"Paranoid is an understatement. Lucien threatened to lock me in the basement after I rearranged his rare art collection," Jax muttered, tapping a complex code into the security panel next to the elevator. He didn't wait for Anya's reply. "He told me to take you shopping, but he didn't say when. I'm sure he'll appreciate the initiative."
Anya, still reeling from the public declaration and the sudden, terrifying affection from two powerful brothers, clutched the collar of her cashmere sweater. "Your brother said I wasn't to leave the floor. If I step out, I'm defying the man who just liquidated a company for me."
"Exactly!" Jax's smile was electric. "He needs to learn that his little spirit is not an asset to be locked in a vault. She needs sunshine and silk. Besides," he gestured to the elevator doors opening onto a private, secured landing, "I need to confirm if you still have that terrible pet store taste."
He pulled her into his waiting black limousine, which was stocked with chilled artisanal water and a platter of imported pastries. Anya instinctively reached for the pastries, her mouth watering with an intensity that felt far too ravenous for her human appetite.
Jax drove them not to a mall, but to a single, discreet, un-signed building in the most exclusive district. Inside was The Gilded Cage, a boutique so exclusive it only served five clients a year. Jax ushered her past a velvet rope into a dizzying array of shimmering fabrics and diamond-studded accessories.
"We start with the basics," Jax declared, sweeping aside a rack of evening gowns. "Lucien will buy you things based on value. I will buy you things based on comfort. You always preferred the softest things, Mia."
Anya's protests were swallowed by the speed of the service. Attendants glided around her, measuring her with laser-like precision. A moment later, they presented her with a silk wrap dyed the precise color of glacial ice, and a pair of white leather boots so soft they felt like clouds.
Stop pampering me, Anya screamed internally, but when the silk touched her skin, her entire body relaxed. The innate human desire for modesty warred fiercely with a deep, instinctive pleasure in luxurious comfort.
She was standing near a display of antique jewelry, admiring a diamond necklace that looked like an ice sculpture, when the commotion started. The boutique's front door burst open, and a woman stormed in, flanked by two bodyguards and a visibly shaken manager.
It was Elara Vane.
Her face, no longer tearful for the cameras, was contorted with cold fury. She was dressed impeccably, but her aura screamed of desperation.
"Jax Thorne! I should have known you would be hiding your little scammer here," Elara sneered, ignoring the manager's pleas for discretion. She swept a dismissive hand toward Anya. "Look at her, wearing a fortune and still looking like a delivery runner. Anya, you are a parasite. You sought out Lucien, a grieving man, and now you have the gall to flaunt my family's stolen money in public."
Jax stepped forward, his eyes going flat and dangerous. "Elara, didn't you hear my broadcast? My next single is going to be titled 'The Ballad of Bankrupt Elara' if you keep this up."
Elara laughed, a cruel, brittle sound. "Do you think your teenager fans matter to the social elite? You can't ruin me in this world, Jax. Unlike your brother's cheap little pet, I have true connections. I was invited to the Annual Thorne Gala. She won't be." Elara approached Anya, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper meant for the surrounding staff. "Go back to your slum, girl. The Throne Group doesn't need your kind."
Anya recoiled, not just from the venom, but from a sudden, dizzying wave of heat. A memory flashed—not of a snow leopard, but of thick, warm fur, and a low growl of pure, terrifying rage.
Before Jax could retaliate, a tiny, elegant, and ancient woman walked into the Gilded Cage. She wore a simple charcoal suit, but she carried the authority of a queen walking into a conquered city. This was Madam Thorne, the matriarch, Lucien and Jax's grandmother, and the founder of the family's social dynasty.
All sounds, even Elara's vicious breath, ceased.
Madam Thorne's eyes, ancient and sharp, didn't spare Elara a glance. They went straight to Anya.
"Anya, is it?" the Matriarch asked, her voice surprisingly soft.
Anya swallowed and managed a weak curtsy—another instinctive, strange gesture. "Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry about the mess."
Madam Thorne smiled—a genuine, warm smile that instantly made Anya feel seen and safe. "Nonsense. The only mess I see is a viper attempting to spit on my property." She finally turned her gaze to Elara, and the temperature in the room plummeted.
"Elara Vane," the Matriarch addressed her, her voice now a whiplash of silk and steel. "You claim you were invited to the Thorne Gala. That is true. You also claim this young woman is a scammer. That is irrelevant. What is relevant is the fact that you, just this morning, attempted to purchase the last remaining shares of your own defunct company using funds siphoned from your mother's charitable foundation."
Elara's face went white. This was information no one outside the Thorne legal team should have. It was a secret, criminal act that would destroy her family socially and legally.
Madam Thorne didn't need to yell. She had the full attention of every member of staff, every bodyguard, and every unseen camera angle.
"Face-Slap Number Three," the Matriarch announced, using Lucien's press conference phrase with chilling precision. "I have instructed my legal team to personally deliver the evidence to the District Attorney. Furthermore, the Thorne family is buying the Gilded Cage boutique. Effective immediately, you are permanently banned from the premises, Ms. Vane. And from every social event I host for the next century."
She turned her back on the utterly destroyed Elara, who was sputtering incoherent protests. The Matriarch reached out and took Anya's hand, her grip surprisingly strong.
"Come, little one," Madam Thorne said, the coldness instantly gone. "We have neglected you for too long. We need to buy you a proper bed. One that is precisely twenty degrees, like the one you used to sleep in."
Anya stared at the Matriarch, her mind reeling from the speed and ruthlessness of the defense.
"Ma'am," Anya began, feeling a desperate need to clarify. "I really was a delivery girl. I am not your pet. I'm not… I'm not even a cat."
Madam Thorne patted her hand, her eyes twinkling with deep, knowing affection. "Of course, you're not a cat, darling. You are far more magnificent than that. But you have always been ours. Now, tell me, where is that scent of jasmine and wet earth coming from?"
Anya inhaled sharply. That scent—jasmine and wet earth—was the exact smell of the silk wrap she was wearing, which had been presented moments earlier. But how did the Matriarch know that specific, secret scent?
As they walked out, passing the sobbing, ruined Elara Vane, Anya's vision suddenly swam. The scent was stronger, and this time, the memory was clearer: not a cat, not a leopard, but a swift, four-legged shadow running through a vast, moonlit garden.