Chapter 4 BUYING A TICKET TO HELL.

"Ma'am," the guard started, squaring his shoulders firmly. "I found them hiding in the utility closet right after the piece shattered. They claim to be gala guests who got lost."

Eleanor raised a skeletal hand, heavy with diamond rings. The guard's mouth snapped shut. The silence that followed was suffocating. The woman approached us with measured steps, the scent of expensive perfume and absolute power saturating the air.

"Guests." She pronounced the word like it tasted bad. She stopped in front of my fake fiancé, appraising his rental tux with lethal precision. "How fascinating. I am acquainted with every single one of the seven hundred people I invited to my gala tonight. I vetted the list myself. And I assure you, my darlings, I do not recall inviting anyone in a suit with half an inch of excess fabric on the shoulders."

My heart whipped against my ribs. The old bat was a damn radar.

I had to take control before they called the cops and cuffed me right there. I straightened up, ignoring the stabbing pain in my bare foot and the sting of my split lip. I slipped into the haughty, bored-rich-girl attitude I’d practiced in front of the mirror for weeks.

"The way we are being treated is entirely unacceptable," I snapped, crossing my arms. "My fiancé and I arrived late from Europe. The idiots at the entrance handed us credentials and waved us through with zero directions. We wandered into the wrong wing looking for a private spot to..." I offered a dramatic pause, looking at the floor with fake bashfulness. "...discuss relationship matters."

Eleanor arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

"Relationship matters that end with a Qing dynasty vase nearly toppled and an eighteenth-century statue ground to dust?"

"We tripped," I cut in fast, my brain burning from the effort. "It was dark. My heel snapped. He tried to catch me and we crashed into the pedestal. Pure accident. We’ll wire you a check for the damages first thing tomorrow morning."

The matriarch let out a dry laugh, completely devoid of humor. It sounded like cracking ice.

"A check. How generous. Tell me, dear, to whom should I invoice the loss of half a million dollars?"

Shit. Half a million. I swallowed hard, keeping my chin up.

"Chloe," I said, using my real name so I wouldn't forget my own lie. "Chloe de... Beaumont. Of the French branch, obviously. And this is my fiancé..."

I gave the guy next to me a subtle nudge. His turn. He just had to say a posh name, anything that sounded remotely aristocratic and fit the fairytale.

The man blinked, shaking his head like snapping out of a trance. He looked at Eleanor, then at her bodyguards, and finally blurted out the first stupid thing that crossed his hyperactive mind:

"Arthur... Jenkins."

I closed my eyes for a millisecond. Jenkins. He sounded like a middle-class accountant or an unemployed butler. Not European royalty. I wanted to strangle him with his own suspenders.

Eleanor narrowed her gaze, crossing her hands over her stomach.

"Chloe de Beaumont and Arthur Jenkins?" she repeated, distilling venom into every syllable. "A fascinating pairing. Beaumont is an ancient lineage. Jenkins is... pedestrian."

"It's the name of his mother's estate in Scotland," I jumped in immediately, stepping on 'Arthur's' shoe before he could open his mouth to make it worse. "My poor darling loathes using his noble titles in public. The attention overwhelms him. Besides, the cheap champagne they're serving upstairs has his head spinning. Isn't that right, my love?"

I glared daggers at him. He caught the hint, nodding stiffly.

"Yes. Quite. The champagne. Terribly frothy."

His fake British accent was so forced it made me want to punch him. Eleanor observed us in silence. Her brain operated like a human calculator, adding the risks, subtracting the variables. I could see the gears turning behind those cold gray eyes.

She knew we were lying. Knew it with absolute certainty.

But Eleanor Vanderbilt-Hayes was also a businesswoman. Calling the police meant sirens, squad cars outside the museum, and dozens of reporters snapping photos of her guests fleeing a supposed robbery. Her company's stock was in a fragile position; a media scandal over massive security failures at her flagship event would cost her a hell of a lot more than the half a million for the broken statue.

She wasn't going to ruin her own gala for us.

"I understand," Eleanor finally said, her voice taking on a soft, dangerous edge. "An unfortunate misunderstanding between two young lovers. I am deeply saddened that your evening ended in this disaster."

The guard looked at her, confused. I felt the ground under my feet turn to quicksand. When a shark smiles at you, it's not because it wants to be friends.

"Graves," Eleanor called.

One of the men in black suits, a mastodon with a scar slashing his jawline, stepped forward.

"Take them out through the rear loading bay to avoid the press. And put their things in the car."

"Madam, we appreciate your understanding, we will simply call a taxi..." my supposed fiancé started, using his panicked-office-worker tone.

"Nonsense," Eleanor cut him off, raising a graceful hand. "It would be an appalling breach of etiquette to leave you stranded in the city after such a... stressful incident. Graves will drive you directly to Villa Midas. The family relocates tomorrow for our annual holiday week. You will be coming with us."

Panic crawled up my throat.

"We wouldn't want to abuse your hospitality..." I tried to argue.

Eleanor took a step toward me, invading my personal space. She smelled of mint and absolute control.

"It is not an invitation, Miss Beaumont. It is the only alternative to solitary confinement. We will have a whole week to get to know each other better and discuss the terms of that check. Graves, escort them. No phone calls."

She turned on her heel and vanished down the hallway, leaving us at the mercy of her attack dog.

Graves shoved us in the back toward the service stairs. We walked in silence, descending through dusty corridors and loading ramps. The adrenaline was starting to drain from my system, making way for a dense, terrifying exhaustion.

Minutes later, I was sitting on the white leather seats of an armored limousine, the engine purring softly beneath us. The doors were locked from the driver's panel. We had no phones, no fake IDs, no way to call for help.

The tuxedo guy was sitting in the opposite corner, glued to the door like I was radioactive. He swiped his thumb across the corner of his lip, where the dried blood mixed with my ruined lipstick. He shot me a sidelong glance. His eyes reflected the exact same terror I felt in my gut.

I turned toward the tinted glass window. The neon l— the city lights flickered in the distance as the car accelerated onto the private coastal highway.

I ran my tongue over my busted lip, tasting the pain. We weren't going to a jail with iron bars, that much was clear. We were heading to a cage of solid gold, trapped with each other, under the gaze of the most dangerous family in the country. The most elegant kidnapping in the world had just begun.