The noon sun over Toronto was a pale, filtered white, casting long, clinical shadows across the guest suite of Slein Manor. But inside, the room was a whirlwind of silk, aerosol spray, and the sharp, intimidating energy of three world-class stylists.
Francis had not sent mere "help." He had sent the architects of image—men and women who dealt in the currency of perfection. They moved around Avana like surgeons, their eyes scanning her with a professional coldness that made her feel like a building under renovation.
"The bone structure is divine," whispered the lead stylist, a woman named Genevieve, as she tilted Avana's chin with a gloved finger. "But the skin... it's starved of light. And the hair? It's been neglected, tucked away in that dreadful cap for far too long."
Avana sat motionless in a velvet chair, draped in a white silk robe that she clutched tightly at the throat. She felt like a doll. They spent three hours on her hair alone, transforming the practical, tangled curls of a cleaner into a cascading waterfall of chestnut silk that shimmered with hidden copper lights. Her skin was buffed with crushed pearls and oils until she glowed with an ethereal, luminous warmth—no longer the "pale" girl Francis had insulted, but a woman carved from moonlight.
Then came the dress.
The midnight silk Francis had thrown onto her bed was revealed to be a masterpiece of structural engineering. It was backless, held together by threads of silver that crisscrossed over her spine like a spider's web. The neckline was a plunging architectural feat, and the skirt was tailored to hug every curve of her hips before flaring out into a subtle, dramatic train.
As they zipped her into it, the room went silent.
Genevieve stepped back, her breath catching. "Mon Dieu," she whispered. "The CEO didn't say he was hiding a siren."
Avana looked into the full-length mirror and didn't recognize the woman staring back. The dress didn't just fit; it worshipped her. It emphasized the full, firm curve of her breasts that had haunted Francis the night before, and it highlighted the narrow, elegant taper of her waist. She looked like a queen who had stepped out of a midnight dream.
The grand staircase of Slein Manor was a sweeping curve of white marble that descended into the main foyer. At the bottom, Francis Slein stood waiting.
He was dressed in a bespoke black tuxedo, the lines of his suit as sharp and unforgiving as his reputation. He was looking at his watch, his face a mask of cold impatience—until the sound of a silk train whispering against marble reached his ears.
Francis looked up.
The world seemed to lose its axis. He had seen the most beautiful women in the world—actresses, heiresses, models—but none of them had ever made his heart stutter.
Avana descended slowly, her hand resting lightly on the cold marble railing. The sapphire necklace he had forced upon her sat against her throat, a drop of blue fire against her glowing skin. The dress moved with her, clinging to her youthful, firm curves in a way that made the air in the foyer feel suddenly, violently thin.
She wasn't just a girl anymore. She was a weapon.
Francis felt a flare of something dark and primal ignite in his gut. He felt a surge of possessive rage that anyone else should see her like this, mixed with a hunger so sharp it was a physical ache. He was thirty-five, a man of experience and iron will, but looking at this twenty-two-year-old girl, he felt like a beggar at the gates of a temple.
He didn't speak. He couldn't. His gaze was fixed on the swell of her bosom, the curve of her hip, and the terrified, defiant light in her eyes.
Avana reached the final step, her heart hammering. The silence was deafening. She looked at Francis, expecting another insult, another reminder of her "unimpressive" body.
Instead, she saw his hand tremble. Just for a second.
"You're staring, Mr. Slein," she whispered, her voice a soft, melodic challenge.
Francis closed the distance between them in two long strides. He didn't take her hand; he placed his palm firmly on the small of her bare back, his skin searing against hers. The contact was electric, a jolt of heat that made her gasp.
"I am observing the results of my investment," he growled, his voice a jagged shadow of its usual self. "The dress is... acceptable. It hides the flaws I mentioned."
It was a lie so blatant the air between them seemed to vibrate with it. He leaned in closer, his scent—sandalwood and expensive adrenaline—filling her senses. "Don't get used to the finery, Dermis. You are still the girl who scrubs the floors. I've just polished the glass so I can see what's inside."
Avana shivered under his touch, her body betraying her by leaning into his heat. She looked around the empty foyer, the coldness of the house suddenly pressing in.
"Where are the children?" she asked, her voice trembling. "I haven't seen them all morning. Should I check on them before we leave?"
Francis's grip on her waist tightened, pulling her flush against his hard, tuxedoed frame. He wanted her to feel the tension in his body, the dangerous rhythm of his heart.
"They are already in the car," he said, his eyes darkening as they traced the line of her throat. "Waiting outside with the driver. They have their own detail for the evening."
"In the car? But they're so young... will they be okay at a gala?"
Francis let out a low, mirthless laugh. "They aren't going to the gala, Avana. They are going to the private airfield. They will be supervised by my security team in the secondary vehicle. Tonight, you aren't a nanny."
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, sending a wave of dread and desire through her.
"Tonight, you are my shadow. And you will not leave my side for a single second. Do you understand?"
Avana nodded, her breath coming in shallow hitches. As he led her toward the heavy front doors, she felt the weight of the sapphire necklace, the tightness of the silk dress, and the iron grip of the man beside her. She wasn't an architect tonight. She wasn't a student.
She was a prize. And as the Canadian wind whipped around them at the threshold, she realized she was being driven into a world where the only rule was Francis Slein's will.