Chapter 1

[The Golden Handcuffs]

The Grand Ballroom of the Pierre Hotel was a masterclass in decadence, a glittering trap of gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and the heavy scent of lilies and expensive perfume. To the elite of the city, it was the social event of the season—the annual Masquerade of Shadows. To Ivy St. Claire, it felt like a funeral. Her own.

The silk of her emerald gown felt like cold water against her skin. It was an expensive dress, one of the last few luxuries her family owned, bought back when the St. Claire name actually meant something in the banking world. Now, it was just a shroud.

"Breathe, Ivy. You’re hyperventilating," her father, Arthur, muttered beside her. He adjusted his plain black mask, his hands shaking so violently that he nearly dropped his champagne flute. "If the creditors see us looking desperate, the wolves will move in before the first course is served."

"The wolves are already here, Dad," Ivy replied, her voice a fragile thread. She adjusted her silver filigree mask, the cold metal biting into her temples. "The bank sold our debt this morning. All fifty million of it. They wouldn’t tell me who the buyer was. They just said 'the matter is now private.'"

Arthur’s face went pale, a sickly grey color that made him look twenty years older. "Private? That’s impossible. We had an agreement with the board. They promised me another thirty days."

"Agreements don't matter to people with enough money to break them," Ivy said, her eyes scanning the room. She felt a strange sensation—a prickle at the base of her neck, a heavy weight in the air that hadn't been there a moment ago.

The orchestra began to play a dark, sweeping waltz. The music felt heavy, oppressive, drowning out the shallow gossip of the debutantes and the hushed business deals of the men in power. Suddenly, the crowd began to part. It wasn't a slow movement; it was a physical reaction, as if a predator had just stepped into a room full of sheep.

He walked with a predatory grace that commanded the very oxygen in the room. He was tall—impossibly so—clad in a bespoke tuxedo that looked as if it were spun from the shadows themselves. His mask was not made of lace or plastic, but carved obsidian, shaped into the sharp, cruel visage of a raven. Only his eyes were visible: a pair of dark, icy depths that seemed to absorb all the light around them.

"Dante Moretti," Arthur whispered, the name sounding like a death rattle.

Ivy felt the blood drain from her limbs. She knew that name. Everyone did. Dante Moretti was the 'Kingmaker.' He was a man who didn't just own companies; he owned the people who ran them. He was rumored to have a heart made of cold flint and a soul that had been sold long ago. He was the most dangerous man in the city, and he was walking directly toward them.

The silence that followed him was deafening. When he stopped, he was so close that Ivy could smell him—sandalwood, aged cedar, and the sharp, metallic tang of cold power. He didn't look at Arthur. He didn't look at the other billionaires who were practically bowing in his presence.

He looked at Ivy.

"Mr. Moretti," Arthur stammered, his voice cracking. "I... I was hoping for a moment of your time. About the St. Claire holdings. I believe there has been a misunderstanding with the transition—"

"There is no misunderstanding, Arthur," Dante said. His voice was a low, melodic baritone that vibrated in Ivy's chest, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. He didn't even glance at the man he had just ruined. "I don't make mistakes. And I don't listen to the pleas of men who gamble with their legacies and lose."

Arthur reached out, perhaps to grab Dante’s sleeve, but a massive man in a dark suit—Dante’s shadow—stepped forward, his hand moving to his coat. Arthur recoiled as if he had been burned.

"Please," Ivy said, stepping forward. Her heart was beating so hard she was sure Dante could see it pulsing at the hollow of her throat. "My father is a good man. If you’ve bought our debt, you know the assets are still valuable. The architecture firm alone—"

Dante moved then. It was so fast, so silent. He stepped into her personal space, his towering frame casting a shadow that swallowed her whole. He reached out, his long, leather-gloved fingers tilting her chin up. The touch was firm, possessive, and entirely inappropriate for a room full of people. Yet, no one moved to help her.

"I didn't buy your father's debt for his blueprints, Ivy," Dante murmured, his voice dropping to a private, terrifyingly intimate level. "I bought it because I like to own beautiful things that are broken."

Ivy’s breath hitched. "I’m not a thing."

"Aren't you?" Dante’s thumb stroked her jawline, a gesture that was almost a caress, but felt like a threat. "As of eight o'clock this morning, I own the roof over your head. I own the bed you sleep in. I own the air your father breathes and the very freedom he thinks he still possesses. He signed it all away the moment he accepted my 'anonymous' loan last year."

"You... you set him up," she whispered, her eyes widening behind her silver mask. "You manipulated the market. You drove the stock down so he would have to borrow."

Dante’s obsidian mask leaned closer, his lips inches from her ear. "I did what was necessary to bring you here, Little Bird. I’ve watched you for three years. I’ve watched you build your little towers and dream your little dreams. And I decided I was tired of watching from the shadows."

"You're insane," she breathed, trying to pull away, but his grip on her chin tightened just enough to stop her.

"I am a man who gets what he pays for," Dante said, his voice cold as a winter grave. "And I paid fifty million dollars for you. Tonight, you will leave this ball with me. You will move into my estate. You will live by my rules, eat at my table, and answer only to me."

"And if I say no?" Ivy hissed, her pride flaring despite her terror.

Dante pulled back slightly, his dark eyes shimmering with a cruel sort of amusement. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin, crimson folder, handing it to her.

"Inside is a record of your father’s 'creative' accounting over the last decade. Fraud, Ivy. Embezzlement. Tax evasion. All things I’ve kept hidden from the authorities... for now. If you walk out of that door alone, I will call the District Attorney. Your father won't survive a week in a state penitentiary. He’s too soft, too old."

Ivy felt the world tilt. She looked at her father, who was watching them with a look of pathetic hope, unaware that his daughter was being sold like a piece of livestock right in front of him.

"You're a monster," she whispered.

"I am your only hope," Dante countered. He leaned in one last time, his hand moving from her chin to the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in her dark hair. "The final waltz starts in ten minutes, Ivy. If you aren't at my side when the music ends, I’ll release the files. I'll destroy your name, your father, and every memory of St. Claire's until there is nothing left but ash."

He let her go, the absence of his touch leaving her cold and trembling.

"Ten minutes, Little Bird," he repeated, his voice echoing in the hollows of her mind. "Don't be late. I hate it when my possessions don't follow the schedule."

He turned and disappeared into the swirling crowd, leaving Ivy standing under the weight of a fifty-million-dollar choice. The orchestra began a new, faster tempo—the countdown to her life’s end.

Ivy looked at the crimson folder in her hand, then at the exit, then at her father’s trembling smile. She felt the poison of Dante’s words sinking into her veins, paralyzing her. She had two choices: let her father rot in a cell, or walk into the arms of a man who had spent three years planning her capture.

As the first notes of the final waltz began to ring out, Ivy saw Dante standing by the grand staircase, his black mask reflecting the golden light. He didn't look worried. He looked like a man waiting for his dinner to be served.

Slowly, her feet began to move. Not toward the door, but toward the shadow.

But as she reached him, Dante didn't offer his hand for a dance. Instead, he leaned in and whispered something that made her blood turn to ice.

"I have a surprise for you at the house, Ivy. Something your father never told you. Something that will make you realize you were mine long before I bought the debt."

Ivy froze, her hand hovering near his. "What are you talking about?"

Dante’s smile was visible now, sharp and white. "We have a very long night ahead of us to discuss your family's true sins. Let's go home, Ivy. The cage is waiting."

Before she could scream or protest, his hand clamped firmly around her wrist, pulling her toward the night waiting outside.

(Watch out for Chapter 2)

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