Chapter Six

The mahogany boardroom table felt like a runway for an execution, and I was the only one without a blindfold.

We had been trapped in this airless room for four hours. I sat in a stiff chair behind Lucien, my hand cramping into a permanent claw as I scribbled notes that felt less like business minutes and more like a record of a massacre.

Lucien didn’t lead; he hunted. Every time a director dared to breathe, he cut them down with a single, icy look. He didn't want their respect; he wanted to remind them who owned the air they breathed. By the time the last director scurried out—looking like they were escaping a burning building—the sun had long since surrendered. The floor-to-ceiling windows now looked out over a city draped in bruised purples and heartless neon.

I rubbed my sore wrist, my brain feeling like a tangled mess. Lucien stood up, adjusting his silver cufflinks with a terrifying calm, as if he hadn't dismantled his whole board. He didn't look tired. He looked fed.

"I’m staying late," he said, his voice a low vibration that made the empty room feel even smaller. "The Marigold deal still has loose ends."

"Fine," I muttered, reaching for my phone. My bed was calling my name, and I could practically feel the silk sheets of the East Wing. "I’ll tell the driver to bring the car around."

Lucien paused. He turned his head slowly, his gaze raking over me with a jagged, sudden sharpness. It was the look a king gives a peasant who forgot to bow.

"My driver? I don't think so."

I froze, my thumb hovering over the screen. "What? How else am I supposed to get back to the penthouse?"

A slow, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "The bus station is six blocks east, Scarlett. Or did you forget how to use your legs the second you stepped into a designer suit?"

The insult hit me right in the solar plexus. "Lucien, it’s past ten. It’s a twenty-minute walk through the warehouse district to get to that station."

"And?" He stepped closer, his presence an overwhelming weight. "Don't get ahead of yourself. Just because I let you stay at the penthouse, sit at this table doesn't mean you’ve earned a seat in my car. You were a girl who wiggled for tips yesterday, don't start acting like a gold-digger who’s too good for the curb today. Take the bus. It’ll remind you who you really are."

He turned his back on me, dismissed me like a broken piece of office furniture.

I gathered my things in a blur of silent fury, refusing to let the burning in my eyes turn into tears. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. I stormed out, the clicking of my heels echoing through the silent, dark office like a ticking bomb.

The walk was a nightmare. The city felt different when you weren't behind the tinted glass of a limousine. It felt hungry. Every shadow seemed to stretch toward me, and every distant siren made my pulse jump. I felt small. I felt exposed.

Just four more blocks, I whispered to myself, clutching my bag to my chest as I hurried past a narrow, trash-strewn alley. Just get to the light.

I was a block away from the flickering neon sign of the bus station when the hair on the back of my neck stood up. A black, beat-up sedan was idling at the curb. The engine sounded like a low, mechanical growl.

I tried to speed up, but my heels caught on the uneven sidewalk. I wasn't fast enough.

A hand, thick and calloused, clamped onto my arm with bruising force. I was yanked off the sidewalk so violently my head snapped back. Before I could even scream, I was dragged into the darkness of the alley.

"Gotcha," a voice hissed.

My heart plummeted. It was a voice that tasted like copper and old nightmares. Jace.

"Jace, leave me alone! I’m done with you!" I gasped, thrashing against his grip. The smell of stale cigarettes and cheap bourbon rolled off him in waves. He looked haggard, his eyes bloodshot and frantic.

"No, baby, we ain't done yet," he sneered, his fingers digging into my skin until I felt my own pulse throbbing against his palm. "Is it because of the Hart brothers? The sudden wealth? You think you’re too high and mighty for me now that you’re playing house in a penthouse?"

He dragged me toward the open door of the sedan. Inside, I could see two of his "friends" hefty, faceless shadows waiting for the signal.

"Jace, you’re hurting me!" I screamed, digging my heels into the grit. I clawed at his hand, but he didn't even flinch.

"Scream all you can, baby. My cute little Scar," he laughed, his face inches from mine, his breath hot and putrid. "Nobody’s gonna hear you out here. You’re back in the real world now, and in this world, you’re mine."

He shoved me against the car door, his heavy body pinning me down, crushing the air out of my lungs. I looked around desperately—the street was empty. I was a second away from being shoved into that car and disappearing forever.

"Can't you hear she told you to leave her alone?"

The voice boomed from the shadows of the alley casual, lazy, and dripping with a boredom that was deadlier than a threat.

Jace froze. His head snapped toward the darkness, his grip on me slackening just a fraction.

"Who’s there?" Jace barked, his voice cracking. "Mind your own business if you want to keep breathing! This is family business!"

A figure stepped out of the gloom. He wasn't wearing a suit. He was in a dark leather jacket, his silhouette tall and imposing against the distant streetlights. He looked like a god of vengeance who had just walked out of a cage.

He didn't move fast. He walked with a slow, rhythmic grace, the light catching the glint of a heavy ring on his finger as he cracked his knuckles.

"And I heard her quite well," the voice murmured, now dangerously close.