THE GALA
POV: Elena Rostova
The box on the bed was not a gift. It was a summons.
It was black, matte, and bore the silver logo of Vane Architecture. It was large enough to hold a body.
I stood over it, my hair dripping wet from the mandatory 5:00 PM shower. My skin was scrubbed raw. I smelled of nothing—just the sterilized air of the penthouse.
Marcus stood by the door. He was checking his watch.
"We depart in forty-five minutes, Ms. Rostova. Hair and makeup will be arriving in…" He checked the watch again. "Three minutes."
"Depart for what?" I asked, untying the silk ribbon. "Silas didn't say anything about leaving the Spire."
"The Architecture & Design Awards at the Met. Mr. Vane is receiving the Apex Award for the Shanghai Tower. Your attendance is mandatory."
I froze, my hand hovering over the lid. "He wants me to go to a gala? With him?"
"He requires a companion. It stops the rumors about his… solitude. You are the current narrative."
I opened the box.
There was no tissue paper. Just fabric.
I pulled it out. It was heavy—shockingly so. It pooled in my hands like liquid mercury, though the color was the darkest, deepest navy, almost black. It was made of a material I didn't recognize. It wasn't silk. It felt cool, smooth, and faintly metallic.
"What is this?"
"Custom," Marcus said. "Designed by Mr. Vane. Constructed by the atelier in Paris."
I held it up against me.
It was barely a dress. It was a sheath of architectural bias-cutting. The back was nonexistent—it plunged all the way to the base of the spine. The front was a high-necked column that looked like it had been poured onto a mold.
"It looks… unforgiving," I whispered.
"It is. Mr. Vane requests you be dressed before the styling team arrives. There are… specific structural requirements."
Marcus coughed, looking uncharacteristically awkward. He stared at a point above my head.
"Undergarments are incompatible with the design, Ms. Rostova. The lines must be seamless."
I dropped the dress onto the bed. "Excuse me?"
"The fabric is sheer under camera flash if there is an underlayer disrupting the light refraction. It is a proprietary weave. It requires… skin contact."
"He wants me naked under a piece of sheet metal in front of half of New York?"
"He wants perfection," Marcus said, backing out of the door. "Thirty-nine minutes, Elena."
The door slid shut.
I stared at the dress. It lay on the white duvet like an oil slick.
I hated it. I hated what it represented—ownership. Display. He wasn't taking a date; he was taking a prototype.
But beneath the indignation, my heart was hammering a traitorous rhythm. I was going out. I was leaving the glass cage. I would see people. Real people. I would drink champagne. I would see Silas in his element, not as the hermit of the tower, but as the Titan everyone feared.
I stripped off the towel.
I stepped into the dress.
It was cold. It clung to me instantly, sensing the heat of my body. It slid up my thighs, over my hips, compressing me. It wasn't tight like Spandex; it was rigid like a brace. It forced my spine straight. I couldn't slouch if I wanted to.
I fastened the hidden clasp at the neck.
I walked to the mirror.
I didn't recognize myself.
The woman in the glass was dangerous. The dress fit so perfectly it looked like I had been dipped in ink. The high neck made my head look regal. The fabric shimmered as I moved, outlining every curve, every dip of my hip, the slight swell of my breasts.
And because there was nothing beneath it, I felt exposed in a way that made my skin flush. Every breath caused the fabric to rub against my sensitivity.
It was psychological warfare disguised as couture.
The door opened. I expected the makeup team.
It was Silas.
He was already in his tuxedo—midnight blue velvet jacket, black trousers, a bowtie that was mathematically perfect. He looked devastating.
He stopped in the doorway. He didn't come in. He just looked.
His eyes started at the hem and traveled up. Slowly. Assessing the load-bearing capacity of his creation.
"Turn," he said.
I hesitated. "Silas, I can't wear this. It feels—"
"Turn."
I turned.
The open back exposed my skin from neck to tailbone. I felt the air of the room tickle my spine.
"The scapula," he murmured. "Your wings. They are sharp."
He walked into the room. I could hear his footsteps approaching, heavy and deliberate. He stopped right behind me. He didn't touch me. He stood close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his chest against my bare back.
"Raise your chin," he commanded.
I lifted my head, watching our reflection in the mirror. He loomed over me, a dark shadow to my mercury light.
"You have a habit of making yourself small," he said to my reflection. "You hunch. You fold your arms. Tonight, you cannot do that. The dress will not allow it."
"It's a straitjacket," I said breathlessly.
"It's an exoskeleton. It holds you up because you don't know how to hold yourself yet."
He reached out. His gloved hand hovered over my waist, then settled on the fabric at my hip. The leather was cool. He gripped me, hard.
"Listen to me, Elena. Tonight, you are not a journalist. You are not a debtor. You are mine."
Our eyes locked in the glass. His pupils were blown wide.
