One dinner. One night of disgusting men.
I've survived worse. I'll survive this too. And maybe when it's over, Ewan will let me see more of my son.
Tonight is about performance.
But tomorrow, I'm going to find Henri and demand to know the truth.
THIRTY-FIVE
TRISTAN
Seventeen minutes.
That's how long I've been pressed against this wall, hands clasped behind my back, watching five men feast on her with their eyes.
The dining room drips with excess. Crystal chandeliers fracture light across the ceiling. Polished silver and gemstones wink from every surface. Bottles of vintage wine and fifty-year-old scotch line up like soldiers. Enough food to feed a village sprawls across a table long enough to land a small plane.
Most of it will rot in the trash by morning.
But the fucking centerpiece is a thing of nightmares.
It's a life-size sculpture—a woman's form crafted from bread and cured meat. Arms stretched overhead, wrists bound with twists of prosciutto. Legs spread wide. Delicacies arranged between her thighs like she's a serving platter.
A charcuterie board shaped like a victim.
Calder commissioned it especially for tonight.
Because these men get off on suffering. On the degradation of women while they sip champagne and calculate profit margins.
Not one of them brought a date. Their wives don't know about these dinners. Neither do their mistresses. No one knows exceptthe monsters in this room and the staff who've been paid enough to develop selective amnesia.
Including the guards lining the walls.
And then there's Keira.
She's seated at the head of the table, Calder's chair conspicuously empty beside her while he works the room. Playing host like a normal person. He's anything but, discussing the logistics of abducting and trafficking human beings three feet from the bread basket.
Her smile is frozen in place because she knows exactly what happens when it slips.
She's not a guest at this dinner.
She's part of the display.
Another beautiful object Calder is parading in front of his associates.
The red dress catches candlelight every time she breathes. Her throat bare—all that vulnerable skin exposed because these men prefer their prey laid out for them.
One of them keeps letting his gaze drop to her breasts, as if he's picturing undressing her.
He just made it onto my torture list.
Another man leans toward her, murmuring something that makes her polite smile tighten. His hand moves toward her shoulder, and my vision narrows to a single point.
Touch her. I fucking dare you.
Calder notices from across the room. He doesn't intervene. Just watches with that reptilian satisfaction, like a man observing his property increase in value.
This is what she endures.
