3

ELARA

Four days.

It had been four days since the club. Four days since I let a stranger touch me in ways David never had.

I felt guilty, yes. But I also felt alive. My skin still tingled when I thought about the man’s hands. Rough, scarred, possessive. He hadn't treated me like a mannequin. He had treated me like I was the only water in a desert.

But reality had crashed back in.

We were in David’s bright red Ferrari, speeding toward Summerlin. The engagement party.

"Stop picking at your nails," David snapped, glancing at me. "You look nervous. It makes you look guilty."

"I am nervous," I said, staring out the window at the passing palm trees. "I’ve never met your father."

"He’s just an old man with too much money and a god complex," David scoffed. "Just smile, agree with whatever boring story he tells, and look adoringly at me. Can you manage that?"

I didn't answer. I adjusted the strap of my dress. It was an emerald green silk gown, backless, with a deep V-neck. David chose it. He said he wanted to show off the merchandise.

"I got you something," David said, reaching into the backseat. He tossed a small box into my lap.

I opened it. Diamond earrings. Expensive.

"An apology?" I asked.

"An incentive," he corrected. "Wear them. Dad likes flashy things."

I put the box away. I felt sick.

We pulled up to the gates of the estate. It wasn't a house; it was a fortress. High stone walls, cameras everywhere, armed security guards at the gate who checked David’s ID before letting us in.

"Friendly," I muttered.

"He has enemies," David said, revving the engine as we drove up the winding driveway. "Paranoid bastard."

The mansion was modern, sleek, and terrifyingly large. Valets were already parking cars—Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, Lamborghinis.

We were stepping into a different tax bracket entirely.

We walked into the grand foyer. It was filled with people. Men in tuxedos, women in couture gowns. Waiters circulated with champagne. A string quartet played in the corner.

"David!"

A man approached us. He looked like a politician—fake smile, expensive teeth.

"Uncle Marcus," David said, putting on his best charming grin. He gripped my waist, his fingers digging in painfully. "Elara, this is Marcus, my father’s associate. Marcus, my fiancée, Elara."

"Charmed," Marcus said, kissing my hand. His eyes lingered on my chest. "Alexander is in the library. He’s waiting for the official introduction."

"Great," David muttered. He pulled me through the crowd. "Come on. Let’s get this over with."

We walked down a long hallway lined with art that probably cost more than my life’s earnings. David stopped at a set of double mahogany doors. He took a deep breath, fixing his tie.

"Remember," he whispered. "Smile."

He pushed the doors open.

The library was dim, smelling of old paper, sandalwood, and… bourbon.

My heart skipped a beat. That smell.

A man was standing by the window, looking out at the gardens. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a charcoal grey three-piece suit that fit him like armor. His hair was silver at the temples, dark on top.

"Father," David said, his voice losing its confident edge. "We’re here."

The man turned around.

The air left my lungs.

It was the eyes. Piercing, steel grey eyes. I would know them anywhere.

It was the jawline. The way he held himself with authority.

It was him.

The man from the club. Sir.

My knees almost buckled. I grabbed David’s arm to steady myself, and David mistook it for affection, patting my hand.

"Dad," David said, puffing out his chest. "I’d like you to meet Elara White. My fiancée."

Alexander Thorne stood still. His gaze swept over David, dismissive and cold, before locking onto me.

He didn't blink.

He didn't look surprised. He looked…happy.

His eyes traveled down my body, lingering for a fraction of a second on the emerald dress, before coming back to my face. He saw the recognition in my eyes. He had to.

He then walked toward us. The sound of his dress shoes on the hardwood floor was the only sound in the room.

He stopped in front of me. He was so tall that I had to crane my neck.

"Elara," he said. His voice was the same low rumble that had whispered in my ear while he made me see stars.

He extended a hand. A large hand. On his knuckles, a faint, white scar.

I stared at the scar. My breath caught in my throat.

I slowly reached out, placing my trembling hand in his. His grip was warm.

He didn't shake my hand; he held it. His thumb brushed over my knuckles, a caress.

He looked me dead in the eye, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

"Nice to finally meet you, Elara," he said smoothly. "I’ve heard so much… and seen even more."

David laughed nervously. "She’s a model, Dad. You’ve probably seen her billboards."

"Perhaps," Alexander said, never breaking eye contact with me. His thumb pressed harder against my skin.

He released my hand, but the heat remained.

"Welcome to the family," he said.

I realized with certainty that I was in so much trouble.

"Thank you," I managed to whisper.

Alexander turned his gaze to his son, his expression hardening instantly. "She’s lovely, David. Far too good for you."

David’s smile faltered. "Thanks, Dad."

"I assume you’re here for the signature on the trust documents?" Alexander walked back to his desk, picking up a crystal glass of bourbon.

"That, and to celebrate," David said, guiding me further into the room.

Alexander took a sip, watching me over the rim of the glass. "We’ll discuss the signature later. Tonight, enjoy the party."

He moved behind his desk, leaning back in his leather chair—the same way he had sat in the club before I knelt for him.

"Elara," Alexander said.

I jumped slightly. "Yes?"

"Save me a dance later," he said. It wasn't a request.

David looked annoyed, but he couldn't say no. "Of course she will."

Alexander smiled. It was a predator’s smile.

"Good. I look forward to seeing if you move as well on the dance floor as you do… on the runway."

I knew exactly what he meant.

And God help me, I wanted to run, but I also wanted to know what he was going to do next.