The stylist arrived at exactly ten a.m., but the tension in the penthouse had started building long before she knocked. Elara had spent the morning staring at the reflection of a woman she no longer recognized, her fingers ghosting over the marriage certificate on the nightstand.
Her name was Valentina, and she arrived like a thunderstorm wrapped in gold. Behind her, two assistants moved with practiced, silent efficiency, trailing garment bags that smelled of cedar and expensive chemicals. Valentina herself looked like she'd been carved from a block of Carrara marble and dipped in liquid gold. She didn't smile. People like Valentina didn't need to be pleasant; they only needed to be perfect. Her eyes—the color of aged, expensive whiskey—swept over Elara with a clinical detachment that made Elara feel like a specimen pinned under a microscope.
"You're Elara Vance," Valentina said. It wasn't a greeting. It was a diagnosis of a terminal condition.
"Blackwood," Elara corrected. The word felt like a mouthful of shattered glass, sharp and artificial. She hated how easily the name slipped out, a betrayal of the twenty-four years she had spent being a Vance.
Valentina didn't acknowledge the correction. She began to circle Elara, her heels clicking rhythmically against the marble floor like a ticking clock. She held a tablet, tapping it with a sharp, manicured nail. "Shoulders narrower than the report indicated. Waist a half-inch smaller. Hips… slightly fuller. The measurements Isabella provided were from your college medical records, I presume? You've lost weight since then. Is the Blackwood kitchen not to your liking?"
"Stress tends to have that effect when your life is sold at an auction to pay for a hospital bed," Elara said dryly, her voice echoing in the vast, empty living room.
Valentina finally stopped, her eyes meeting Elara's in the mirror. For a second, a flicker of something—pity? amusement?—passed through them before vanishing. "Stress is an indulgence you can no longer afford, Mrs. Blackwood. In this world, your body is your currency. If you lose value, you lose leverage." She snapped her fingers at the assistants. "Miranda, the dress. Let's see if the masterpiece can hide the flaws."
One of the assistants unzipped a heavy garment bag, and crimson silk spilled out like an open, arterial wound. Elara gasped. The dress was brutal. It was backless, held together by a series of delicate gold chains that looked more like jewelry than functional fasteners. The fabric was the color of blood—not a bright, cheerful red, but the deep, violent crimson of a battlefield.
"Try it on," Valentina commanded.
In the privacy of her room, Elara struggled with the silk. It was heavy, far heavier than it looked, and the fabric was shockingly cold against her skin. As she shimmyed it over her hips, she felt the gold chains settle against her spine. They were freezing, like icy fingers tracing the length of her vertebrae. The neckline plunged nearly to her navel, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable. Every time she breathed, the silk shifted, reminding her that she was barely covered.
When she stepped back out, Valentina's face remained a mask of professional indifference. "Turn."
Elara obeyed, her balance unsteady on the plush carpet. The dress flowed around her legs like liquid fire, the high slit exposing a long line of pale skin.
"He was right," Valentina murmured, more to herself than to Elara. "Crimson is your color. It highlights the pallor of your skin and the fire in your eyes. He said it matches your temperament—defiant, dangerous, and likely to stain anyone who touches you."
"He chose this?" Elara asked, though she already knew the answer. Adrian Blackwood didn't leave anything to chance.
"Mr. Blackwood chooses everything in this house, down to the thread count of your sheets," Valentina said, stepping closer to adjust a chain. "The gala tonight is a black-tie affair, but Adrian doesn't want you to blend in. He wants you to be a statement. A warning to his enemies and a trophy to his friends."
The next two hours were a slow, methodical torture. Valentina's assistants worked in tandem, one curling Elara's hair into 1940s Hollywood waves while the other applied layer after layer of makeup. Her face was transformed into a mask of smoky shadows and blood-red lips. By the time they were done, her cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut, and her eyes burned with a ferocity she didn't feel.
Then came the final touch. Valentina opened a velvet-lined case, but it didn't contain the pearls Adrian had forced her to wear earlier. Inside lay a necklace of rubies set in heavy, antique gold. The stones were dark, the color of congealed blood.
"No," Elara said, her hand flying to her throat. "I'll wear the pearls. They were his mother's."
"The pearls are for his private amusement, a reminder of your penance," Valentina said coldly, lifting the rubies. "The rubies are for the public. They represent the Blackwood wealth. Adrian's instructions were very clear. You will wear these."
Elara wanted to scream, to rip the dress and run out into the New York streets. But she saw her mother's face in her mind—the pale, tired woman in the hospital bed. She saw the contract. She saw the price of her rebellion. Slowly, she turned around.
The rubies were heavy, a physical weight that seemed to pull her head down. They felt like shackles.
Adrian returned at exactly six p.m. Elara was standing by the window, watching the city lights begin to flicker. She heard the elevator ding, heard his heavy, confident footsteps, and then the sudden silence as he entered the room.
She didn't turn. She wanted him to see the back of the dress first—the chains, the skin, the vulnerability.
"Turn around," Adrian commanded. His voice was a low growl, vibrating with a tone she hadn't heard before.
She turned slowly, the crimson silk whispering against the floor. Adrian stood there, impeccably tailored in a black tuxedo, looking like a king from a dark fairy tale. He froze, his gray eyes darkening as they traveled from her face, down to the rubies, and over the curves of the dress. For a fleeting second, the cold mask he wore slipped, replaced by a look of raw, unchecked possession.
He walked toward her, the scent of sandalwood and expensive gin filling the air. He didn't stop until he was inches away. He reached out, his fingers—calloused and warm—brushing her bare shoulder as he pretended to adjust a gold chain. Elara forced herself not to flinch, though a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold raced through her.
"Red is the color of warning," Adrian whispered, his lips so close to her ear that she could feel the heat of his breath. "It tells the wolves to keep their distance. It tells them you are already claimed."
"Or that I'm a fresh kill, available for consumption," Elara countered, meeting his gaze with a defiance that made her eyes spark.
Adrian's lips twitched into a dark, predatory smile. He didn't deny it. Instead, he leaned in closer, his hand sliding down to grip her waist with a force that promised bruises. "Afraid you'll be eaten alive by the wolves tonight, Elara? Good. Keep that fear. It's the only thing that will keep you sharp enough to survive what comes next." He offered his arm, not like a husband, but like a jailer leading his most beautiful prisoner to the gallows.