Chapter 3

The glass of whiskey in Eric’s hand tilted as he took a step closer, the amber liquid swirling like his dark intentions. The lock on the door clicked with a finality that made the air in the room turn thin.

"Don't look so terrified, Brianna," Eric said, his voice dropping to that patronizing, sickeningly sweet tone. "Dawson is a boy. He plays games. I don't play games. I take care of things."

Brianna’s back hit the cold glass of the balcony door. Her fingers scrambled for the handle behind her, but it wouldn't budge. She was trapped in a gilded cage with a man who looked at her like she was a meal ticket.

"My mother is downstairs," Brianna lied, her voice shaking but chin high. She had to be strong. She couldn't let him see the terror clawing at her throat. "She forgot her phone. She's coming back up."

Eric paused. A flicker of doubt crossed his face. He was a predator, but he was a predator who cared about his reputation in the press.

"Eloise is halfway to the city by now," he sneered, though he stopped moving forward. "She’s too busy spending Declan’s money to care about you."

"She’s coming," Brianna said, pushing off the glass and grabbing the heavy crystal vase from the side table. She held it up, her knuckles white. "And if you take one more step, I’m going to smash this against the wall and scream until every maid, guard, and gardener in this estate comes running. Do you want that headline, Eric? Billionaire Assaults Stepdaughter on Day One?"

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Eric’s eyes narrowed. He looked at the heavy crystal in her hand, then at the fire in her eyes. He let out a sharp, annoyed breath and straightened his jacket.

"You're more trouble than you look," he muttered, the mask of kindness slipping completely to reveal the cold irritation underneath. "Fine. But remember, Brianna... in this house, you have no allies. Eventually, you'll get tired of fighting."

He stepped aside, unlocking the door with a casual flick of his wrist.

Brianna didn't wait. She dropped the vase onto the carpet and bolted.

She ran down the hallway, her breath coming in jagged gasps. She didn't look back. She flew down the grand staircase, her hand slipping on the polished railing. She needed air. She needed to get out of this mausoleum of a house.

She burst through the front doors and out onto the gravel driveway.

The cold morning air hit her face, stinging her eyes. She expected to see an empty driveway. She expected to see that they had all left her, just like Eric said.

But the sleek, black Bugatti was still there.

And leaning against the hood, looking bored and checking his watch, was Dawson.

He wasn't gone. He hadn't left her. He was waiting.

The realization hit her like a slap. He knew. He knew Eric was going to go into her room. He had timed it.

"You!" Brianna screamed, marching toward him. The fear evaporated, replaced by a white-hot anger that burned through her veins.

Dawson looked up slowly. He didn't look surprised. He looked disappointed, as if her survival was a boring outcome to a bet he’d made with himself.

" You're late," he drawled, sliding his phone into his pocket. "I don't like waiting."

"You set me up," she accused, stopping just inches from him. Her chest was heaving, her hair a mess. "You told him you were leaving so he would corner me. You wanted him to hurt me!"

Dawson’s face remained a mask of stone. He opened the passenger door of the car. "Get in."

"No!" Brianna shouted. "I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re sick. You and your father and his friends... you’re all sick."

Dawson closed the distance between them in a heartbeat. He didn't grab her, but he loomed over her, his shadow swallowing her whole.

"I didn't tell Eric anything," Dawson said, his voice deadly calm. "Eric does what he wants. I just didn't stop him. There’s a difference."

"That’s the same thing!"

"In your world, maybe. In my world, it’s called survival of the fittest." He leaned down, his grey eyes searching hers with a cold curiosity. "And you survived. Barely. 

Brianna stared at him, horror dawning on her. He wasn't just cruel; he was trying to break her. He was testing her reflexes like she was a lab rat.

"I’m leaving," she stated, her voice trembling with rage. "I’m going to pack my bag, walk out of these gates, and I’m never coming back."

Dawson let out a dry, humorless laugh. "And go where? To the laundromat? To the debt collectors waiting for your mother’s next mistake?"

"I’ll get a job," she said, lifting her chin. "I have a degree. I’m smart. I’ll work at a coffee shop, a library, I don't care. I will scrub floors if I have to. As soon as I get a paycheck, I’m out of your life. I will pay back every cent your father spent on us, and I will disappear."

Dawson studied her face. For a moment, the silence was only broken by the distant crash of waves against the cliffs. He looked at the determination in her jaw, the fire in her eyes. Most women cowered before him. Most women begged for his money.

Brianna was begging for freedom.

"You want a job?" he asked softly.

"Yes. And I’ll get one. Without your help."

"You can't," he said simply.

"Watch me."

"Brianna, look around you." He gestured to the sprawling estate, then to the city skyline in the distance. "My family owns this city. We own the banks, the real estate, the shipping lines. We sit on the boards of the libraries and the coffee chains. If I make one phone call, your resume will be blacklisted before you even hit 'send'. You won't get hired to walk dogs."

Brianna felt the blood drain from her face. "You can't do that."

"I can do anything I want." He opened the car door again, his expression hardening. "You want to work? Fine. You work for me."

"What?"

"You said you’d scrub floors to pay off the debt," Dawson said, his lips curling into a cruel smirk. "So, prove it. I’m firing my third assistant today. She’s incompetent. The position is yours."

"I am not working for you," she spat. "I’d rather starve."

"Then starve," he said, turning to get into the driver's seat. "But know this... if you walk out those gates, I will cut off your mother’s allowance by noon. No more treatments. No more shopping. The debt collectors will have her address by dinner. Can you live with that?"

Brianna froze. He knew exactly where to hit her. Her mother was vain and selfish, but she was still her mother. And she was fragile.

"You are evil," she whispered.

"I’m a businessman," Dawson corrected. He revved the engine, the car purring like a dark beast. "Get in the car, Brianna. Your shift starts now."

She stood there for a long, agonizing second. She looked at the gate—so close, yet impossible to reach. Then she looked at Dawson, the man who held the keys to her entire existence.

Defeated, she slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

Dawson didn't smile. He didn't gloat. He just slammed his foot on the gas, and the car tore down the driveway, leaving the mansion behind.

The drive was silent. Brianna stared out the window, watching the trees blur into green streaks. She felt like a prisoner being transferred to a higher security facility.

"Where are we going?" she asked after twenty minutes. "The headquarters is in the financial district."

Dawson didn't answer. He took a sharp left, heading away from the city center, toward the old industrial docks. The area was gritty, filled with rusted shipping containers and warehouses. It was the part of the city the Van Dorens owned but never visited.

"Dawson?" she asked, a fresh wave of panic rising. "This isn't the way to the office."

He pulled the car up to a massive, abandoned-looking warehouse at the end of a pier. The windows were barred. The sign above the door was faded.

"The main office is for the public," Dawson said, killing the engine. He turned to her, his eyes dark and unreadable. "This is where the real work happens. And if you’re going to be my assistant, you need to see where the bodies are buried."

"I don't understand," she stammered, shrinking back against the leather seat.

"You wanted to pay off the debt, Brianna?" He reached into the back seat and pulled out a thick black file folder, dropping it into her lap. It was heavy. "Open it."

She opened the folder.

It wasn't company records. It was photos. Photos of her. Photos of her mother. Photos of them at their old apartment, at the grocery store, at the bus stop. Dates and timestamps going back three years.

"What is this?" she breathed, her hands shaking.

"Collateral," Dawson whispered. "We didn't just find you last week, Brianna. My father has been watching you for years. And you’re about to find out why."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "Welcome to the family business. There is no quitting.”