A man steps forward. He is older, maybe sixty, with silver hair and a face that looks like it was carved from granite. He holds a cigar in one hand. "Chairman Sterling," Alaric greets, his voice smooth as silk. He doesn't let go of me. In fact, he pulls me closer.
"And this," Sterling says, his eyes landing on me. They are cold, calculating eyes. He looks at me the way a butcher looks at a side of beef. "This must be the acquisition."
"This is Elodie," Alaric corrects, his tone sharpening just a fraction. "My guest."
"Elodie," Sterling repeats, testing the name. "Lovely. Does she speak?"
"She speaks when she has something to say," Alaric answers for me. He guides me past Sterling toward the table.
We are seated at the head. Alaric takes the chair at the end. I am placed to his immediate right. The proximity is suffocating. As I sit, the slit in my dress falls open, revealing my leg. I try to cover it, but Alaric’s hand lands on my thigh under the table. His fingers are warm, heavy. He squeezes once—a warning.Don't hide.
The dinner begins. Soup is served. A lobster bisque that smells rich and briny. I stare at the spoon. I wait. Alaric picks up his spoon. He takes a sip. Only then do I pick up mine. I see him smirk from the corner of his eye. He enjoys the obedience. He gets off on the fact that I am waiting for his cue to perform basic biological functions.
The conversation around the table is terrifying. They don't talk about curing patients. They talk about "retention rates" and "asset management." "Senator Thorne's son is proving difficult," a woman across from me says. She is wearing diamonds that catch the candlelight. "He keeps trying to contact the press."
"We adjusted his medication," Alaric says calmly, buttering a roll. "He is currently in a state of... heightened suggestibility. He will sign the NDA by morning."
"Excellent," Sterling says from the other end of the table. "We can't have a scandal before the election. The facility's discretion is its most valuable commodity."
I swallow a spoonful of soup, trying not to choke. They are monsters. All of them. This isn't a hospital. It’s a holding pen for the inconvenient secrets of the elite. And I am just the newest secret.
"But tell us about the girl, Alaric."
The voice comes from my right. I turn. Seated next to me is a man I haven't noticed yet. He is younger than the others. Maybe Alaric’s age. He is handsome in a cruel, sharp-edged way, with slicked-back dark hair and eyes that are a startling, unnatural shade of green. He is leaning back in his chair, swirling a glass of red wine, watching me with a hunger that makes my skin crawl.
"Mr. Vance," Alaric says. The temperature at the table drops ten degrees. "I wasn't aware you were in the country."
"Just got back from Macau," Vance says, his eyes never leaving my face. "Business is booming. But I heard rumors about a new prodigy in the West Wing. A pianist." He smiles at me. It’s a shark’s smile. "You look familiar, darling. Have we met?"
My heart hammers against my ribs. If he recognizes me... if he says my last name... the carefully constructed lie that Elodie Fray "went away" could crumble.
"I don't think so," I whisper.
"Voice of an angel, too," Vance muses. He reaches out. His hand brushes my bare arm. It is a light touch, barely a graze, but it feels like a violation.
CRACK.
The sound of Alaric setting his wine glass down is loud enough to silence the entire room. The crystal stem has snapped in his hand. Red wine—blood red—spills over his fingers and onto the white tablecloth.
"Alaric!" Mrs. Sterling gasps.
Alaric ignores her. He ignores the bleeding cut on his palm where the glass shattered. He stares at Vance. His expression is one of pure, unadulterated murder. "You are touching my property, Declan," Alaric says. His voice is a low, vibrating growl that echoes in the silent hall.
Vance pulls his hand back, holding it up in a mock surrender. He looks amused, not afraid. "Easy, Doctor. Just admiring the merchandise. You know I have an eye for quality."
"She is not merchandise," Alaric says, standing up. He grabs a napkin and wraps it around his bleeding hand. The white linen turns crimson instantly. "And she is not for sale."
"Everything is for sale," Vance counters, taking a sip of his wine. "Especially in this room. What did she cost you? Her father was in debt, wasn't he? Charles Fray? The failed investor?"
The name hangs in the air.Charles Fray.He knows.
I freeze. I look at Alaric. Alaric doesn't look at me. He is focused entirely on Vance. "If you say her name again," Alaric whispers, leaning over the table, "I will remove your tongue with a steak knife and feed it to you. Do we have an understanding?"
Vance laughs. "Always so dramatic, Alaric. That’s why you’re the genius and I’m just the money." He raises his glass to me. "My apologies, Miss... Elodie. No offense intended."
Alaric doesn't sit back down. He reaches down and grabs my arm. His grip is bruising. "We are leaving."
"But the main course," Sterling protests. "Alaric, sit down. Declan is just baiting you."
