Chapter 5

Around nine, she changed into a powder-blue sheath dress that screamed sophistication and silence. Makeup, heels, pearls. She walked into the Lux interview already wearing the mask.

The journalist, a young woman with bright eyes and an air of hero worship, beamed as Cora sat.

“So tell me, Mrs. Pritchard, what’s it like being married to one of the most powerful men in New York?”

Cora smiled. “Challenging,” she said smoothly. “But worth it. Harvey doesn’t do anything halfway — not business, not relationships.”

“Some say your relationship happened fast.”

“It did. But sometimes life changes overnight. When you know, you know.”

“And how did you two meet?”

“An art auction,” Cora lied. “He bid on a painting I loved. I bid back. Neither of us got the piece — but we both left with something better.”

The journalist giggled. “That’s so romantic.”

Cora fought the urge to scream.

At lunch, Ms. White Farrell was waiting at a private rooftop garden, draped in diamonds and secrets. She was older, polished, and knew exactly who Cora was, and wasn’t.

“Mr. Pritchard's wife,” Ms. White said, sipping champagne. “You’re younger than I expected.”

“I hear that a lot.”

Ms. White tilted her head. “Do you understand your role in all of this?”

Cora didn’t blink. “Perfectly.”

“You’ll be watched. If you slip, Harvey slips. And he doesn’t tolerate failure.”

“I don’t either.”

That seemed to amuse Ms. White “We’ll see.”

They made it through lunch without any problems. Cora held her own through passive-aggressive compliments and pointed questions about her family, education, and style choices.

That evening, the ballet unfolded in silk and spotlight. Cora wore a midnight-blue gown, her hair in sleek waves. Harvey met her at the entrance in a tuxedo that looked like it had been stitched by the devil himself.

They sat in a private box. Cora leaned close, whispering through her teeth.

“Why do I have to be everywhere with you?”

“Because you’re a symbol now. And symbols don’t rest.”

She took a sip of wine. “You mean I’m property.”

He looked at her then.

“You’re power,” he said. “Dressed up in flesh. And as long as they believe the myth, we both win.”

She hated how much that truth cut. Because he wasn’t wrong.

At intermission, she excused herself to the balcony. The city sparkled below, unaware of the silent war being fought in its penthouses.

Miya found her minutes later. “Mr. Harvey’s guest wants to meet you.”

“Let me guess. Another investor.”

Miya hesitated. “Not exactly. He’s... more than that.”

The man waiting in the lobby was tall, olive-skinned, and smiling like a predator. His eyes raked over Cora with lazy ownership.

“Cora Pritchard,” he said. “I’ve heard so much.”

“You are?”

“Bron Winston. Old friend of your husband’s.”

She didn’t offer her hand.

He chuckled. “Smart girl.”

Harvey appeared behind her, voice flat. “Bron was just leaving.”

Bron winked. “Another time, then.”

He disappeared like smoke.

Cora turned. “Who was that?”

“Someone you never want to owe.”

“Are there many like him?”

Harvey jaw flexed. “Too many.”

That night, back in her room, Cora took off her jewelry slowly. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror — elegant, empty, exhausted.

She thought about the web she’d been dragged into and she thought about Bron Winston’s smile.

The following morning, Cora stood barefoot on the marble balcony, sipping coffee that tasted like burnt elegance. The world below moved at a distance — taxis, lives, the hum of New York energy. Her world, now perched twenty-seven stories above, felt quieter, more sinister.

She had expected Harvey to knock. Instead, Miya appeared with a garment bag.

“You’re attending the Pritchard Foundation’s garden auction this afternoon,” Miya said. “You’ll be expected to make conversation.”

“What am I being auctioned off for this time?” Cora asked.

“A new children’s hospital,” Miya replied, unfazed. “But the press will be watching. So will the families. You’ll need to appear… softened.”

“Softened?”

“You have power, Cora. Learn to use it.”

Cora chose a champagne-colored dress, soft enough to evoke grace but tailored enough to scream authority. Her hair fell in effortless waves, her makeup was neutral.

The event took place on the terrace of one of Pritchard's art properties — a lush rooftop draped in hanging ivy, sculpture gardens, and glass tables with silent staff passing hors d’oeuvres.

Harvey was already there, naturally. Speaking with donors. Kissing cheeks. Looking less like a tyrant and more like a monarch. He glanced once at Cora as she arrived, offering a flicker of approval.

She mingled, she smiled and asked calculated questions and listened to longer answers. Some women whispered about her behind manicured hands. Others tried to befriend her for status.

And then she met someone unexpected.

“Mrs. Pritchard?”

The voice was warm, familiar in a way that struck something buried. Cora turned.

“Ben?”

Her heart paused. Ben Grey, her ex.

The man she’d once planned a life with — before her world crashed, before Harvey bought her like a priceless artifact.

Ben looked exactly the same. Brown eyes, quiet smile, slightly awkward suit.

“You look…” he hesitated. “Different.”

“I am.”

“What are you doing here? This crowd—”

“I belong to this crowd now.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

Cora gave a smile she didn’t feel. “That girl’s gone.”

He searched her face. “Are you okay?”

Harvey arrived before she could answer, sliding a hand around her waist like a brand.

“Ben Grey,” Harvey said coolly. “Haven’t seen you since Cambridge.”

Ben’s smile faded. “I wasn’t aware you two… knew each other.”

“We’re very close now,” Harvey said. “Aren’t we, Cora?”

Cora’s spine stiffened. “Inseparable.”

Ben glanced between them. “I should go.”

Harvey nodded. “Yes. You should.”

When Ben disappeared into the crowd, Cora turned, her voice low and dangerous.

“You set that up.”

“No,” Harvey said. “The world is small. Especially for people who still hope to rescue you.”

“Rescue me?”

“You’re not a damsel, Cora. You’re a symbol. And symbols need loyalty. That man was a crack in your image.”

“You don’t own my memories.”

“No. But I’ll erase them if they become inconvenient.”

She wanted to slap him. Instead, she took a flute of champagne from a passing tray and downed it in one swallow.

Later that night, Cora found herself in the library, alone. The house had begun to feel like a living organism — watching, listening, reacting.

She pulled down a random book just to have something to hold, flipping through pages she couldn’t focus on.

Miya found her hours later.

“You’ve been requested at the parlor. Harvey’s waiting.”

“For what?”

“Chess.”

“Chess?”

“His version.”

The parlor was dark, intimate. A chessboard sat between two velvet chairs. Harvey gestured for her to sit.

“You play?”

She raised a brow. “You assume I don’t.”

They began slowly and she played cautiously. He played with studied arrogance.

“Every piece has its place,” he said. “Even pawns.”

“I’m not a pawn,” she replied.

“Then prove it.”

Their game became more than strategy. It was about power, position, control. He tested her and she adapted.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said finally.

“And what’s that?”

“Teaching me to be like you.”

“No,” Harvey said. “I’m teaching you how to survive people like me.”

She moved her knight. “Check.”

He looked at the board. Then at her.

“Well played.”