POV: Vivian
The Sterling townhouse looks like something from a gothic novel—all dark wood and crimson velvet, oil paintings of dead ancestors watching from gilded frames. Dominic has money in that old, oppressive way, where every room feels like a museum dedicated to his own importance.
I arrive exactly at seven, dressed in a black Valentino gown that cost more than most people's cars. My stylist outdid herself. The dress is elegant, expensive, and utterly untouchable. I look like I belong in this world, even if I'll never truly be part of it.
Ryan's hand rests on my lower back as we're escorted to the dining room by a butler who probably earns more than my first three films combined. The townhouse staff treats us with that particular brand of politeness reserved for people they've been told to tolerate.
"Remember," Ryan murmurs, "we can leave whenever you want."
I wish that were true. But leaving would be admitting defeat, and I've never been good at losing.
