3.

It was nine when I parked my car at the end of Ronan's long, winding driveway. I could have driven right up to the main entrance, but something in me resisted giving him that satisfaction. Let him wait extra two minutes while I walked.

"Small rebellions were all you have left," I told myself.

I hated this place.

I hated that I knew exactly how many steps it took to reach the oversized front door. I hated that the security system recognized my face, granting me access with a soft beep that felt more like a prison door locking behind me.

Inside, the air hit me first—that distinct blend of expensive cigars, wood polish, and something else I couldn't name. Power, maybe.

I followed the familiar path through the foyer, past the pretentious art pieces Ronan probably couldn't name if asked. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I forced my breathing to stay even. Never let him see weakness. That was the first rule of surviving Ronan Hayes.

"Ughh..." I sighed silently the moment my eyes landed on him.

Ronan Hayes, sprawled in a leather chair like some king on his throne. His long, messy hair fell over his sharp cheekbones, framing those eyes I hated looking at. He didn't look up from his phone when I entered.

Miss Grey, his assistant, stood by the window, giving me that strange look she always had on.

Even in a blazer, she was a stunner, her flawless beauty and sleek ponytail radiating a chilling poise.

"You're late," Ronan said, still not looking up, his voice carrying a young, ruthless edge.

"Traffic," I lied, though we both knew I had timed that walk to arrive exactly at nine.

His obsidian eyes finally looked up to mine. "Sit."

I hesitated, just for a second. Another tiny rebellion. Then I lowered myself into the chair across from him, spine straight, hands casually folded in my lap like I wasn't preparing for whatever came next.

Ronan studied me for a long moment, then flicked his eyes at Miss Grey.

She moved towards me, and I was confused for half a second, until her hand connected with my cheek. It stung sharp and hot, and I was still processing it before another landed on the other side.

My head snapped sideways. Tears sprang to my eyes from the pure shock of it, but I blinked them back. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction. I straightened in my chair with my burning face.

"Feel better now?" I managed, even as my voice shook.

"That depends." Ronan's voice was soft now, which was always worse than when he shouted. "Do you understand what you did today?"

"I got his attention, didn't I?"

"You got yourself fired. You acted without permission, without planning, without thinking."

"I was thinking, alright. Greg's been harassing women for months, and Lucien does nothing—"

"Don't pretend this was about workplace justice. This was about your ego, your impatience. I've spent months laying groundwork, creating the perfect opportunity to place you in Lucien's path, and you couldn't wait. You had to force your way in like a child throwing a tantrum."

I dug my fingernails into my palms. "It worked, didn't it? Everyone's talking about it at work..."

"And now he knows your face, your name, already running a background check. You just made him suspicious of you! You're a tool, Camila. My tool. And tools don't decide when and how they're used."

"I'm not your—"

"You are whatever I say you are." He cut me off, voice rising for the first time. "Or have you forgotten our arrangement? Have you forgotten what I did for you?"

The words felt like another slap. How could I ever forget the night that made me indebted to him?

"I haven't forgotten."

"Good." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to that dangerous softness. "Because I see so much hate in your eyes, Camila. You hate that Lucien made you bound to a man like me.

You hate that your freedom, your future, your very life depends on my goodwill." His finger brushed my stinging cheek, almost tender. "But without me, you'd have nothing. You'd be rotting in prison. And if you ever forget that, if you ever act without my permission again, you wouldn't be the only one to pay for your sins."

My blood ran cold. "Leave Maya and Edmund out of this."

"Then do as you're told." He sat back, clearly satisfied. "I'll contact you when I've cleaned up your mess."

Miss Grey hadn't moved. Something in her eyes seemed almost sympathetic.

No, that couldn't be right. I knew that woman was just as terrible as her goddamned boss.

I stood on shaky legs but forced myself to walk out with my chin high. I didn't give them my tears, didn't let my shoulders slump until I was safely in my car.

As I drove away, hatred burned fresh in my chest—for Ronan, for Miss Grey, for my own weakness, but most of all, for Lucien Hayes.

The man whose crimes had started all of this. The man I was going to destroy, no matter what it cost me.

---

I should have been sleeping, but I was just staring at the peeling paint on our ceiling, wishing the anger in my veins would cool enough to let me rest.

Maya found me like that in the morning, curled up on the couch where I had collapsed after returning from Ronan's. I hadn't wanted to wake her last night with my rage-filled pacing.

"You look like hell," she said, tossing me a clean towel. "Coffee's brewing."

I managed a weak smile. "Thanks."

While Maya vacuumed our tiny living room, I wiped last night's makeup from my face, willing it to wash away Ronan's threats too.

"You can't keep letting him control you like this," Maya said over the vacuum's roar. "There has to be another way."

"If you have brilliant ideas, I'm all ears."

She stopped, leaning on the vacuum handle. "Maybe we should—"

A sharp knock interrupted her. We exchanged confused glances. We never got visitors, especially Saturday morning.

I opened the door to find nothing but a sleek black box tied with a silver ribbon. "What is it?" Maya asked, peering over my shoulder.

Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was the most gorgeous black dress I'd ever seen.

"Holy shit," Maya whispered. "Secret admirer?"

I searched for a card or a note, but found nothing.

"This has to be a mistake," I muttered, checking the hallway.

My phone buzzed in the living room and I bolted to it. Elvis, my supervisor. I hadn't heard from him since I was fired. He hadn't even called to check if I was okay. If he was texting on a Saturday morning, it was more likely he had a job for me, and less likely to check up on me. Elvis occasionally hooked me up with ushering gigs on weekends. Some were decent money, others barely worth the bus fare.

"Big job tonight!!! It's high profile, Mila. Wear the dress, and a car will come for you at 6. You'd scream your lungs out when you heard the pay!"