He stops at the threshold, his gaze sweeping over me one last time.
"Wear something red."
The door clicks shut.
I’m alone in my office, and the quietness rushes back, suffocating me.
The crack in the desk from the ashtray holds my attention for a fleeting moment before my eyes drift to the window overlooking the harbor, where the Blackwood Queen bobs.
None of this is mine anymore.
I touch my neck. The skin still burns. Yet another violation.
The truth hurts more. I didn't just sign a contract. I signed my death warrant.
And the worst part is I had no choice.
Lowering my head into my hands, I allow the first sob to break free.
But only one.
I wipe my face. I straighten my blazer.
Konstantin wants a director? Fine. I’ll be the best damn director he has ever seen. I’ll run this company so well that he will need me. I’ll make myself indispensable.
And then, once he trusts me, when he turns his back, I’ll burn him to the ground.
7
HELENA
The dress lies on the bed like a pool of fresh blood.
A slip of dark crimson silk, barely enough fabric to cover a body, let alone a soul. The slit runs high up the thigh, the neckline plunges deep, and the message is unmistakable. This isn’t a dress meant for a business partner.
It’s a dress meant for a mistress.
The bathroom mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize, fever burning behind my eyes. From inside my bra, the small orange prescription bottle slides into my hand, and my fingers tremble slightly as I lift it toward the light.
Triazolam. 0.25 mg.
Stolen this morning.
It feels like a lifetime ago, even though only a few hours have passed. The memory is still sharp in my mind—the blur of violence in my father’s office, my voice echoing off the walls as I screamed at Konstantin and hurled the heavy leather legal folder across the room to create a distraction. Papers exploded into the air like white confetti, scattering across the carpet, and for a split second his eyes followed the chaos.
That was my opening.
My hand had been gripping the edge of the mahogany desk, trembling, the heavy crystal ashtray within reach. I’d been ready to swing it at his head, ready to crack through the calm façade he wears like a mask.
Then I saw it.
Right beside the ashtray, sitting in the open drawer my father always left ajar, was the bottle.
My father couldn’t sleep without them. After a bad loss at the tables. After the debt collectors called too late at night. They were his escape hatch, the only way he ever managed to shut the world out.
Instinct took over.
In one smooth motion the bottle disappeared into my palm, the cool plastic biting into my skin as I shoved it blindly into the waistband of my skirt and tucked it against my hip bone—just seconds before Konstantin moved.
