Ava was reviewing quarterly reports when Victoria—the assistant she'd met the other day—appeared at her desk. Perfectly polished. Immaculate smile. But the smile never touched her eyes.
"Mr. Drake needs to see you," Victoria said smoothly.
Ava's stomach knotted. It had been three days since the standing punishment. Three days of walking on eggshells—arriving early, staying late, being flawless. What had she done wrong this time?
She knocked softly on his door.
"Come in."
Lucien stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, back to her, hands clasped behind him. The city stretched out beneath him like it belonged to him.
"I have a task for you," he said without turning. "Personal, but work-related."
The word personal made her skin prickle. After the ordeal with the stylist, after knowing she was constantly monitored, that word carried weight.
"Of course, Mr. Drake."
He turned then, his eyes sweeping her face with deliberate calm.
"I need you to pick up a suit from my tailor. It's custom work. Been in progress for weeks."
He held out a card—black lettering, gold embossed:
Savile & Co. – Bespoke Tailoring Since 1847.
"The address is on Madison Avenue. They'll have it ready. Just mention my name."
Relief flickered through her. Straightforward enough. "Is there a specific time they're expecting me?"
"They're expecting you now." He glanced at his watch. "Take a company car. James will drive you."
A company car for a suit pickup. Excessive, but Ava had learned not to question him. "I'll go right away."
"Good." He moved back toward his desk, already dismissing her. "And Ava?"
She paused, hand on the door. "Yes, sir?"
"Don't dawdle. I have dinner plans tonight."
The ride uptown was silent. James, the driver, kept his eyes forward, offering no conversation. Ava watched boutiques and galleries slide past the window. What kind of suit could possibly matter this much?
Savile & Co. looked exactly as she imagined—dark wood paneling, Persian rugs, the air touched with expensive cologne. Old-world elegance.
A silver-haired man behind the counter glanced up. His eyes flicked over her, cool and dismissive.
"I'm here to pick up a suit," Ava said, suddenly aware of how ordinary she felt, even in her new wardrobe.
His lips thinned. "We don't handle regular alterations here. You may want to try the shop two blocks down."
Heat rushed to her cheeks. "It's not for me. I'm picking up for Lucien Drake."
The change was instant. His back straightened. His expression softened into near reverence.
"Mr. Drake!" The man's voice warmed. "Of course. My sincerest apologies, Miss…?"
"Lane. Ava Lane."
"Miss Lane." He almost bowed. "Thomas Savile. An absolute pleasure to serve anyone associated with Mr. Drake. Please, this way."
He led her deeper inside. Past fabric displays. Past framed photographs of distinguished men—politicians, actors, men whose names carried weight.
In a private fitting area stood the suit. Charcoal wool, cut to perfection, hanging like art on a wooden form.
"This is Mr. Drake's latest commission," Savile said, almost reverently. "Italian wool. Hand-stitched. The jacket alone took sixty hours."
Ava stared. She didn't want to imagine the price. Probably more than half her yearly salary.
"It's beautiful," she admitted.
"Mr. Drake has exquisite taste." Savile slid the suit into a garment bag, treating it like spun gold. "Do give him my regards. And let him know—the navy tuxedo for the charity gala will be ready next week."
"I will," Ava said quietly.
At the door, Savile pressed a card into her hand. "If you ever need attire yourself, Miss Lane… please call. Any associate of Mr. Drake's is a valued client here."
The ride back was quiet again, but this time Ava's mind was restless. She thought about the transformation she had just witnessed. How a single name could open doors. How quickly disdain had turned to deference.
It was power. Not the kind you saw, but the kind you felt. And sitting in the back seat with the suit beside her, Ava wasn't sure whether it unsettled her—or tempted her.
Her phone buzzed as the car stopped at a red light. The hospital.
Her heart clenched. Dread. Always dread. She answered.
"Miss Lane? This is Dr. Martinez from Saint Mary's Hospital."
"Is everything okay? Is my mother—"
"Your mother is stable. But we need to discuss her treatment plan. The insurance company has denied coverage for the extended physical therapy she requires. That leaves additional costs."
Ava's chest tightened. Her breath stalled. "How much?"
"The full program would run about fifteen thousand dollars over three months. Without it, I'm afraid her recovery will be significantly limited."
Fifteen thousand. It might as well have been fifteen million.
"I… I need some time to figure this out," Ava said, voice thin, shaky.
"Of course. But Miss Lane, time is a factor. The sooner we begin, the better her chances of full mobility recovery."
"I understand. Thank you, Dr. Martinez."
She ended the call. Stared out the window. Blinked hard against the tears welling up. Fifteen thousand dollars. She could barely keep up with what she already owed.
The phone buzzed again. A text this time.
Unknown number.
I heard about your mother's situation. We should discuss this when you return. – L.D.
Ava froze. Her blood went cold.
How did he—
The realization hit like ice water. The company car. Of course. If he watched the cameras, he listened to calls. The doctor's words. Her desperation. He had heard everything.
"Miss Lane?" James's voice cut through her panic. "We're here."
She looked up. Drake Enterprises loomed above them. A week ago, the building had felt like salvation. Now it looked like a cage.
Another text flashed on the screen.
My office. Now. And bring the suit.
Her hands shook as she gathered the garment bag. She felt naked, exposed. Lucien had reached inside her life and touched the one place she thought untouchable. Her mother.
The elevator ride was unbearable. Each ding of the passing floors synced with her heartbeat. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped.
She knocked.
"Come in."
He was seated behind his desk. Fingers steepled. Eyes dark, unblinking. The expression he wore wasn't quite sympathy. It was worse—interest. Calculated. Predatory.
"The suit, Mr. Drake," Ava said quietly, hanging it on the hook.
"Thank you. Please, sit."
It wasn't a request.
She perched on the edge of the chair, spine rigid.
"Fifteen thousand dollars," he said without warning.
Heat burned across her face. "Sir, that was a private—"
"Nothing is private when you use company resources." His tone was steady, matter-of-fact. "Company car. Company time. All communications are monitored. Security."
"I understand, but—"
"Your mother needs extended physical therapy. Without it, her recovery will be…" He paused, then repeated Dr. Martinez's words almost verbatim. "…significantly limited."
Ava's stomach twisted. He had listened to every word. Her fear. Her pleading. All of it.
"That's a personal matter, Mr. Drake."
"Is it?" He leaned back, eyes narrowing. "Personal matters affect performance. Stress. Distraction. The temptation to make bad financial choices."
"I would never—"
"Of course not. You're too smart for that. Smarter than most in your position."
The way he said it—praising her while tightening the trap—made her skin crawl.
"What do you want from me?" The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Lucien smiled then. Not cold, not detached. Something warmer. And infinitely more dangerous.
"I want to help you."
Four words. They should have been a comfort. Instead, they filled her with dread.
Because Ava knew—Lucien Drake's help always came with strings. And the threads were already wrapping around her, whether she wanted them to or not.