She pulled Rowan upright again, spinning her once more so Rowan's back pressed to Isadora's front for a full rotation. Isadora's arm banded across Rowan's waist like iron; her other hand lifted Rowan's arm higher, forcing her to arch. Isadora's lips found the shell of Rowan's ear again.
"Tell me to stop," she whispered. "Say the word. I'll let go. Walk away. Leave you alone forever." A beat. "Or… keep dancing. Keep hating me. Keep feeling my hands on you until you can't pretend anymore."
Rowan's body trembled—once, violently—before she locked it down.
She turned her head just enough that their mouths were a breath apart.
"I hate you," she said again, slower this time. But the words came out husky. Broken. And her hips shifted—barely perceptible—pressing back against Isadora's thigh.
Isadora's smile widened.
"Liar," she breathed.
The music swelled toward the final chord.
Isadora dipped Rowan one last time—deep, possessive, holding her suspended while the room watched.
And when she brought her back up, lips brushing Rowan's jaw in a ghost of a kiss, she whispered:
"One week, Doctor. That's all I need."
Rowan opened her mouth—whether to curse, to shove, to finally break free—when a smooth, cultured voice cut through the space between them like a blade wrapped in silk.
"May I cut in?"
Ryan Ravencroft stepped onto the floor without waiting for permission.
He moved with the practiced ease of someone who had danced in ballrooms since he could walk—tuxedo impeccable, silver cufflinks catching light, smile perfect and predatory. His eyes flicked first to Isadora—cold, assessing—then settled on Rowan with open, unapologetic hunger. He drank her in: the flushed cheeks, the parted lips, the way the black dress clung to every curve after the close hold of the waltz. His gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the long line of thigh exposed by the slit—possessive, greedy, as though Isadora's hands had only warmed her up for him.
Isadora's grip on Rowan tightened instinctively—fingers digging into silk at her waist.
Ryan ignored it.
He extended a hand toward Rowan, palm up, smile widening into something almost charming if it weren't so calculated.
"Dr. Blackwood, isn't it?" he said smoothly. "I've heard so much about the woman who saved my sister's life. The least I can do is offer you a proper dance—away from… family complications."
His eyes slid to Isadora then—brief, mocking. A clear message: Step aside, little sister. She's not yours to keep.
Rowan stiffened in Isadora's hold. Her gaze darted between them—stepsister and stepbrother, both Ravencrofts, both dangerous in different ways. Isadora's arm felt like iron; Ryan's offered hand looked like a trap wrapped in courtesy.
The music had shifted to a slower number—another waltz, intimate and lingering. Couples reformed around them, but the three of them stood frozen in a small, charged triangle at the center of the floor.
Isadora's jaw clenched. She didn't release Rowan. Instead, she turned Rowan slightly, angling her body so Rowan's back pressed more firmly against her chest—claiming, shielding.
"She's dancing with me," Isadora said, voice low and lethal. "Find your own partner, Ryan."
Ryan's smile didn't falter. He stepped closer—close enough that Rowan could smell his cologne: expensive, woody, aggressive.
"Come now, Dora," he said, using the nickname like a weapon. "Don't be greedy. The doctor looks… flushed. Perhaps she'd like a change of partner. Someone who doesn't smell like whiskey and bad decisions."
Rowan's eyes flashed. She finally wrenched her hand free from Isadora's and stepped sideways—out of both their reaches, chest heaving.
"I'm not a prize to be passed between you," she said, voice sharp enough to cut glass. Her gaze swept from Isadora's possessive glare to Ryan's hungry smile. "And I'm done dancing."
She turned on her heel—black dress swirling, slit flashing one last time—and strode toward the edge of the floor, heels clicking like gunfire. Heads turned; whispers followed.
Isadora watched her go—jaw tight, fingers flexing at her sides like she wanted to drag Rowan back.
Ryan watched too—eyes dark, lips curving in quiet satisfaction.
"She'll come around," he murmured, just loud enough for Isadora to hear. "They always do. And when she does… I'll be waiting."
Isadora turned slowly, eyes narrowing on her stepbrother.
"Touch her," she said quietly, "and I'll ruin you. You. Personally."
Ryan's smile widened—challenging, unafraid.
"Promises, promises."
He inclined his head once—mocking courtesy—then melted back into the crowd, leaving Isadora alone in the center of the emptying dance floor.
The music played on.
But the waltz was over.
And the real game—the one with teeth and claws and no rules—had just begun.
Isadora watched Rowan go—chest tight, whiskey still burning low in her veins, the ghost of Rowan's body heat lingering on her skin. She wanted to follow. Wanted to chase her down the corridor, pin her against the wall, finish what the dance had started.
But she didn't get the chance.
Two black-suited security operatives materialized at her sides before she could take a single step—Grayson on her left, another nameless Ravencroft guard on her right. They didn't touch her. They didn't need to. Their presence was the cage: broad shoulders blocking the path forward, earpieces glinting, eyes flat and professional.
"Miss Ravencroft," Grayson said quietly, voice carrying the weight of Everett's orders. "Your grandfather requests your presence in the private suite. Immediately."
Isadora's laugh was short, bitter, edged with fury.
"Requests," she echoed. "Right."
She tried to sidestep anyway—sharp pivot, oxfords silent—but the second guard shifted, mirroring her movement. Not aggressive. Just inevitable.
Lexi appeared then, pushing through the lingering dancers with Jade half a step behind. Her red dress was rumpled now, lipstick slightly smudged from earlier champagne and laughter. She stopped short when she saw the security wall, eyes narrowing.
"Now you're caged, Dora," Lexi said, voice low but carrying. She glanced at the guards, then back at Isadora. "They're not even pretending anymore."
Isadora's hands curled into fists at her sides—nails biting palms hard enough to leave marks.
"Fucking whores," she spat, the word aimed at the guards, at her family, at the entire glittering prison she'd been born into. Her voice cracked on the last syllable—not with tears, but with raw, boiling rage. "All of them. Selling me out for board approval and quarterly reports. Pathetic."
Grayson didn't flinch. He simply inclined his head toward the private corridor that led to the family suites—eighty stories up, away from the party, away from Rowan, away from any chance of pursuit tonight.
"Miss Ravencroft," he repeated. "This way."
Isadora stared at him for a long beat—eyes dark, burning—then flicked her gaze back toward the exit Rowan had disappeared through. The doors were already closing, security discreetly stationed there too. No way out. Not tonight.
She exhaled once—sharp, defeated, furious.
"Fine," she said, voice low and venomous. "Lead the way. But tell Grandfather this: the second I'm out of whatever detox hell he's shipping me to? I'm coming back for what's mine."
She didn't elaborate.
She didn't need to.
Lexi stepped closer, brushing fingers against Isadora's arm in silent support. Jade stayed a pace back, jaw tight, eyes scanning the guards like he was calculating how many he could take before they dragged them all away.
Isadora straightened her blazer one last time—sharp lapels, rolled sleeves, armor intact—and walked forward.
The guards flanked her instantly.
The corridor swallowed them—dark marble, recessed lighting, the distant hum of the party fading behind thick doors.
Caged.
For now.
But Isadora Ravencroft had never stayed locked up long.
And when the door finally opened again—whether tomorrow at dawn for Connecticut, or seven days from now when she clawed her way free—she would be coming back.
For Rowan.
For revenge.
For the fall she'd promised herself.
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft hiss.
And somewhere in the penthouse above, Everett Ravencroft waited—cane tapping once against marble—like a king who believed he still controlled the board.
He would learn soon enough.
He didn't.