And then he stopped so abruptly, she nearly collided with his back before catching herself. Gaby raised her head, looking up to see why.
The dining room opened before them into a vast soaring space of stone and gold. Lots of gold. Vaulted ceilings caught the light from crystal chandeliers, scattering it like falling stars. A table long enough for royalty stretched down the center, dressedin linen so fine it shimmered, and gleaming silver set in precise symmetry.
Everything radiated a kind of weaponized opulence. But it was the rest of the decor that made her stomach drop.
Arranged along the perimeter were Álvarez’s muses. Some were painted and oiled, others draped in sheer fabric that caught the light, and most were naked save for glittering body jewelry and, oddly, shoes. A few stood on pedestals, others leaned against columns, all posed with arms lifted, backs arched, chins tilted just so, into sculpted exactness.
This wasn’t a performance they’d walked in on. They were displayed.
Reactions rippled through the guests like a tide. Some stared openly, mouths slack. Others smiled with appreciation. A few showed no reaction at all, as though this were merely another indulgence, like rare wine or imported silk.
A man in a dark velvet jacket said to his companion, his voice low and amused, “They’re like living statuary. It’s extraordinary.”
A guest already seated shifted in his chair, eyes fixed on the nearest pedestal. “They’re so still. How does he do it?”
The question lingered unanswered. The servant nearby remained impassive. He knew better.
Álvarez chose that moment to make his entrance.
“Beauty preserved,” he said as he swept into the room. “Silent, disciplined, and elevated.” He spread his hands, encompassing the young women, at least fifteen by Gaby’s count. “Allow me to present my muses.”
His voice was smooth, the pride in it cold and proprietary.
Gaby’s chest tightened as understanding set in. These women weren’t merely adornments. They were coveted collector’s items, unboxed and arranged for admiration. He valued them because they were his.
In that moment, surrounded by candlelight, crystal, and soft music, the truth settled into her bones with harsh clarity. Natalie was somewhere inside this palace of horrors. She wanted to rip the place apart, find her, and get her the hell out.
The bite of her nails broke through. She forced her fingers to loosen, feeling the half-moons left in her palms. The reflex was becoming second nature around Álvarez. Like before, Rhys’s hand brushed hers—a deliberate reminder. They had a plan.
Álvarez moved slowly among them, expression smug, clearly enjoying their surprise, awe, and, for the few who still possessed a thin thread of compassion, their discomfort.
“Control is not the absence of freedom,” he said lightly, matter-of-factly, as though a tour guide in an art museum rather than the deviant host in a dining room filled with his captives. “It is the refinement of it.”
He paused before a brunette with gold paint traced across her delicate cheekbones and shoulders.
“She once believed restraint was oppression,” Álvarez continued. “Now she understands it has purpose. Beauty, yes, but also belonging to a one-of-a-kind collection. And pleasing me.” He chuckled softly. “But that goes without saying.”
The muse didn’t blink. She stood perfectly still, posture exact, expression vacant.
Then her eyes met Gaby’s. For the briefest instant, a current passed between them. Not fear or even appeal. Just a muted glimmer of recognition. The acknowledgment of another captive at a powerful man’s side.
A heavier emotion followed. Sadness.
The next instant, the stillness returned—complete, detached, stone-like.
Gaby lowered her gaze, shaken by the exchange and by the dread that when she finally found her sister, she’d find not flesh, blood, and warmth, but cold, breathing marble.
Álvarez’s voice amplified her fears, and she forced down a shudder.
“You may admire my muses at your leisure all weekend. For now, we’ll enjoy dinner. Please, be seated.”
She followed Rhys as he located a seat. Of course, there wasn’t one for her. So she stood at his shoulder, hands clasped, head bowed, as invisible as she could be.
Dinner was served, again, only to the owners. Toasts followed. Courses arrived and disappeared all while Gaby stood silently by, enduring. She also observed, furtively noting each guest and memorizing every face.
As dessert was presented, Álvarez turned his attention to Rhys. He studied him at length then looked past his shoulder to her.
“It’s Camille, I believe, isn’t it, Mr. Blackwood? The same companion you brought with you last month. Do you just have the one?” His tone was pleasant enough but held a hint of condescension. Merely one muse, when he had a host of them.
