Chapter 10: I will still run

~ Scarlett ~

The heavy wooden door of the yacht’s suite slammed shut, the harsh click of the lock echoing through the silent room like a gunshot.

I sat on the edge of the silk-draped bed, my heart hammering against my ribs, my breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches.

My hands trembled as I pulled the torn green silk over my exposed chest, my skin still burning everywhere Nikolai’s hands and mouth had touched me.

Two days.

He had given me two days to "get my mind right."

A cold panic, sharp and icy, began to claw its way up my throat. It had only been a single week. Seven days since I was auctioned off like an object, seven days since I was dragged into this gilded underworld.

I still had two whole weeks to endure before the Supreme Council Gala—my golden ticket, my only calculated opportunity to slip into a crowd, find a phone to contact Julian and rescue my mother.

Now, my entire timeline was collapsing.

Nikolai wasn't waiting for the Gala. His cold, untouchable exterior was cracking, replaced by a dark, possessive madness that threatened to consume me long before we ever set foot in that ballroom.

If I waited three weeks, there would be nothing left of me to save. He would strip away my pride, my dignity, and the last threads of my independence until I was nothing more than another possession in his empire.

I can't wait for the Gala, I thought, my knuckles turning white as I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to think through the terror. I have to change the plan.

I have to get out now.

A polite knock on the door broke my spiraling thoughts. A guard’s muted voice called through the wood. "Miss. The vehicle is waiting at the dock. Master De Santis commands us to return to the estate."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, smoothed down my ruined dress as best I could, and forced my spine straight. "I’m coming."

The drive back to the mansion was suffocatingly silent for obvious reasons. I mean, it’s not like we ever had a normal conversation but right now, everything felt so wrong.

Nikolai sat in the leather seat beside me, staring out the tinted window at the passing city lights. He didn't look at me.

He didn't say a word. But his physical presence filled the entire back cabin of the SUV, heavy and volatile.

I kept my face turned toward my own window, my reflection staring back at me pale, wide-eyed, and terrified, yet clinging to a quiet, stubborn defiance.

When the SUV finally pulled into the estate’s grand courtyard, Nikolai didn't even step out. He murmured a brief command to the driver, remaining in the back seat as the car roared back down the driveway toward the syndicate’s central office.

Relief washed over me so intensely my knees almost buckled on the gravel. He was gone. At least for now.

Upstairs in my private quarters, I stripped off the emerald dress, tossing it onto the floor, and stepped into the steaming heat of the shower.

I scrubbed my skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the scent of cedar, espresso, and copper. But as I wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror, my breath caught in my throat.

Dark, violent hickeys bruised the sensitive skin of my collarbone and neck. Marks of possession. Marks that screamed I belonged to a monster.

I pulled a high-collared cashmere sweater over my head, hiding the bruises beneath the thick fabric, and went downstairs to the breakfast parlor.

As I walked down the marble corridor toward the dining room, voices drifted from the open pantry doors. I paused behind a stone pillar, keeping my footsteps silent.

"...and whatever you do, keep your eyes on the floor," an older, seasoned maid was instructing in a hushed, stern whisper. She was talking to two young recruits in crisp white aprons. "If you see Master Nikolai in the hallways, step back and do not make eye contact."

"Is he really that strict?" one of the new girls asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"Strict isn't the word, girl. He despises women," the senior maid replied coldly.

“He loathes having any female near him. He doesn't allow maids in his private wing, only Head Maid Catherine is permitted to clean his suite. A girl two months ago accidentally bumped into him in the study, and he had her fired and thrown off the estate grounds before noon. Stay away from the master. If you value your life, don’t even breathe in his direction."

I stood frozen in the shadow of the corridor, my mind reeling in absolute confusion.

Despises women? Loathes having females near him?

Was there another Nikolai De Santis living in this house? Because the man they were describing sounded like a cold, monastic recluse, not the ruthless, raging beast who had pinned me to a bed on a yacht an hour ago, burning with a terrifying, unhinged fever to mark every inch of my skin.

Did he treat every woman like poison, while treating me like a drug he couldn't stop consuming?

The thought made my stomach twist into knots. How did that sweet young boy I used to know turn into this beast?

