Chapter 3

[The Price of Blood]

The air in the library became suffocating, the scent of old paper and Dante’s expensive cologne turning into a toxic fog. Ivy’s breath came in ragged hitches as she stared at the heavy oak doors. Her father was here. He had come for her. He had to have come for her. The words Dante had just spat—claims of betrayal, of a generational blood feud, of her father’s secret sins—whirled in her mind like shards of glass, but she pushed them down. She had to believe in the man who had raised her.

"He wouldn't," Ivy whispered, more to herself than to the monster standing over her. "He’s my father."

Dante’s hand remained on her waist for a second too long, a searing heat through the silk of her dress, before he finally released her. He stepped back, moving toward the mahogany sideboard to pour himself a finger of amber liquid. The crystal decanter clinked softly against the glass—the only sound in the room besides the frantic thudding of Ivy's heart.

"Belief is a fragile thing, Little Bird," Dante said, swirling the liquid. "It’s usually the first thing to break when the lights come on."

The doors groaned open.

Arthur St. Claire stumbled into the room. He was no longer the poised, if anxious, businessman from the gala. His tuxedo jacket was rumpled, his silk tie hung loose around his neck, and his face was flushed a deep, panicked red. He looked small in this room—small and pathetic against the backdrop of Dante’s overwhelming shadow.

"Ivy!" he gasped, his eyes darting to her briefly before they skittered away, landing instead on the man behind the desk. "Moretti. I… I had to come. We didn't finish our discussion."

"Dad!" Ivy rushed toward him, her heels clicking frantically on the hardwood floor. She reached for his hands, finding them cold and clammy. "Thank God you’re here. We have to go. He’s insane, Dad. He’s talking about files, about your past, about… about buying me. Tell him he’s wrong. Tell him we’re leaving."

Arthur didn't move. He didn't wrap his arms around her in a protective embrace. He didn't even look her in the eye. His gaze was fixed on Dante, pleading and desperate.

"Arthur," Dante greeted him, his tone terrifyingly conversational. He didn't rise from his seat. "You’re breathless. I imagine the drive up the cliffs is taxing for a man of your… delicate constitution."

"I saw the black cars, Dante," Arthur said, his voice high and reedy. "I saw you take her. I know what this looks like. But you have to understand, the fifty million… it’s just the tip of the iceberg. The interest rates from the offshore lenders, they’ve triggered a margin call. If I don’t have another ten million by Monday morning, the fraud won't just be a secret file in your desk. It’ll be on the front page of the Journal."

Ivy froze, her hands dropping from her father’s sleeves. The room seemed to tilt. "Dad? What are you talking about? You’re here for the money?"

Arthur finally looked at her, but there was no fatherly love in his eyes—only the frantic, wide-eyed look of a cornered animal. "Ivy, honey, you don’t understand the scale of this. If the company goes under, we lose everything. Not just the house. The legacy. My life’s work. Mr. Moretti is a reasonable man. He’s… he’s taken an interest in you. I thought perhaps if we extended the arrangement…"

"The arrangement?" Ivy’s voice was a ghost of a sound. "You’re talking about me as if I’m a line item on a balance sheet."

Dante stood up then, the movement slow and serpentine. He walked around the desk, the light catching the sharp edges of his features. He stopped just behind Ivy, his presence a dark wall at her back.

"She thinks you’re here to rescue her, Arthur," Dante said, his voice laced with a cruel, mocking pity. "She thinks the St. Claire blood is thicker than the red ink on your ledgers. Tell her the truth. Tell her why you brought the second folder."

Dante’s hand came up, resting heavily on Ivy’s shoulder. She wanted to flinch, but her muscles felt like they had turned to stone.

Arthur’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a smaller, blue envelope. His hand shook as he placed it on the edge of Dante’s desk.

"It’s the deed," Arthur whispered. "The summer estate in Newport. And… and the jewelry. My wife’s collection. It’s worth seven million at auction. Take it all. Just give me the bridge loan. And… and take care of Ivy. Keep her here. Keep her safe. Just… save the name."

Ivy felt the world shatter. The man she had adored, the man she was willing to sacrifice her life for, had just walked into the lion’s den not to save her, but to hand over the rest of her mother’s memory for a few more days of fake prestige.

Dante picked up the blue envelope, tossed it back onto the desk without looking at it, and then turned his gaze to Ivy. His eyes were no longer cold; they were burning with a triumphant, possessive fire.

