Chapter TWO

The morning sun was an intruder. It poked through the gaps in Cali’s blinds, mocking the three deadbolts she’d slammed home the night before.

Cali sat at her vanity, staring at the dark circles under her eyes.

She looked like hell, which was a professional disaster for a woman whose face was her only currency. She grabbed a concealer palette and began aggressively masking the fatigue.

"Cali! Open this door right now!" Her mother’s voice shrilled through the wood, followed by a frantic pounding.

Cali didn't move. She finished her eyeliner with a steady, lethal precision before standing up. She swung the door open, her expression flat and unimpressed.

"The sun is barely up, Elena. Unless the house is literally on fire, get out."

Elena pushed past her, waving a glossy invitation like a weapon. "You didn't tell me! Why didn't you tell me you were invited to the Santoro Gala? The guest list is exclusive to the top 1% of the underworld and the elite. If you go, our debts—"

"I’m not going to a mobster’s party so you can scout for a new husband or a loan shark," Cali snapped, snatching the card.

Her eyes narrowed.

The invitation was hand-calligraphed. It didn't just have her name it had a scent. Sandalwood and cold rain.

The same scent that had been clinging to her skin in her dreams all night.

"They sent a car, Cali. It’s sitting downstairs," Elena whispered, her greed outstripping her fear.

"A custom Rolls Royce. The driver said it’s for you specifically. He wouldn't even let Leo touch the door handle."

Cali walked to the window and flicked the blind. There it was.

The same black silhouette from the studio, idling like a patient beast. It wasn't a stalker anymore. It was an invitation to a cage.

"I have a shoot at ten," Cali said, her voice dropping to a low, grumpy rumble.

"Cancel it!" Elena cried. "This is the Santoro family, Cali. You don't say no to them. They own the agencies. They own the city." Cali looked at the invitation again.

On the back, in tiny, elegant script, were four words that made her stomach do a slow, nauseating roll.

Don’t wear the green.

It was a reference to the emerald dress she’d worn yesterday. He was telling her he’d seen her. He was telling her he was dressing her now.

"Fine," Cali spat, her mean streak flaring up. She grabbed a pair of scissors from her desk and, while her mother watched in horror, she snipped the corner of the expensive invitation off.

"I’ll go. But I’m wearing exactly what I want. And if your Santoro doesn't like it, he can sue me." She shoved her mother out of the room and slammed the door.

She didn't feel like a model anymore she felt like a lamb walking into a slaughterhouse. But she was a lamb with a very sharp bite.

She went to her closet and pulled out a sheer, rebellious black gown, the one her agent said was "too aggressive" for her brand.

"You want to watch me, whoever you are?" she whispered to the empty room, her eyes flashing with defiance.

"Then watch this." Downstairs, inside the car, a phone buzzed. A photo appeared on the screen, a grainy shot of Cali looking out her window, her face a mask of beautiful, icy rage.

A thumb traced the curve of her jaw on the glass screen.

“Perfect,” a voice murmured in the back of the car. “I love it when you fight, Cali baby.” The black Rolls Royce was a silent, moving vault.

Cali sat in the back, her sheer black gown a middle finger to the don't wear green request. She crossed her legs, her heels digging into the plush floor mats, her face a mask of bored, grumpy indifference.

The driver didn't speak. He didn't even look at her through the rearview mirror. It was as if she were a ghost, or a holy relic he wasn't allowed to acknowledge.

"Are we there yet, or is this the part where you drive me into a river?" Cali snapped, her voice echoing in the sterile luxury of the car.

The driver remained silent.

She huffed, leaning her head against the cool leather. She felt that familiar prickle again. She glanced at the small camera embedded in the ceiling of the car.

A tiny red light was pulsing. "I hope you're getting my good side," she flipped the camera off, her eyes flashing with spite.

Miles away, in a darkened office overlooking the city, a man watched the high-definition feed. He leaned forward, his thumb tracing the screen where her middle finger pointed.

A low, appreciative chuckle vibrated in his chest. "Feisty today, Cali baby."

The car pulled up to a sprawling estate tucked behind iron gates that looked like spears. The Santoro Gala was a sea of black ties and blood-red roses. As Cali stepped out, the air changed.

The chatter of the elite died down. Men who moved with the grace of predators suddenly looked at their shoes. Women whispered behind diamond-encrusted fans.

No one approached her. It was as if an invisible ten-foot barrier surrounded her.

Cali grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, ignoring the way his hand shook so hard the crystal clinked.

"Is the plague written on my forehead, or does my breath smell?" she muttered, taking a defiant sip.

"They aren't afraid of you, Miss Cali," a voice whispered.

She turned to see an older woman, a retired model she recognized from the agencies, looking at her with genuine pity.

"They're afraid of the man who decided you belong to him. No one wants to be the reason he burns this house down tonight."

Cali’s grip on her glass tightened until her knuckles turned white. "I don't belong to anyone. I'm a person, not a fucking territory."

"Tell that to the man who bought your agency this morning," the woman said, before scurrying away into the crowd.

Cali felt the world tilt. Bought her agency? She had been a top earner for years, but she was still just a contract. If he owned the agency, he owned her schedule, her image, her life.

She scanned the room, her grumpy defiance turning into a cold, sharp-edged rage. She didn't see him. She didn't see the CEO.

But she felt him. He was everywhere in the silence of the guests, in the scent of sandalwood that seemed to cling to the curtains, in the way the security guards tracked her every move like heat-seeking missiles.

She walked toward the balcony, needing air. She stood over the railing, staring out at the dark gardens.

"You can come out now!" she yelled into the night, her voice trembling with fury. "I know you're watching! Stop being a coward and show yourself!"

Silence.

Only the rustle of the wind through the rosebushes answered her. Then, her phone buzzed in her clutch. A text from an unknown number.

Turn around, Cali baby. You’re tilting your head too far to the left. It ruins the line of your neck. Cali whipped around, her heart hammering. The balcony was empty.

The ballroom was a hundred feet away. But on the stone pillar behind her, a single, fresh blackberry crepe sat on a silver saucer, steaming in the cool night air.