The yacht Poseidon's Crown sliced the Mediterranean like a knife through silk. Its white hull caught the setting sun and seemed to glow. Emily stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of her suite and watched Monaco blur into gold. The luxury around her—Italian marble, hand-carved furniture, paintings worth more than most people's homes—felt beautiful and suffocating. A gilded cage.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Alexander's voice came from behind, smooth and dangerous. She kept facing the sea. She could not look at those steel-gray eyes. They had a way of pulling her apart.
"It's Vincent Blackwell's yacht," she said, low. "The man you want to make jealous."
"Observant." He walked across the thick Persian rug without a sound. He stood close. "Tonight you meet him properly. Smile. Be charming. Help me take everything he bets."
Her emerald dress whispered as she turned. Another of Alexander's gifts. It fit too well—deep V, high slit. She felt exposed and armed at the same time.
"And how do I help you win at poker?" she asked.
His lips curved. Not a smile. "You're my secret weapon, darling. Vincent has a weakness for beautiful women. You exploit that. I take his money."
He said it like she was an asset. Like she was inventory. Her stomach clenched. "I don't know how—"
"You don't need to know poker." He lowered his voice. She smelled his cologne: dark, expensive. Her pulse betrayed her. "Follow my signals. Watch my watch—smile at Vincent. Adjust my cufflinks—lean forward. Tap twice—look bored, check your phone."
She stared. "So you want me to help you cheat."
"I want you to help me win." His tone was velvet over steel. "Different thing."
"Is it?"
For a flicker, something unreadable passed in his eyes. Respect, maybe. Then it was gone. Marcus, his security chief, knocked and entered with military precision.
"Mr. Drake, Mr. Blackwell is ready. The other players have arrived."
"Excellent." Alexander fixed his tie with clinical calm. He looked like a predator preparing to hunt. "Shall we, Emily?"
The poker room smelled of cigar smoke and old money. Dark wood, leather chairs that probably cost more than her old apartment, a crystal chandelier spilling golden light. Vincent Blackwell sat at the head of the table. He was everything Alexander was not: easy charm, smooth confidence. When he rose to greet them, his movements were effortless.
"Alexander," Vincent said, a foreign lilt in his voice—French or Italian. "And this must be the infamous Emily Chen." He kissed her hand. It should have been cheesy. It wasn't. "The photographs don't do you justice, ma belle."
Alexander's hand found the small of her back, a possessive anchor. "Vincent," he said, cold as winter.
"Only when the lady deserves it." Vincent looked at Emily like he meant it. "Forgive the men's club vibe. We rarely have such lovely company."
"I'm just here to observe," she said. Her voice surprised her with how steady it sounded.
"A shame." Vincent smiled. "A woman with your intelligence shouldn't be sidelined. After this, perhaps you'd tour the yacht's art? I have a Monet you might like."
The room chilled. Alexander tightened his grip on her back. "How generous. But Emily and I have plans tonight."
The implication stung. Vincent laughed—rich and genuine. "Of course. Then shall we begin? I hear your poker face is as legendary as your business sense."
The game started with casual bets. Money moved around like confetti. Emily watched. She learned the table's rhythm. Vincent was bold and clever. The oil baron from Texas was loud and reckless. The Silicon Valley tech mogul was cautious to the point of paranoia.
Then Alexander touched his watch.
Emily smiled at Vincent. Slow. Intentional. She let her eyes rest on him a moment too long. Vincent's attention slipped from his cards. Alexander raised the bet by two million. Vincent called without looking.
Alexander adjusted his cufflinks. Emily leaned forward. Her dress did what it was made to do. The oil baron lost his focus. He made a terrible call. Five million gone.
Alexander tapped the felt twice. Emily pulled out her phone with a bored sigh. She checked it like she couldn't be bothered. The tech mogul read the bluff and shoved all-in with a pair of jacks.
Alexander's full house scooped the pot. Twelve million. One hand. Gone.
"Beginner's luck," Vincent murmured. But his eyes sharpened. He had noticed. He had felt that something off.
The night moved like a dangerous waltz. Emily played her role. A touch on Alexander's shoulder. A whisper at his ear. A deliberate tuck of hair. Small things. Effective things. She hated herself for how easily she became the weapon he wanted. Still, each time someone called and lost, a dark thrill ran through her. Power was addictive, even when it belonged to someone else.
By midnight, Alexander had won forty-seven million.