"You do not speak to the press. You do not accept drinks from anyone but me. You do not smile unless I smile. You are an extension of my will. Do you understand?"
"And if I refuse?" I challenged, though my voice trembled.
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
"Then we don't go. And you spend the night in the dark, wondering what the champagne would have tasted like."
He moved his hand from my hip to the small of my back, his thumb tracing the dip of my spine on bare skin. The contrast—the leather, the naked vulnerability—made my knees weak.
"Breathing technique," he whispered. "In through the nose for four counts. Hold for four. Out for four. Do it."
I inhaled. One. Two. Three. Four. The dress tightened.
I held it.
I exhaled.
"Good," he said. "Do not hyperventilate when the cameras flash. It ruins the photo."
He pulled away, checking his cufflinks as if he hadn't just reduced me to a trembling mess.
"The makeup artist is here. Tell them 'neutral'. If I see red lipstick, you're wiping it off yourself."
POV: Silas Vane
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was a tomb for dead things, but tonight it smelled of expensive perfume and desperation.
The limo glided to the curb. Through the tint, I saw the swarm. Paparazzi. Industry parasites. Rivals.
I looked at Elena.
She sat on the opposite leather bench, rigid. She was terrified. Her hands were clenched in her lap. The dress shimmered in the low light of the cabin, hugging her like a second skin. She looked exquisite. Severe. Architectural.
"Unclench your hands," I said.
She jumped. She flattened her palms on her knees.
"There are too many people," she whispered.
"They are not people," I corrected. "They are scenery. Ignore them."
The driver opened the door. The noise flooded in—shouting, camera shutters clicking like aggressive cicadas.
I stepped out first. The flashbulbs erupted, a strobe light of blinding white. I buttoned my jacket, buttoning away the humanity. I turned and held out my hand.
Elena hesitated. She looked at the crowd, then at my hand.
"Take it," I commanded under my breath.
She placed her hand in mine. Her palm was damp.
I pulled her out.
As she straightened, as the dress caught the lights, the noise level dropped for a fraction of a second, then doubled.
"Silas! Mr. Vane! Over here!"
"Who is she? Silas!"
I tucked her hand into the crook of my arm. I pulled her flush against my side.
"Walk," I said. "Left foot first."
We moved up the red carpet. It was a gauntlet. I felt her trembling against my ribs.
"Chin up," I murmured, keeping a fake, placid smile plastered on my face. "Look at the horizon line, Elena. Above their heads."
She lifted her chin. She looked regal. Terrified, but regal.
We reached the steps. A reporter from Architectural Digest thrust a microphone over the velvet rope.
"Mr. Vane! Is this your new muse?"
I stopped. I turned to the camera. I felt Elena stiffen.
"This," I said, my voice cutting through the noise, "is my biographer. Elena Rostova."
"A biographer? Is she writing the memoir?"
"She is documenting the structure," I said crypticially. I looked down at Elena. I squeezed her hand against my arm—a warning and a reassurance. "She is the only one I trust to see the blueprints."
It was a lie, and it was the truth.
We moved inside.
The Great Hall was transformed. Tables, floating candles, ambient string quartets. The air was cooler here.
I felt Elena exhale.
"I need a drink," she said.
"Champagne," I signaled a waiter without looking at him. He appeared instantly with two flutes.
I handed her one.
"Sip," I warned. "That dress costs more than your father's debt. Do not spill."
She took a sip. Her eyes closed for a second. "It's good."
"It's Bollinger. Of course it's good."
"Vane."
The voice came from behind us. It was oily. Smug.
I stiffened. I knew the voice.
I turned slowly.
Dr. Aris Thorne stood there. My rival. A man who believed architecture was about "community" and "green spaces." He built playgrounds; I built monuments.
He was shorter than me, wider, wearing a tuxedo that strained at the buttons. He held a scotch.
"I didn't think you'd descend from Mount Olympus," Thorne sneered, his eyes darting to Elena.
"The board insisted," I said blandly. "Aris. You look… festive."
"And who is this?" Thorne stepped closer to Elena. He looked her up and down—disgustingly bold. His gaze lingered on the plunge of her neckline, then the bare expanse of her back as she turned slightly away from him.
"Elena," Thorne said, extending a hand. "You must be very brave or very destitute to be in his orbit."
Elena looked at me. She remembered the rules. Do not speak.
But Thorne was waiting.
"She is working," I said, stepping between them. Blocking his line of sight. "She is not receiving."
Thorne laughed. "Always guarding the toys, Silas? You know, the commission for the waterfront project is still up for grabs. Rumor is the city council finds your proposal a bit… fascistic."
"My proposal is efficient," I said, my voice dropping. "Yours involves bamboo. It will rot in three years."
"We'll see." Thorne stepped around me, trying to flank me to get to Elena. He reached out and touched her bare arm. "Save me a dance, darling. If he lets you off the leash."
