The elevator ride up felt like ascending into someone else's dream, all mirrored walls and soft golden light that made even her mother's thrift-store dress look expensive. Tina stood between her parents like a prisoner on the way to sentencing, arms crossed so tight her nails bit into her biceps. The numbers ticked higher, twenty-eight floors of silent judgment, and every ding sounded like a countdown to her own execution.
When the doors parted, the penthouse hit her like a slap of cool, perfumed air. Crystal chandeliers dripped light across marble so polished she could see her furious reflection staring back. Guests milled about in tailored suits and shimmering gowns, laughing too loud, clinking glasses like they were celebrating a victory instead of a hostage situation. Waiters glided past with trays of caviar and champagne, offering smiles that never reached their eyes. It was beautiful. It was obscene.
Victor waited at the center of it all, leaning against the bar like he owned gravity. Black suit, crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at the danger underneath, sleeves rolled to show forearms that looked capable of breaking things—or people—without effort. When he saw her, his mouth curved into that slow, devastating smile, the one that said he already knew every secret she was trying to keep.
"Tina," he said, voice wrapping around her name like smoke. "You look… defiant."
She lifted her chin. "And you look like you're enjoying this way too much."
He laughed, low and genuine, the sound cutting through the party chatter like a blade through silk. "I enjoy winning. And tonight, we're announcing the best kind of victory."
He offered his arm. She stared at it like it might bite. After a long beat she took it anyway—not because she wanted to, but because every eye in the room had already locked onto them, hungry for drama. His bicep flexed under her fingers, warm and solid, and she hated how her pulse jumped at the contact.
They moved through the crowd like royalty on parade. People nodded, murmured congratulations, called her "the future Mrs. Kane" with the kind of awe usually reserved for lottery winners. She wanted to scream that she hadn't agreed to anything, that this was coercion dressed up in silk and diamonds, but the words stuck in her throat like dry champagne.
Victor steered her toward a raised platform where a string quartet had just finished a song. He took two flutes from a passing tray, handed one to her without asking. "To new beginnings," he toasted, eyes locked on hers, daring her to refuse.
She clinked her glass against his so hard the crystal sang. "To surviving them," she shot back, voice sweet enough to rot teeth.
The room quieted as Victor raised his glass higher. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice carrying without effort, "tonight we celebrate not just a union, but a promise. Tina Branston has agreed to stand beside me, to share in everything I've built, and to make this city burn brighter together."
The applause crashed like thunder. Cameras flashed. Tina felt heat crawl up her neck. Agreed? She hadn't agreed to a damn thing. But every face beaming at her said otherwise, and the weight of their expectations pressed down until she could barely breathe.
Victor leaned in close, breath warm against her ear. "Smile, darling. They're all watching."
She bared her teeth in something that might pass for a grin in bad lighting. "They're watching a show. And I'm the unwilling star."
He chuckled, fingers brushing the small of her back in a touch that was somehow both possessive and polite. "Then give them a performance they'll never forget."
She turned her face toward his, close enough that their noses almost brushed. "Careful what you wish for, Victor. I'm very good at improvisation."
His eyes darkened with something hot and interested. "I'm counting on it."
The quartet struck up again, a slow, sultry waltz that felt like mockery. Victor set both glasses aside and offered his hand once more. This time she took it without hesitation, letting him pull her onto the cleared space that served as a makeshift dance floor. His palm was warm, steady, and when he settled his other hand at her waist she felt the heat of it through the thin fabric of her dress like a brand.
They moved together effortlessly, bodies finding a rhythm she hadn't expected. He led with quiet confidence, guiding her through turns that made the room blur into streaks of gold and black. She hated how natural it felt, how her hand fit perfectly in his, how every spin brought her closer until she could smell cedar and citrus clinging to his skin.
"You're good at this," she muttered, trying to keep distance in her voice.
"I'm good at everything that matters," he replied, lips brushing her temple. "And you, Tina, matter."
She stumbled on the next step. He caught her, arm tightening around her waist, pulling her flush against him for one heartbeat too long. The room faded. The music faded. There was only the steady thump of his heart against hers and the dangerous spark in his eyes that said this dance was only the beginning.
When the song ended, applause erupted again. Victor didn't release her immediately. He bent his head, voice velvet-soft against her ear. "Three weeks until you're mine. Try not to fall too hard before then."
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, lips curving into a smile that promised war. "I don't fall, Victor. I jump. And when I do, I always land on my feet."
He studied her for a long moment, something almost like pride flickering across his face. Then he let her go, stepping back with a small bow that felt more like a challenge than a courtesy.
The party swirled on around them, glittering and loud and oblivious. Tina stood there, pulse racing, skin tingling where he'd touched her, and realized with sudden, terrifying clarity that the cage he'd built wasn't made of steel.
It was made of moments like this.
And she was already halfway inside.