away, leaving something raw and exposed.
"You are a fool," he whispered, his voice rough. "I am holding your father's head under the water, and you are trying to save the drowning man who is holding you down."
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe I'm trying to pull you out of the water, too."
He looked at me for a long time, his gaze searching my face. Then, he did something that shocked me more than tearing the roof off the van.
He reached out and took my hand. His grip wasn't possessive this time. It was gentle. He interlaced his fingers with mine.
"It's too late for me, Elena," he said, the exhaustion seeping back into his voice. "The water is too deep. But you..."
He raised my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles. It was a chaste, courtly gesture that felt incredibly out of place on a monster.
"You are the only light in a very dark room. Don't let the shadows swallow you, too."
He dropped my hand and turned back toward the party.
"Come," he said, his voice cold again, the mask firmly back in place. "The night is young. I have three more senators to terrify before we leave."
I stood there for a second, my hand tingling where his lips had touched it.
I looked back at the museum, where my father was surely drowning in his own despair. Then I looked at Damian, the man who had sworn to destroy everything I loved.
I took a deep breath and followed him back into the lion's den. I wasn't just a hostage anymore. I was a spy in the house of the enemy. And somehow, I was going to find a way to save them both.