The dressing room smelled of cheap hairspray and a faint, sour tang of old sweat.
Elena Vance stared at the cracked full-length mirror. The zipper of the crimson silk dress—a shade of red that felt like an open wound—was stuck halfway up her back. Her fingers fumbled with the tiny metal teeth, her knuckles white. She gave a sharp, desperate tug. The fabric groaned. Three years ago, she wouldn't even know how to dress herself. Now, this thin layer of silk was all that stood between her and total ruin.
"Thirty seconds, Elena," a voice barked through the thin door. It was the manager, a man who smelled of tobacco and greed. "The hospital just called. If the payment doesn't clear by midnight, they pull the plug on your brother. Don't mess this up."
Elena's heart skipped a beat, a sharp pain blooming in her chest. She closed her eyes for a second, seeing Leo's pale face under the oxygen mask. She managed to wrench the zipper up. Her breath was shallow.
"I'm coming," she said. Her voice was dry, like old parchment.
She stepped out onto the stage. The spotlight hit her like a physical blow—a wall of white, blinding heat. Elena squinted, her hand reflexively clutching the side of her skirt. Below the stage, the darkness was alive. She heard the clinking of ice cubes, the low, predatory hum of men's voices, and the heavy scent of cologne. It felt like standing before a firing squad that used gold coins instead of bullets.
"The final lot," the auctioneer's voice boomed, dripping with oily excitement. "The Pearl of Boston. Pure pedigree. Starting bid: five hundred thousand."
Silence. Then, a snicker from the front row.
"The Vances are cursed," someone whispered loud enough for her to hear. "I'll give you fifty bucks to see her cry."
Elena didn't look at them. She focused on a small, jagged crack in the floorboards. She began to move—a slow, practiced turn. Her legs felt like lead, as if she were wading through neck-deep water. She missed a beat of the music. Her heel caught on a seam in the carpet, and she stumbled. A small gasp escaped her lips.
"Ten million."
The voice didn't come from the floor. It dropped from the VIP balcony, heavy, cold, and hauntingly familiar.
Elena froze. Her hands dropped to her sides. She knew that voice—the low vibration of it, the way it seemed to suck all the air out of the room. She looked up, her vision blurring under the harsh lights.
A man stood in the shadows of the balcony. His silhouette cut a sharp, intimidating line against the dim light. He didn't move. He didn't even lean forward. But the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The predatory whispers died.
"The transaction is closed," the voice said. "Bring her to me. Now."
Elena's knees shook. She tried to take a step, but her feet stayed glued to the stage. It was him. Dante Moretti. The boy who used to wait in the rain for her. The bodyguard her father had humiliated and kicked out five years ago.
The car door slammed, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the midnight rain.
Inside the black Maybach, the silence was suffocating. Elena squeezed her hands together in her lap until her skin went numb. Dante sat next to her, staring out the window at the blurred city lights. He hadn't looked at her once since she was handed over to him like a piece of luggage.
The only sound was the rhythmic thump-thump of the windshield wipers.
Elena stole a glance at him. He looked different. Older. The boyish softness she remembered was gone, replaced by sharp, jagged angles. There was a scar along his jawline—a jagged, pale line that hadn't been there five years ago. She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat felt clogged. What could she say? I'm sorry my father beat you? I'm sorry I didn't stop them?
The car pulled up to a house made of black glass and steel, perched on a cliff. It wasn't home. It looked like a tomb.
"Out," Dante said. He didn't look at her.
He stepped into the rain without an umbrella, his broad back disappearing into the foyer. Elena followed, her heels slipping on the wet stone. Inside, the air-conditioning was cranked so high her teeth began to chatter.
Dante turned to face her in the hall. His eyes didn't meet hers; they tracked the way the wet red silk clung to her body, revealing too much.
"Take it off," he said. His voice was flat.
Elena's heart hammered against her ribs. "What?"
"The dress. It's cheap. It smells like that place," he muttered. A flicker of something—disgust, or perhaps something darker—crossed his face. "Maria will give you something else. Burn that one. I don't want anything from that auction house in my home."
"Dante... I don't have anything else," she whispered. She hated how small her voice sounded.
Dante stepped into her space. The scent of rain and expensive woodsmoke hit her. He reached out, his hand stopping just inches from her throat. He didn't touch her, but she could feel the heat radiating from his palm.
"You don't get to choose anymore, Elena. That ended when I signed the check."
He looked at her for a long second, his gaze lingering on the pulse beating wildly in her neck. Then he turned to the maid waiting in the shadows. "Take her to the East Wing. And make sure that red rag is in the furnace by morning."
The next morning, the sun was a dull gray smudge behind the clouds.
Elena was in the kitchen by 6:30 AM. She was wearing the uniform Dante had provided—a simple, stiff white cotton dress. No lace, no silk. Just a reminder of her new rank. She held a silver tray, her fingers tracing the edge of the cold metal.
"Study. Second floor," Maria, the head housekeeper, said. She didn't look up from her work.
Elena made her way to the study. She knocked. No answer. She pushed the heavy oak door open. Dante was slumped over a desk covered in architectural blueprints and legal documents. His tie was loosened, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked exhausted, like a man drowning in a war he was winning.
She placed the tray down. The clink of the porcelain made him jerk awake. His eyes were bloodshot.
"You're late," he said. He didn't look at a clock. He just knew.
"I... I couldn't find the kitchen," Elena lied. She had actually spent ten minutes staring at the door, trying to breathe.
Dante stood up. He walked toward her, and Elena reflexively took a step back. He stopped just a foot away, his presence overwhelming. He reached out and adjusted the collar of her uniform, his fingers ice-cold against her skin.
"Rules, Elena. This house runs on them. You're late again, and the doctors at the clinic get a phone call. Do you want Leo to lose his bed?"
Elena swallowed hard. The threat was a physical weight on her chest. "No... Master."
The word felt like ash. Dante's hand lingered on her collar a second too long. His expression shifted—for a heartbeat, his eyes softened, a ghost of the boy who used to look at her with adoration. Then, the granite wall slammed back down. He shoved a stack of folders toward her.
"Archives. Organize them. All of them."
Elena took the folders. As she turned to leave, her grip slipped. Papers scattered across the floor. She knelt down, her face burning with shame. As she gathered the sheets, a name caught her eye: Vance Architecture - 2021 Internal Audit.
She froze. Her eyes skimmed the numbers. Dates of transactions, offshore accounts... and her father's signature. Beside them were red marks, meticulous notes in Dante's handwriting. He hadn't been stealing from the company five years ago. He had been flagging the embezzlement.
Her father hadn't kicked Dante out because of a theft. He had kicked him out because Dante was the only one who knew her father was a criminal.
"Why are you still here?" Dante's voice was right above her.
Elena looked up, her fingers trembling as she held the audit report. "My father... he knew. He knew you were trying to protect the company. That's why he had them beat you, isn't it?"
Dante snatched the paper from her hand. He didn't deny it. He just looked down at her, his face a mask of cold, jagged fury.
"Go to the archives, Elena. Before I remember why I should hate you even more."
Elena stood up, her legs feeling like lead. She walked toward the door, then paused. "Dante? Why didn't you tell me? Five years ago, in the garden... why didn't you say anything?"
Dante didn't look at her. He sat back down, picking up a pen with a grip so tight his knuckles turned white.
"Because you were a Vance," he said, his voice a low, broken whisper. "And I was just the help. Now, get out before I lose my patience."
Elena stepped into the hallway, the heavy door clicking shut behind her. She realized then that the ten million dollars wasn't a price for her body. It was a price for her soul—and Dante was going to make her pay every cent.