The aftermath of the Pasar Gaib was a suffocating, sterile silence.
Maher had not spoken a word to her since he dragged her back to the penthouse. There was no new lesson. There was no punishment. There was, in fact, nothing. He had resumed his place at his desk, and she had resumed hers on the lounge.
But the air was fundamentally broken. Rossie could not breathe.
She had seen the monster under the skin of the CEO. And the monster had, in its own horrific way, defended her. This contradiction was a new, complex angst that left her nauseated. She was his property, and he had just polished his "Do Not Touch" sign with the blood and ice of a Djinn prince.
This new, cold stasis lasted for a day.
Then, the air in the penthouse changed.
It wasn't a "door" opening, like the canvas to the Pasar. This was different. The sterile, recycled atmosphere suddenly shimmered, as if hit by a wave of heat and energy. The air became thick with an impossible, electric scent of ozone, cherry blossoms, and expensive, sharp perfume.
Maher looked up from his desk. His head tilted. He was expecting this.
In the center of the vast lounge, the air tore. It was not a violent rip, but a graceful, deliberate cut, as if an invisible katana had sliced open the fabric of the dimension.
A woman stepped through.
She was the single most beautiful—and terrifying—thing Rossie had ever seen.
She was Japanese, with skin so pale and perfect it looked like polished porcelain. Her hair was a river of impossible, glossy black, held up by combs of what looked like carved jade and bone. She wore a hyper-modern, haute couture dress that referenced a kimono—all sharp, asymmetrical lines in blood-red and black silk. She moved with a silent, feline grace, and her eyes, unlike Maher's silver ice, were a bright, intelligent, and merciless amethyst.
She radiated power, but where Maher's was a cold, gravitational void, hers was a sharp, electric, high-frequency hum.
"Xander," she said. Her voice was like crystal chimes, with an edge. "You look... taxed. Running this humid, provincial domain is finally making you look your age."
Maher actually stood. For her.
Rossie's blood ran cold. He had never stood for anyone.
"Ayumi," Maher inclined his head. It was not a bow. It was a greeting between monarchs. "Your father's business in Kyoto is concluded, I trust?"
"My father's business is eternal," Ayumi Hamasaki corrected, her voice sharp. She glided into the room, her gaze sweeping over everything. She was not a guest; she was an auditor. "He sends his regards, of course. And his... concerns. You've been... publicly messy, Maher. Disciplining a minor Djinn princeling in a common market? It's... low-rent."
Maher's face was a mask. "The asset was threatened. The asset was defended. It is the simple logic of ownership."
Ayumi laughed, a high, tinkling sound that held zero humor. "Ah, yes. The 'asset'."
Her amethyst gaze, bright and lethally intelligent, swung and locked onto Rossie.
It was the first time she had acknowledged Rossie's existence. It was not a glance. It was a pin. Rossie felt like an insect pinned to a board.
Ayumi glided closer, circling the chaise lounge where Rossie sat, frozen in terror.
"So..." Ayumi mused, stopping directly in front of her. "This... is it."
She did not speak to Rossie. She spoke about her, to Maher, as if Rossie were a poorly chosen piece of furniture.
"My, my," Ayumi said, leaning in. Rossie could smell her perfume. It was intoxicating... and it burned, like acid. Ayumi sniffed the air around Rossie. "Oh, Xander. No. It's... it's fresh. It still smells of... milk. And fear. It's positively... damp."
Rossie recoiled, pressing herself into the cushions.
"The Aurora line, wasn't it?" Ayumi continued, tapping a single, sharp, crimson-nailed finger against her own chin. "I told your father this was a weak contract. Too much... flesh... involved. Too much... chance. And look. You've ended up with this... pale... little thing."
She looked directly at Rossie now. Her beautiful face twisted into a mask of pity and disgust.
"Does it... do anything?" she asked Maher, waving a dismissive hand at Rossie. "Or do you just... look at it? Is it sick? It looks anemic. You should have let my family broker a new deal. A Kitsune bride is so much... cleaner. Less... feeling."
"Ayumi," Maher's voice was a low warning.
Ayumi ignored him. Her intimidation was not physical. It was psychological, and it was devastating. She was here to remind Maher of his status, and what he was risking for this... thing.
"Honestly, Xander," she said, turning her back on Rossie completely, as if she were too boring to look at. "It's an embarrassment. You, the great Creditor of the South Seas... bound by a human girl who looks like she might faint if the lights get too bright. What must your other... clients... think?"
"They will think," Maher said, his voice dropping to the temperature of the Pasar, "that I honor my contracts. As I always have."
"Oh, honor," Ayumi scoffed. "Honor is for poets. This is business. And this... 'asset'..."
She turned back to Rossie, a cruel, bright smile on her face. "It's just... messy."
Ayumi lifted her hand. That single, sharp, crimson nail. She was... admiring it.
"Oops," she whispered.
A tiny, searing-hot spark of violet energy, no bigger than a pinprick, leapt from her fingernail.
It didn't hit Rossie. It was not a physical attack.
It hit the plush, expensive carpet at Rossie's feet.
There was a sizzling sound. A wisp of acrid smoke rose. A small, black, perfectly round hole, burned clean through the carpet, appeared on the floor.
It was a statement. It was a power play. I can damage your property, Xander. This thing is so fragile, I can break it by 'accident'.
Rossie didn't even breathe.
"Ayumi."
Maher's voice was no longer a warning. It was a stop. It was the sound of a vault door closing.
Ayumi's smile widened. She had gotten the reaction she wanted.
"Forgive me," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "My energy is a bit... erratic... after the journey. This... humid... atmosphere, you know."
She glided back toward Maher. "We have much to discuss, Xander. My father has a new proposal. Privately. In your study. A... cleaner... proposal."
She looped her arm through his, an act of shocking, possessive familiarity. Maher, his face an impassive mask, allowed it.
They turned and walked toward his study.
As the heavy door was closing, Ayumi looked back over her shoulder, her amethyst eyes locking with Rossie's.
She wasn't smiling.
She was just looking at Rossie with the cold, analytical, bored expression of a person about to step on an insect.
The door clicked shut.
Rossie was left alone in the vast room. The only sounds were the faint hum of the penthouse and the echo of Ayumi's laughter.
She stared at the small, black, smoking hole in the carpet.
This was a new, deeper, and more profound layer of suffering.
Tariq, the Djinn, had wanted her. He had seen her as a prize.
Maher had defended her... as a possession.
But Ayumi... Ayumi had seen her as trash. An embarrassing, low-quality, messy obligation that was beneath her, and beneath Maher.
Rossie looked at the burn mark, then at her own hands.
For the first time since her capture, Rossie Aurora didn't feel like a prisoner.
She felt like garbage.