I saw red.
Not metaphorically. I literally saw a wash of crimson at the edge of my vision.
His fingers were on her skin. His greasy, inferior fingers on my biographer. On the skin I hadn't even touched yet without leather between us.
I grabbed his wrist.
I didn't just hold it; I crushed it. I pressed my thumb into the median nerve.
Thorne gasped, dropping his scotch. The glass shattered on the floor, unnoticed in the din of the party.
"Don't," I whispered. "Touch."
Thorne's face went white. He tried to pull back, but I held him fast.
"Silas," Elena whispered. Her voice was urgent. "People are watching."
I didn't care about the people. I cared about the contamination.
I released him with a shove.
"Go back to your bamboo, Aris," I said. "Before I buy the firm you work for and turn it into a parking lot."
Thorne rubbed his wrist, glaring at me with pure hate. He retreated, disappearing into the crowd.
I turned to Elena.
She was staring at me. Her chest was heaving against the metallic fabric.
"You're crazy," she breathed.
"I am territorial," I corrected.
I took her empty glass and placed it on a passing tray.
"The gala is boring me. And you have been touched by a virus."
"We just got here," she protested.
"And now we are leaving."
I grabbed her hand.
"But—the award," she stammered. "You have to accept the award."
"Marcus can accept it. I have what I came for."
I pulled her toward the exit, ignoring the confused looks of the organizers.
I dragged her out into the cool night air, past the shouting paparazzi, and shoveled her into the waiting car.
"Home," I barked at the driver.
The partition slid up.
I turned to her. In the darkness of the car, she was glowing.
"Did you like it?" I asked, my voice rough.
"What?"
"Him touching you."
She stared at me, her lips parted. "No. He was creepy."
"Good."
I stripped off my gloves. I threw them on the floor.
I reached out and placed my bare hand on her thigh, on the metallic fabric. The heat of her skin seeped through instantly.
"Next time," I said, sliding my hand higher, claiming the space, "you don't freeze. You step back. Or I will break his hand properly."
She didn't push me away. She looked at my hand, then up at my eyes.
And for the first time, she didn't look like a captive.
She looked like an accomplice.
POV: Elena Rostova
The ride back was silent, but the air in the car was thick enough to choke on.
His hand was on my thigh. His bare hand.
It was large, warm, and heavy. His thumb was tracing slow, possessive circles against the metallic fabric of the dress. Every pass of his thumb sent a shockwave straight to my center.
I should move. I should tell him to stop. I should tell him that assaulting a rival architect at a charity gala was psychotic behavior.
But I didn't.
I was drunk on the adrenaline. And maybe a little drunk on the champagne.
When Thorne had touched me, I had felt gross. When Silas touched me… I felt anchored.
Stockholm Syndrome,* my brain whispered. This is textbook.
Shut up, I told my brain.
We arrived at the Spire. The ascent in the elevator was suffocating. We were standing apart now, but the electricity was still arcing between us.
The doors opened into the penthouse.
Silas walked straight to the bar. He poured two whiskeys. Neat.
He turned and handed me one.
"Drink," he said.
I took it. My hands were shaking. I downed half the glass. It burned like fire, but it settled my nerves.
"Why did you do that?" I asked, putting the glass down on the stone counter with a click.
Silas leaned against the bar, loosening his tie. He pulled the silk strip free and draped it over the counter. He undid the top button of his shirt.
It was the most disheveled I had ever seen him.
"Aris Thorne is a mediocrity," he said. "He reduces architecture to utility. He has no soul."
"I meant… why did you almost break his wrist because he touched my arm?"
Silas looked at me. His eyes were dark, dilated.
He walked around the bar. He stalked toward me.
"Because," he said, stopping inches from me. "I don't share."
He reached out.
I held my breath.
He didn't touch my skin. He reached behind my neck.
He found the clasp of the dress.
"The night is over, Elena. The structure has served its purpose."
Click.
The collar popped open.
The dress loosened. Without the tension holding it up, the heavy metallic fabric began to slide. It slipped off my shoulders. It peeled away from my chest.
I caught it before it could fall to my waist, clutching the front to my breasts. My back was completely bare to him.
"Silas," I whispered.
"Go to your room," he said. His voice was strained, tight. "Take it off. Put it back in the box."
"And then?"
He looked at my exposed shoulders, at the frantic pulse in my neck. He looked like he wanted to devour me whole.
"And then lock your door," he rasped. "Because I am very close to forgetting that I am a civilized man."
He turned his back on me.
"Go."
I turned and ran.
I ran down the hallway, clutching the falling dress, my bare feet slapping against the cold marble.
I made it to my room. I hit the lock panel.
I leaned against the door, sliding down to the floor, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I looked at the dress bunching in my lap.
He hadn't kissed me. He hadn't fondled me.
He had simply unmade me.
And god help me, I wanted him to finish the job.