"You see, Little Bird?" Dante murmured in her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "This is the man you were weeping for. He didn't come to take you home. He came to make sure the check didn't bounce."

Ivy turned back to her father, her eyes stinging with tears she refused to let fall. "Is that it? Am I just a trade-in for you, Dad? Am I the price you pay for your mistakes?"

"Ivy, it’s for the family!" Arthur cried, his voice cracking. "Once I’m back on my feet, I’ll come for you. I promise. It’s just a few months. Mr. Moretti will treat you well. Look at this place! You’ll have everything—"

"Get out," Ivy said, the words cold and sharp as a razor.

"Ivy—"

"GET OUT!" she screamed, the sound echoing off the thousands of books lining the walls.

Arthur flinched, looking at Dante for permission. Dante gave a small, dismissive nod. Without another word, without a single backward glance at his daughter, Arthur St. Claire turned and fled the room, the sound of his retreating footsteps a rhythmic betrayal.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of the wind howling against the library’s reinforced glass. Ivy stood in the center of the room, her shoulders shaking, her head bowed. She felt stripped bare, more naked than if she were standing there without her clothes.

Dante moved. He didn't stay behind her. He walked around to face her, forcing her to look up at him. He took her chin in his hand, his grip firm, unyielding.

"Now," he said, his voice a low, dark caress. "There are no more illusions, Ivy. No more 'good' father. No more 'innocent' St. Claires. There is only you, and there is only me. And you belong to me in every way a person can be owned."

Ivy looked at him, her grief curdling into a dark, poisonous rage. "You did this. You broke him. You led him here tonight knowing he would do this."

"I simply gave him the opportunity to show his true colors," Dante replied. "I didn't make him a coward, Ivy. He was born one. Just as you were born to be mine."

He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "You’re going to hate me, aren't you? You’re going to spend every night in that bedroom upstairs dreaming of ways to kill me."

"I will," she hissed. "I’ll find a way to destroy you, Dante. I’ll burn this house down with both of us inside it."

Dante’s smile was beautiful and terrifying. "Good. I’ve always preferred fire to ice. It makes the victory so much warmer."

He suddenly swept her up into his arms. Ivy gasped, her hands instinctively clutching his shoulders to keep from falling. He began walking out of the library, toward the grand staircase that led to the private wings of the house.

"Put me down!"

"In time," he said. "But first, we have to settle you into your new cage. And I think it’s time you saw the true extent of my obsession."

He carried her up the stairs, past doors that remained shut, until he reached the very end of the hall—a door made of heavy steel disguised with dark wood. He pressed his thumb to a concealed scanner—a rare piece of high-end security—and the door clicked open.

He stepped inside and set her on her feet.

Ivy gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The room wasn't a bedroom. It was a gallery. And every single wall was covered in her.

There were sketches of her at the park from three years ago. Photos of her through her office window. Candid shots of her laughing with friends she hadn't seen in months. There was even a gown draped over a mannequin in the corner—a exact replica of her mother’s wedding dress, recreated in black silk.

"You’ve been stalking me," she whispered, a chill running down her spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

"I’ve been curating you," Dante corrected. He walked to the center of the room, looking at the images of her as if he were a king surveying his kingdom. "And now, the collection is complete."

He turned back to her, his eyes darkening. "But there is one photo missing, Ivy. The one where you’re wearing my ring. And we’re going to take that one tonight."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring box, but as he opened it, a muffled thud came from the wall behind the mannequin. A heavy, rhythmic dragging sound, followed by a faint, desperate scratching.

Ivy froze. "What… what is that?"

Dante’s expression didn't flicker. He didn't even look toward the noise. He merely stepped closer to her, holding out a diamond the size of a bird’s egg, red as a drop of fresh blood.

"Ignore it," he said softly. "It’s just the ghosts of this house. Now, give me your hand, Ivy. Or I’ll have Marcus bring your father back here so you can watch what I do to him when I’m truly angry."

The scratching grew louder, accompanied by a low, guttural moan that sounded like someone’s throat had been ruined.

"Dante," Ivy whispered, backing away. "Who is behind that wall?"

Dante’s eyes snapped to hers, the mask of the sophisticated billionaire finally cracking to reveal the raw, jagged madness beneath. "I told you, Little Bird. I bought you to replace what your father took from me. And beneath this floor, in the dark where he belongs… is the reason why you will never, ever be allowed to leave."

(Watch out for Chapter 4)

💬 Add to library | Vote | Comment