I slam the manifest down between us hard enough that the paper flutters. She gasps at the action, a small, satisfying sound. “Tell me why you changed this,” I say, slow and flat.
Her lips press into a thin, defiant line.
“You promised to answer honestly,” I remind her.
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind.” She sneers, and for a heartbeat, I want to enjoy the way her arrogance cracks under my stare.
I lean in until the heat from the monitor washes over my face. My voice drops low, dangerous. “You think I won’t break you? I’ve broken men twice your size, twice your cleverness. Don’t test me.”
For a second, I imagine the defiant mask will hold. How many times have I seen that exact set of lips and stubborn jaw on people who thought words were armor? But hers shifts. The sneer cracks like glass.
“Because my father was going to sell them,” she says, the words spilling out too fast. “And if I couldn’t stop him, I wanted to make sure he lost money doing it.”
The words land between us like a thrown stone. Her confession doesn’t shock me—the sabotage I half-expected—butthe rawness in her voice does: all that hatred aimed not at me, but at the man who sired her.
I sit back and study her. David Chang’s daughter. A pawn on an old board, but pawns have value, especially when they expose a weakness in the game. Still, this isn’t bitterness toward me; it’s a personal, teeth-bared fury at her own blood, and it changes the scope of what I can do with her. A realization is finally dawning in my head, and I decide to expose it.
I keep watching until she bites out, “What?”—snapping at me for the silence that’s become pressure.
“Before you came to the museum tonight, where were you?” I ask, careful with my voice until I’m not. I’m running out of patience.
She swallows; the movement says what her mouth won’t.
I press, “Answer my fucking question!” and slam my fist onto the table.
The wood answers with a dull knock.
She flinches, then forces the words out. “I was with my father. He hosted a dinner.”
I let that settle, let the implication hang in the air. “Your father offered you tonight,” I say, slow and flat. “He auctioned you to the highest bidder.”
Her head snaps up. First shock, then shame, then a blaze of fury that makes her beautiful face into something dangerous. She doesn’t deny it; she asks instead, voice tight, “How do you know that? That only happened a few hours ago.”
I laugh, low and humorless. “Because I’ve been watching Chang for months,” I tell her. “He’s sloppy with the important things—he thinks money buys discretion. But tonight’s information was pretty tough to get a hold of. I doubled down and found the guest list. It made the purpose obvious: high-value foreign buyers only show when the item is rarer than apainting. I couldn’t tell what the object was from the manifests, until I saw you. Put the pieces together.”
I watch the color drain from her face as the realization lands. The ledger I hold is suddenly more than paper—it’s leverage.
My pulse ticks faster. I should feel satisfaction—confirmation that David Chang is exactly the monster I always knew he was. But instead, something sharper cuts through it. Anger. Protective, dangerous anger that burns in my chest before I can stop it.
I shove it down hard. I can’t afford to see her as a victim. Not when she’s leverage. Not when she’s Chang’s daughter.
“You’ll stay here,” I say, my voice low and final. “You’ll answer when I ask. And until I decide otherwise”—I lean closer, close enough to see the pulse beating fast in her throat—“you’re mine, Elara Chang.”
Her lips part, eyes flashing with fury and disbelief. She doesn’t speak, but that glare is sharp, stubborn, alive, and it meets mine and doesn’t waver.
Good. Let her hate me. Hate is easier to handle than fear. Hate, at least, I understand. Hate will keep us both sharp.
“You can’t keep me here,” she spits. “It’s kidnapping.”
I smirk, leaning back in my chair. “Who’s going to stop me?”
“You’re a monster.”
“From what I hear,” I murmur, tilting my head, “you’re already familiar with monsters,printsessa.”
She gasps, color draining from her face, but she recovers quickly. “Back at the museum—my car is there. I have my bag in it, with important items. I need it. I also need my phone to make calls.”
I rise from my chair, slow and deliberate, the air between us shifting as I close the distance. Her chin tilts up in defiance, but I can see the faint tremor in her hands.
