The door to my new suite clicked shut with a sound that felt like a gavel hitting a sounding board. I was alone. The silence of the Thorne penthouse wasn't peaceful; it was heavy, pressurized by the sheer wealth of the limestone walls surrounding me.
I didn't look at the silver dress yet. I couldn't. It felt like a costume for a life I hadn't earned.
I reached for my phone, the screen cracked, a jagged reminder of the world I had just walked out of and dialed Maya.
"El? Are you okay? You sound like you're calling from a crime scene,".
Maya hissed the moment she picked up. I could hear the background noise of the diner the clink of cheap silverware and the hiss of the grill. It sounded like home.
"I'm in his house, Maya. It's... it's more like a fortress. One Bennett Park," I whispered, sitting on the edge of the charcoal silk bed.
The fabric was so smooth it felt like it might slide right out from under me.
"He just told me we're going to a gala tonight. A 'coming out' party for our fake engagement. Maya, I'm terrified."
"Elena, listen to me," Maya's voice turned sharp, protective. "You are the smartest, toughest person I know. You've been holding your world together since your father walked out and left us with nothing but a pile of debt and a broken heart. You are doing this for your mom."
"I know," I said, a lump forming in my throat. "That's why I called. Can you do me a favor? Can you stop by the facility and check on her tonight? The North Shore clinic won't have her file processed until Monday. She's still in that drafty room at St. Jude's. Tell her I'm working a double shift. I'm all she has, Maya. If she wakes up confused and I'm not there..."
"I've got her, El. I'll bring her those sugar-free lemon drops she likes. I'll make sure the nurses actually check her vitals for once." Maya paused. "But El... don't let the shiny things blind you. Men like Damon Thorne don't give away millions because they're kind. They do it because they want to own the soul attached to the contract."
"He doesn't want my soul," I said, looking at my reflection in the dark glass of the window. "He just wants a girl who can hold her own at a dinner table. I'll call you when I can."
I hung up just as a rhythmic knocking sounded at the door. I didn't even have time to say "come in" before a small army of people marched into the room.
Leading them was a woman with a sharp, platinum-blonde bob and a headset. She didn't introduce herself as Cathy.
She simply looked me up and down with the clinical detachment of a diamond appraiser. "We have three hours. The bath is drawn, Miss Vance. Move."
I was ushered into the master bathroom. It was a cathedral of white Calacatta marble, centered around a freestanding tub that looked like a hollowed-out pearl. The water was already steaming, infused with rose-scented oils that cost more than my monthly rent.
As I sank into the heat, I felt the Chicago winter finally leave my bones. The scent was intoxicating, a heavy, floral fog that seemed to soak into my very pores, washing away the grit of the morning and the lingering humiliation of the street. I stayed until my skin glowed pink, my mind drifting to the man downstairs. Damon Thorne was a ghost in his own home. A presence felt in the sharp lines of the furniture and the cold perfection of the air.
When I stepped out, the transformation truly began.
I was sat in a velvet vanity chair while three people swarmed me. One worked on my hair, blow-drying my blonde locks into cascading, Hollywood waves that felt like silk against my bare shoulders.
Another applied makeup with surgical precision. I watched in the mirror as she used smoky charcoals and shimmering taupes to turn my tired, blue eyes into piercing sapphires. She painted my lips a deep, defiant crimson…the color of a warning light.
Finally, they brought the dress.
It was a column of silver moonlight. The silk was heavy, cold against my skin at first, then warming as it draped over my hourglass curves. The neckline plunged in a sharp 'V,' and the back was non-existent, dipping all the way to the small of my spine. As the stylist zipped the hidden side closure, the fabric pulled tight, cinching my waist and making me stand taller.
"The shoes," Cathy commanded, kneeling to slide silver, four-inch stilettos onto my feet.
When I finally stood up and looked into the full-length mirror, I gasped. The woman staring back was a stranger. She was radiant, dangerous, and expensive.
The girl who scrubbed her own floors and worried about bus fare was gone, buried under layers of Parisian silk and designer cosmetics.
"You look like a Thorne," she whispered.
I didn't feel like a Thorne. I felt like a spy going behind enemy lines.
Downstairs, the penthouse was a temple of shadow and light. Damon stood by the obsidian fireplace, his back to the grand staircase. He had changed into a custom black tuxedo that emphasized the sheer breadth of his shoulders and the leanness of his 6'3" frame. He held a glass of bourbon, the ice clinking softly as he stared out at the city. He looked like the king of a cold, lonely empire.
Then, the first click of my silver heels hit the marble landing.
I saw his shoulders lock. He didn't turn immediately, but the glass in his hand stopped mid-air. He took a breath…a sharp, audible intake of air that rattled in the silence of the room.
I began my descent. Every step felt like a heartbeat. Click. Click. Click. The silver silk swished against my legs, the sound like a secret whispered in the dark.
"Damon," I said, my voice sounding more confident than I felt.
He turned.
The glass in his hand nearly slipped. His coffee-brown eyes, usually so controlled and icy, widened as they swept over me. They traveled from the silver tips of my shoes, up the curves of the dress that left nothing to the imagination, over the swell of my chest, and finally rested on my face.
His breath caught in his throat. A visible, jagged hitch in his chest that shattered his mask of indifference. For the first time since I'd met him, the "machine" looked human. His pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black, and I watched the muscle in his jaw strobe as he ground his teeth together.
The air in the room suddenly felt charged with static electricity, thick and hard to breathe. He looked like he wanted to reach out and touch me, or perhaps push me away before I could get any closer.
"Elena," he rasped. His voice was no longer a smooth baritone; it was gravel and heat. He took a step toward the stairs, his muscular frame radiating a physical intensity that made my skin prickle. "I told the stylists to make you presentable. I didn't tell them to make you... a distraction."
"Is it too much?" I asked, stopping on the final step so I was nearly eye-level with him.
His gaze dropped to my lips, lingering there for a second too long. His hand reached out, his thumb grazing the silk at my waist, and even through the fabric, I could feel the heat of him. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"It's exactly enough to make every man in that room hate me," he murmured, his eyes snapping back to mine with a predatory glint. "And every woman want to be you. Just remember, Elena... don't get used to the dress. It's a uniform, nothing more."
He pulled his hand away as if he'd been burned, his face hardening back into a mask of granite. "The car is waiting. Let's go give them a show."
As he led me toward the elevator, his hand resting firmly on the small of my bare back, I realized Maya was right. The contract was dangerous, but the man hol
ding it was a wildfire. And I was walking straight into the center of the flame.