The Billionaire's Dead Canary

For the sake of my gravely ill brother, I became Vince Hayes' mistress.

I thought he was the god who pulled me out of hell, until he stood by and let his fiancée slap me across the face.

So I left everything he'd given me, along with my dignity, behind that night.

Later, that same arrogant Vince knelt at my hospital bed, his eyes red, begging me to come back.

But looking at him, all I felt inside was a dead, barren silence.

I no longer loved him.

I didn't even hate him.

……

I turned my head aside. A hot, stinging pain spread across my cheek, and I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth.

The six-carat ring on Sloane's hand had cut a thin, fine line across my face.

She was trembling with rage, her eyes rimmed red.

"You think you deserve to stand in front of me wearing that dress?"

Around us, the socialites stopped their conversations. Countless gazes—probing, contemptuous—fell on me.

Over Sloane's heaving shoulders, I looked at the man standing a short distance behind her.

Vince Hayes.

He wore an impeccably tailored designer suit, a glass of champagne in his hand. He simply watched as his fiancée humiliated me in public.

Sloane turned to look at him, tears spilling over in a wounded rush.

"No wonder it looked familiar… That's the dress you bid on to give to me. Vince, is this the woman you've been hiding from me all this time? You let her stand here wearing my clothes—are you trying to humiliate me?"

So that's what it was.

I glanced down at the gown on my body.

Last night, Vince's assistant had delivered it to the apartment, telling me that Vince needed a date for the evening.

I never imagined it was something his fiancée had rejected.

Vince finally moved.

He crossed the floor with long strides to Sloane's side, gently wiping the tears from the corner of her eye, coaxing her with an air of reluctant patience.

"Is something this small worth getting upset over?"

He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the hand she'd used to strike me, as though it had touched something filthy.

"She's nothing compared to you. It's just a dress. If you like it, I'll fly the atelier team in from Paris tomorrow to custom-make one for you."

Then, at last, he turned and looked at me.

"You should go. You've been with me three years. I won't leave you empty-handed. Is there anything you want? Or better yet—just name your price."

Name your price.

Those three words almost made me laugh.

A strange sense of release spread through my chest.

The blade that had hung over my head for three years had finally dropped, severing the last thread—the one called "hope"—in a single clean stroke.

When the edge landed, I felt no pain. Instead, I felt lighter than I ever had.

I really did think about what I wanted.

When I first followed him, all I'd wanted was a hand to pull me out of the mud.

When I thought he'd cared for me, I'd wanted a future where I could stand beside him in the open.

But once I finally saw the truth—that I was nothing more than a secret he kept, a thing to be toyed with—the only thing I wanted was to walk out of this.

So I shook my head.

"Nothing."

I wanted nothing of his. Only that, from now on, there would be no more entanglements between us.

"Fine, she can get out," Sloane suddenly raised her voice, pointing at the gown on my body.

"But this dress."

"It disgusts me to see it on her."

Sloane stared at me, the corners of her mouth curling into a smile.

"Take it off. Now."

Everyone in the room drew a sharp breath.

At a gathering like this, all silk and glittering jewels, forcing a woman to strip off her gown in front of everyone.

It was the most extreme form of humiliation.

A hundred times more vicious than the slap.

I looked at Vince.

I thought he would stop it.

After all, I was the one he'd brought in.

Even a dog earns some regard for the master who owns it.

But he only stood there, one hand in his pocket, watching me with cold, detached eyes.

Like a man watching a farce that had nothing to do with him.

Or perhaps he was waiting for me to beg him the way I always had, eyes red with tears.

Waiting for me to cling pathetically to his sleeve, pleading with him to take me away.

I hadn't reacted.

No—I had reacted.

I'd simply realized, all at once, that none of this mattered anymore.

My brother Leo's final surgery had already succeeded.

The debt I owed Vince—over these three years, I'd repaid it in full with my dignity, my youth, and my body.

There truly was nothing I wanted.

And I truly didn't want him to keep me.

I raised my hand.

Under the stunned gazes of everyone in the room, I calmly reached for the zipper at my back.

The sound of it sliding down was startlingly clear in the dead silence of the hall.

Vince's expression finally changed.

The careless indifference on his face froze, his brows drawing together.

"Maeve?"

His voice dropped low, carrying a note of warning.

I ignored him.

I pulled the zipper all the way down.

The fabric slid off my shoulders and pooled at my feet.

I stood there in nothing but black lingerie, exposed to hundreds of eyes.

The cold air hit my skin, raising a fine layer of goosebumps.

Sloane froze.

She'd expected to see me sobbing, expected to watch me break down and beg.

But instead, I calmly stepped out of the gown.

And that, somehow, filled her with a strange panic and unease.

The smile on her face stiffened.

I looked at Sloane, my voice steady, without a single tremor. "Here. It's yours."

Then I turned my head and looked at Vince.

His face had gone completely dark, something I couldn't read churning in his eyes.

He strode forward, pulling off his own suit jacket, trying to drape it over me.

"Enough! Put it on! Come home with me!"

He gritted his teeth, his voice low and commanding.

"Mr. Hayes." I looked into his eyes.

Those eyes that had once seemed to me the most tender, the safest in the world.

"I've returned the dress."

"I'm leaving."