Chapter 8 Name Your Price

Stepping out of the Misty Bar, Sylvia was hit by a blast of cold wind. The burn of the whiskey she had downed earlier surged back with a vengeance, clawing its way up from her stomach to her head.

Inside, she had held herself together with sheer defiance and icy pride. Out here, under the night air, that armor shattered. Adrenaline drained away, leaving only the numbing haze of alcohol. The neon lights around her smeared into bleeding halos, the world tilting beneath her feet.

She caught herself against a wall, forcing her legs to hold. Fishing through her handbag, she pulled out her phone. The words on the screen swam in and out of focus. Squinting hard, she jabbed at the rideshare app, missing the icon more than once before finally managing to request a car.

While she waited, a black van rolled up beside her without a sound. The door slid open.

Sylvia, slow to react with drink still clouding her senses, lifted her head warily. Tall shadows closed in before she could move.

"Ms. Brooks, you're coming with us," the leader said, his voice rough and laced with a mocking grin.

Her gut tightened. She stepped back, but Zaid moved faster, blocking her path.

"Get out of my way!" she snapped, raising her hand to fight.

But her body betrayed her. Weak and unsteady, her arm was caught easily. Against these men, her strength was nothing.

"Take her."

A hand clamped over her mouth, smothering her cry. She was lifted off her feet and shoved into the van. The door slammed, cutting off light and sound.

Minutes later, they dragged her back into the same private room she had left earlier. Andrew sat there in fresh clothes, his face mottled with bruises and his knees swollen. Beside him, Rosa's mascara streaked down her cheeks, her glare venomous.

"Sylvia, still think you're tough?" Andrew's smile was cold. "Aren't you marrying my uncle? Let's see if the Smith family still wants a woman who's been passed around."

He pulled out his phone, aiming it at her, eyes gleaming with malice. "Record this. Get it all. Tonight, you'll get to find out exactly how the Brooks family's precious little princess tastes."

The men laughed, closing in.

Sylvia was shoved onto the couch, pinned down. The alcohol in her blood evaporated under the chill of fear. The glow of the phone camera burned in her vision, surrounded by leering faces. Despair flooded her, heavy and suffocating.

Her nails dug deep into the couch. Was this really how it would end? Rage and humiliation surged, her eyes locking on her attackers.

One man reached for her collar.

The door exploded inward.

"Police! Routine inspection! Nobody move!"

Blinding flashlight beams cut through the room, followed by the stomp of boots and sharp commands.

Chaos erupted. The men froze, releasing her. Andrew fumbled with his phone, trying to hide it.

Sylvia seized the moment, shoving away the man beside her. As police blocked the exits and questioned the room, she bolted. The hallway was a storm of shouts and bodies. She ran, weaving through the crowd. Her ankle twisted, sending her pitching forward.

She didn't hit the floor. Instead, she crashed into a solid, warm chest.

The scent of cedar and faint tobacco filled her senses — clean, sharp, nothing like the stench of the bar. It was grounding, strangely safe.

She lifted her head, dizzy, into Henry's eyes. Dark as midnight, they held a depth that seemed to pull at her soul.

His jaw was cut sharp, lips pressed in a thin line. No expression, yet his presence radiated an unspoken warning.

Her drunken haze cleared just enough to steady her breathing.

Before she could speak, her body lifted. Henry carried her in a smooth, effortless motion.

"You—" She gasped, clutching at his neck, afraid to fall. His chest was firm beneath his shirt, heartbeat steady, cedar enveloping her, easing the tremor in her bones.

Henry said nothing, moving through the chaos with unhurried steps. People parted without a word. He reached a car, shut out the noise, and only then did Sylvia's tension snap.

"Put me down." She twisted in his arms. "Who are you? Don't touch me!"

His grip was iron. "Don't move," he said, voice low, almost electric.

Her struggle faltered for a moment, but drunken stubbornness returned. "I need to make a call. I'm going home."

She fumbled in her bag. Henry watched her, brow tightening, then simply took her phone and handed it over.

She squinted at the screen, found the contact, and dialed.

A ringtone chimed — not from her phone, but from Henry's suit pocket.

It was the same tune.

Her eyes widened. Slowly, she looked up.

Henry pulled out his phone, ended the call. Her line went dead. He took her phone, tossed it aside, and tapped her forehead with two fingers.

"Clear now?"

She winced, covering the spot, glaring at him.

"Hot," she muttered, shifting restlessly. "You should take your shirt off."

Her small hands went for his buttons, brushing against his chest. His breath hitched, eyes darkening. He caught her wrists. "Sylvia. Behave."

She woke the next day in a bed softer than she remembered. The pounding in her head was brutal. Sitting up, she recognized her own bedroom.

Pulling back the covers, she froze.

She was naked.

Memories slammed back — Andrew's trap, the police, Henry's arms, the car, her drunken hands on his shirt.

Her face burned. She sat clutching the blanket until she spotted her neatly folded clothes on a chair, a new set of women's underwear beside them, tags still attached.

She dressed quickly. Just as she fastened the last button, the door opened.

Henry stepped in, dressed in gray loungewear. The edge from last night was gone, replaced by lazy calm. He set a tray on the nightstand — a steaming bowl of hangover soup.

"Awake?" His gaze was steady. "Drink it. You'll feel better."

The air thickened with awkward silence.

Sylvia drew a breath, forcing composure. She took out her wallet, slid a black card from it, and held it out.

"Thank you for last night," she said coolly, as if the woman clinging to him in the car had been someone else. "I drank too much and behaved poorly. This card is my apology."

Henry didn't take it. One brow lifted, waiting.

Uncomfortable under his stare, she pressed on. "As for last night… I'll take responsibility."

A flicker of amusement crossed his eyes.

"You can name your price."