After a quiet breakfast, a guard summoned me to the conservatory. Madame Vane was waiting, standing beside a tablet displaying playback footage from the yacht’s security cameras.

"Sit, Scarlett," Vane said, her voice dry and analytical. "We are going to review your field test."

For the next hour, she dissected my performance with surgical precision. "Your spatial awareness was acceptable. You located Rossi’s armed guards within ten seconds of boarding. Your drink-swirling technique was flawless—subtle, elegant, undetectable."

She paused, her icy eyes flicking up to meet mine. "Your composure under Rossi's crude flirting was remarkable. You used your charm exactly as instructed to secure the contract."

I sneered in my heart, someone didn’t seem to think that!

"So I passed?" I asked quietly.

"You passed," Vane confirmed, closing the tablet. "Which brings us to your next evaluation. In two nights, you will accompany Nikolai to the Supreme Underground Casino. You will act as his high-stakes hostess at the baccarat tables."

My pulse gave a violent leap.

Two nights.

Why was everything crashing down in two nights? It was the exact deadline Nikolai had given me on the yacht. Two days to submit to him... or two days to go to the casino.

Then it hit me. A dark, electric revelation lit up the edges of my panic.

An underground casino wasn't a secluded estate or a private yacht in the middle of open waters.

A casino meant crowds. It meant flashing lights, bustling VIP lounges, corrupt politicians, high-rollers, multiple exit doors, and valet driveways. It was an environment chaotic enough for a real distraction.

If Nikolai was giving me two days before he claimed me, then the casino on that second night wasn't just another test. It was my execution date, unless I turned it into my escape.

"I'll be ready," I told Madame Vane, my voice steady, hiding the fierce determination roaring back to life inside my chest.

For the next forty-eight hours, Nikolai was a ghost.

He didn't return to the estate. His private wing remained dark and silent, and I spent two full days eating alone, training with Madame Vane, and obsessively mentally mapping every exit strategy I could execute at a high-end casino.

Now, the second night had arrived.

I expected a long, elegant evening gown, something dark, classic, and sweeping, like the dresses Madame Vane had drilled into me. But when two senior stylists walked into my suite carrying a garment bag, my jaw dropped.

"What... is that?" I gasped, taking a step back.

"Master De Santis's personal instructions for the high-roller tables," the head stylist said crisply, unzips the bag.

It wasn't a gown. It was a high-concept, provocative casino hostess uniform, styled like a dark, dangerous Harley Quinn aesthetic.

A tiny, pleated micro-skirt in a bold dark plaid hung on the hanger, so dangerously short it barely covered the curve of my hips.

Alongside it sat a crisp white collared top designed to be tied high above my waist, unbuttoned down the center to reveal an alarming expanse of chest and cleavage.

To finish the look, a dark leather waist corseting and black latex thigh-high socks that stretched past the knee, leaving a provocative band of bare skin exposed on my upper thighs.

"I am not wearing that," I snapped, my cheeks burning with immediate rage and humiliation.

"You don't have a choice, Miss Hawthorne," the stylist replied flatly.

"Every hostess at the Supreme VIP tables wears this uniform tonight. Master Nikolai specified your size personally."

My eyes twitched violently, this man was a lunatic! He might as well send me on my birthday suit.

Ten minutes later, I stood in front of the full-length mirror, my face burning red.

I looked completely undone. The tiny skirt swished against my upper thighs with every step, barely covering my backside, while the tied white top pushed my breasts up and left my midriff totally exposed.

The thigh-high socks accentuated every curve of my legs, giving me a wild, chaotic, Harley Quinn edge that felt completely alien and agonizingly humiliating.

Horror settled deep in my gut as I stared at my reflection.

How was I supposed to slip unnoticed through a crowded casino in this? I looked like a branded distraction, a siren wearing Nikolai De Santis's colors for the whole room to stare at.

Running into the street or calling for help looking like a cartel pit-boss toy would draw every eye in a three-block radius.

A knock sounded at the door, and the guard's voice echoed into the room.

"Master Nikolai is waiting in the courtyard, Miss Hawthorne. It's time."

I gripped the edge of the vanity, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Nikolai thought this humiliating outfit would keep me docile, marked, and anchored to his side.

I will still run, I swore to myself, lifting my chin in the mirror despite the burning shame. Even if I have to burn this whole casino to the ground to do it.