Chapter Four
Elena
Early the next morning, I began working through every contact in my phone.
The Williams family had fallen far from its former glory, but my grandfather had once kept close ties with a handful of powerful men. Three million was no small sum, yet if I could piece it together by borrowing from several wealthy families, perhaps there was still a way out.
Reality, however, struck me like a slap across the face.
On the first day, I met with Mr. Lawrence—one of my grandfather's oldest and most trusted friends. This was a man who had once fussed over me like a doting uncle. When I called, his voice was evasive, slipping around the truth. "Elena, it's not that I don't want to help. It's that the Kingsley Group made an announcement this morning. Anyone who lends you so much as a cent will have their credit lines cut by the end of the year." He paused. "I have no choice in this. You're on your own. I'm sorry."
On the second day, I went to my closest friend from university. She didn't even meet me in person—only sent a text. Elena, I'm so sorry. My father says the Kingsley people warned us that if our family helps you privately, our tech holdings will be targeted for short-selling next week. There's nothing I can do.
The third day. The fourth day.
Every call ended the same way—in dial tones and apologies.
Until the fifth day.
I wandered the streets, exhausted, my palms slick with cold sweat. No bank would approve a loan. No old friend would pick up the phone.
Arthur.
All of this was Arthur's doing.
With the absolute, crushing weight of his power, he had dismantled every escape route I had, inch by inch. He didn't even need to show his face. He simply watched from a distance, cold and composed, as I fluttered and burned like a moth with nowhere left to fly. He wanted to break me. He wanted to force me to walk to him myself—to knock on the door of his office and beg, the way he once had nothing and came to me.
Two days left. And I had nowhere to turn.
My phone buzzed.
In the silence, the vibration felt almost violent. A new message. I looked at the name on the screen and went still.
Dorothy.
The same Dorothy who had seduced my fiancé not long ago. My so-called friend.
The message was short and cutting:
My, my, Elena—word is you've been making the rounds on Wall Street all week, practically wearing grooves into everyone's doorsteps. And yet not a single soul will spare you a dime? How terribly sad.
I suppose this is how the Williams family's last shred of dignity finally gets buried.
But I can't bear to watch, for old times' sake. Do you want money? I can help.
Before I could process that, a second message arrived:
Tonight, nine o'clock. The Dusk private club, underground. VIP Room 01.
Come with something to offer. If you can keep Chris happy, the three million is negotiable. Don't be late.
It was a trap. Obvious, brazen, and utterly transparent.
But then I thought of that damage assessment notice—that death sentence of a document—and I closed my eyes. The corner of my mouth pulled into a bitter smile.
Tonight, even if it leads straight to hell, I have to go.
The smell hit me before I even reached the door of the private room—thick waves of alcohol and cigarette smoke that made my eyes water. I pinched my nose in disgust.
"Well, well." Chris's mocking voice cut through the noise. "The lady herself, gracing us with her presence."
He was sprawled across the sofa, a strip of gauze still taped to his forehead. Pressed against his side, Dorothy was poured into a deep-cut minidress, boneless and draped across him like an ornament. They weren't alone. On either side of the room sat a collection of well-known wastrels from our social circle, their eyes sliding over me with undisguised contempt and something worse.
My stomach dropped.
"Chris." I forced down the revulsion and kept my voice flat. "I sent you the assessment. The fire was your fault. Three million. You settle it tonight."
"Three million?" He burst out laughing, and the others joined in.
Dorothy plucked a grape from the bunch in her hand and smiled. "Elena, did you hit your head? The liability was ruled entirely yours. If you take this to court, the only one sitting in the defendant's chair will be you."
"You—"
"Me what?" Chris stood abruptly, his expression sharpening into something greedy and cruel. "Elena, drop the act. Your father's company was acquired this morning—completely swallowed up by my uncle. Your family isn't worth the paper your debts are printed on." He tilted his head toward the men on either side of him. "You want me to cover three million? Fine. Keep my friends entertained tonight. Make sure they have a good time, and between us, we'll find the money."
The men exchanged glances. Slow, knowing smiles spread across their faces. One of them had already begun undoing his jacket buttons.
"Chris." My voice shook. Something hot and bitter rose in my throat. "You're an animal."
"You're nothing but a coward who hides behind other people's power. You can't even cover three million on your own—some heir to the Prescott fortune you are."
"Go ahead, say whatever you want." He checked his watch, bored. "You've got two hours. If you're not willing, the moment the clock hits midnight, my lawyers will have you in handcuffs. Or—" he grinned— "you can go crawl to my uncle, the devil himself. You think he'll go easy on you? He'll make this look like a vacation."
Looking at his face, something inside me finally cleared.
This was never a negotiation. It was a trap, designed from the start.
"Then I'd rather he destroyed me," I said, "than beg anything from you and your pathetic little crew. Don't hold your breath."
I turned and moved for the door.
Two men were already waiting on the other side. The door clicked shut behind them, locked. One grabbed my wrist and wrenched it hard enough to make me cry out.
"Going somewhere?" Chris called from behind me, delighted. "Nobody leaves until the gentlemen are satisfied."
"Let go of me! This is false imprisonment, Chris!"
"False imprisonment?" He took a long draw from his cigar, exhaling slowly through the haze. "Money is the law. Always has been." He waved a hand at the others. "She thinks she's better than everyone. Tonight's your chance to find out what she's really worth, boys. Don't hold back on my account."
The three men closed in. One reached out—impatient, leering—and hooked a finger toward the strap of my dress.
"Get away from me!"
I swung my clutch with everything I had. The metal chain caught him across the face and opened a thin red line on his cheek.
"You little—" He spat, grabbed me by the shoulders, and threw me onto the sofa.
I had no leverage. No strength to match his. I couldn't fight my way out.
From somewhere behind me, Dorothy let out a thrilled shriek. "Chris, get this on camera! I want the whole socialite circuit to see what she looks like right now!"
Despair closed over me like water.
My hand slipped into my pocket. My fingertips found the edge of a card—smooth, cool, gilded.
Half an hour left.
Arthur.
