The calculation is made in a split second, a cold, brutal calculus of power and necessity. I see the path, and it is paved with her agony.
I get to my feet. “I want the information. Now.”
Vihaan grins, a victor’s smile. He stands as well, pulling a small, old-fashioned key from his pocket. He places it on the table next to the damning piece of paper. “This key is for locker 417, in the basement. The information is inside. Fulfil your side of the bargain, and the contents will be yours before you leave the club tonight.” His meaning is clear. His men are watching. The exchange is conditional and simultaneous.
I look from the key to his triumphant face. He thinks he’s won. He thinks he’s broken me.
“Fine,” I bite out. I see the hope die in Grace’s eyes, replaced by a devastating betrayal. “But I am there,” I snarl, stepping closer to Vihaan, invading his space, reasserting a shred of dominance. “I am present. You can fuck her, but you will not be alone in the room when you do it.”
His grin doesn’t falter. He doesn’t care. My presence is just another layer of degradation for her, for me. “As you wish. You can hear how much I make her scream.”
A small, wounded sound escapes Grace’s lips. I cannot look at her. If I look at her, I will kill everyone in this room and burn this fucking place to the ground.
Instead, I reach down and take her arm. My grip is firm, unyielding. I pull her to her feet and she stumbles, her body limp with shock and terror.
“Antonio…” she cries, her voice strangled. “I’ve been good. I’ve done everything you asked of me, I…”
“I need you to do this.” I murmur, sounding almost pleading.
“I’m not your whore.” She snarls.
Only. it’s the wrong thing to say.
“You are my pet. My plaything, I can use you however I see fit.” I snap back. “And you will do this, you will spread your legs and let him fuck you because that’s what I’m telling you to do.”
Vihaan moves around her like a shark circling. He’s already discarded his jacket. His stench is a violation in itself, a thick, oily smog that threatens to suffocate us both.
“A true masterpiece, Antonio,” he says, his voice a low, grating purr. He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are only for her. “A man of your particular tastes, I always wondered what you would deem worthy of keeping. Now I see. She is exquisite.”
I say nothing. My jaw is a knot of granite, my teeth ground so tight I fear the enamel will crack.
I am seated in a low, velvet-upholstered chair, a King on a throne of thorns. My hands are clenched on the armrests, the velvet rough against my whitened knuckles. Every instinct, every primal, screaming fibre of my being is telling me to rise, to cross the room. To put my fist through Vihaan’s smug, leering face. To break the bones that form that smirk, to tear this entire damnable club apart with my bare hands until I can carry her out of here, untouched, untainted by this filth.
But I don’t move.
Grace turns her head, just slightly. Her eyes find mine. They are wide, pools of shattered glass, glistening with a film of terrified, uncomprehending tears. She is searching my face, desperately seeking a sign, a signal, a flicker of the man who whispered promises into her skin in the dark.
I give her nothing. I am a statue, a monument to betrayal. I have to be. If I let even a sliver of the storm inside me show, it will all unravel. I will unravel.
Vihaan reaches out. His fingers, adorned with heavy, ugly rings, brush against the nape of her neck. She flinches as if branded, a full-body shudder that screams through the silence. Her gaze never wavers from me.
Antonio. Stop this. Please.That one look pleads without the need for words.
“Such soft skin,” Vihaan murmurs, his voice dripping with a grotesque parody of reverence as he finds the hidden zipper of her dress. The sound of it parting is like a razor slicing through the tension in the room. A tiny, metallic sigh of surrender.
I stop breathing.
He pushes the silk from her shoulders. It slithers down her body, a whisper of purple against her pale skin, pooling at her feet on the cold concrete floor. She stands there in only her lace underwear, her arms crossed over her chest not in modesty, but in a last, futile act of self-preservation. She is trembling, and the light catches the faint sheen of goosebumps on her arms.
Still, she looks at me. The question in her eyes has died. Now there is only a dawning, horrifying realization. This is not a trick, this is not a test. This is the transaction.
“Dio mio,” Vihaan breathes, his voice thick with genuine, awed lust. “You are a lucky, lucky man. To have this waiting for you. To have this possession.”
That word makes me more furious. Grace is not my possession. She is... She is the unexpected crack of light under a door in a room I thought was sealed forever. She is the reason my coffee tastes better in the morning, she is the quiet laugh that disarmed me when I thought I was beyond disarming. Grace is not a thing to be bartered.
But today, she is.
Vihaan runs his hands over her shoulders, down her arms. His touch is proprietary, assessing. He is evaluating his new purchase. His rings are visibly cold against her skin; I see her shiver again.
