Vaughn
Six days until the showcase.
I should be confident.
Should be certain. Should be preparing for my inevitable triumph.
Instead, I'm sitting in my office at two in the morning, nursing scotch I don't want and staring at files I can't focus on.
Because something has gone wrong with the plan.
Not wrong, exactly.
Eden's training has exceeded every expectation.
She's perfect—graceful, obedient, responsive.
She performs every command flawlessly.
She begs beautifully.
She submits completely.
She's everything the Consortium could want to see.
The problem isn't her performance.
The problem is me.
The problem is that somewhere along the way—between the auction and the escape and the hunt and two weeks of intensive training—this stopped being about the Consortium.
And became about her.
I drain the scotch and pour another.
The inner circle.
That's what this has always been about.
That's why I joined the Consortium five years ago.
Why I attended their events even when they disgusted me.
Why I bid two million dollars on a virgin at a Valentine's auction.
Not for Eden herself.
For what she represented.
An entry ticket.
A demonstration of worthiness.
The Consortium's inner circle controls more wealth and power than most people can imagine.
Eleven men who make decisions that shape markets, influence governments, and move billions of dollars with a single phone call.
And they only admit new members who prove themselves worthy.