Vincent stayed calm, his warmth replaced by cold focus. He looked at Alexander. Then he looked at Emily. "I've played with princes and presidents," he said quietly. "Men who buy and sell countries. I've never seen anything like this."
Her heart stalled. He knew. He'd figured it out.
Alexander's face was a mask. She could feel the heat of his restraint. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"Oh, I think you do." Vincent's smile sharpened. "Using a beautiful woman as a psychological weapon—almost poetic. Tell me, Alexander: does she know she's a piece on your board? Or does she still believe in something more?"
The words landed heavy. She'd known Alexander used her. He'd never hidden it. But hearing it in public, so plain, opened something inside her. It hurt.
"Careful, Vincent." Alexander's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "You're speaking about what belongs to me."
"Someone who belongs to you, you mean." Vincent rose, smoothing his jacket. "Well played. The money's meaningless. But you've shown me who you are. And you've shown her."
He moved to Emily, stopping at her chair. "When you tire of being a pawn, ma belle, you know where to find me. A woman like you should be treasured, not used."
His hand brushed her shoulder. Light. Yet Alexander reacted like struck steel. He sprang up, hand heading for his jacket.
"Gentlemen," Vincent said, slicing through the tension. "I think we're done."
The others gathered chips and excuses and left. The room emptied fast. Emily and Alexander were suddenly alone in a space that felt cavernous.
Alexander poured whiskey and swallowed three fingers in one go. His hands were steady, but the glass trembled in his grip.
"You played perfectly," he said without looking at her.
She watched his back. The jacket fit him like armor. "Is that all I am?" she asked. "A part to be played?"
"You signed the contract."
"Did I?" Her knees felt weak. "Right now, I don't know anything."
He set the glass down with care and turned. Storm-gray eyes met hers. For half a breath, something vulnerable flashed there. Then the armor returned.
He pulled a slim envelope from his jacket and pushed it toward her. "Your bonus. Forty-seven million, as promised."
She stared at the envelope like it might bite. "I can't take that."
"You earned it."
"By being a whore?" The word burned in her mouth.
His jaw tightened. "By being magnificent."
The way he said it cut deeper than any plea. There was admiration in his voice. Maybe more. She wasn't sure. Her head spun.
He stepped forward, caught her chin, tipped her face up. "You think Vincent Blackwell will save you?" His voice was calm and cruel. "You think he sees you as more than something to possess? Men like us are predators, Emily. I'm honest about it."
His thumb brushed her lower lip. Despite herself, she responded. Her body betrayed her. Heat pooled, traitorously warm.
"At least you never pretended," he went on. "No promises of love. No lies of freedom. I told you what you were from the start."
"What am I?" The question slipped out.
He leaned in. For a second, the mask cracked. Rawness flashed. His grip tightened in her hair.
"Mine," he said. Plain. Final.
Then he kissed her. Hard. Demanding. Like he wanted to mark her with his mouth, to drown out Vincent's pity. For a sliver of time, she melted. She surrendered.
Then Vincent's words returned. She remembered the pity in his eyes. She pulled back, breath jagged.
"I won't do this anymore," she whispered.
His hands tightened. "You'll do what I tell you. You signed a contract. You're mine for three more weeks."
"I'll break it. I'll pay the penalty—"
"With what?" He smiled like a blade. "You have nothing. No job. No family. No friends. Only what I give."
The truth slammed into her. He was right. She had nothing but him. It should have broken her. It didn't. Instead, something inside hardened. A spark of the stubborn independence that had pushed her into that gala in the first place.
"Then I'll make my own money," she said. Quiet. Determined. "I'll find my own way."
His eyes flickered. Dangerous and curious. "Will you?"
"Yes."
They held each other's gaze. Predator and prey. Captor and captive. Two wills testing the limits of the other.
Alexander stepped back. His mask slipped back on. "We'll see," he murmured. "For now, you're still mine. Tomorrow night, another performance."
He moved to the door. At the threshold, he paused without looking back.
"Oh, and Emily?" he said over his shoulder. "If Vincent Blackwell ever touches you again, I'll kill him."
The door clicked shut. She stood alone with the envelope and forty-seven million dollars. The Mediterranean outside was an endless black. Cold. Deep. As fathomless as Alexander Drake's eyes.
She realized, with a quiet, terrifying certainty, that she was beginning to care what would happen to the man who had made her his beautiful prisoner.