Chapter 4

(Kelsey POV)

Three weeks later, I walked into the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel.

I was relying on a cane, but I refused to let it look like a weakness.

It was sleek, carved from black ebony with a polished silver handle. I didn't lean on it; I wielded it like an accessory-a scepter rather than a crutch.

Bennett had offered to escort me earlier that evening, a gesture of mock chivalry.

I had told him, explicitly, to go to hell.

He had merely shrugged, unbothered, and taken Aria instead.

I spotted them now near the champagne tower.

She was draped in ruby red, a color designed to draw blood.

He was leaning in close, whispering something in her ear that made her giggle.

Stifling my nausea, I turned away and located the Don's lawyer, Mr. Sterling, standing in the shadows.

He handed me a glass of water, his expression unreadable.

"Is it ready?" I asked softly.

"The trust is set up," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the string quartet. "The offshore accounts are active. The Don wants this done quietly, Kelsey."

I nodded.

"Quietly," I repeated.

Like a ghost slipping through the cracks.

The charity auction began shortly after.

I took a seat at a table in the back, choosing isolation over the pitying glances of the elite.

The items came and went in a blur of excess.

Vintage wines from private cellars.

First-class trips to Bali.

Then, Lot 45 came up.

A painting.

Morning in the Garden.

It was a small Impressionist piece-not famous enough to be in a museum, but breathtakingly beautiful.

I had told Bennett about it ten years ago, in a life that felt like it belonged to a stranger.

I told him it reminded me of the freedom I lost the day I married into this violent world.

I lifted my paddle.

"Fifty thousand," the auctioneer announced.

"Seventy thousand," I bid, my voice steady.

"Eighty thousand."

I looked across the room.

Bennett had his paddle raised.

He wasn't even looking at the painting.

He was looking at Aria.

She was whispering something to him, feigning shyness, playing the part of the reluctant recipient perfectly.

"One hundred thousand," I bid.

My hand was shaking now, the tremor traveling up my arm.

"One hundred and fifty," Bennett countered instantly.

The room went deathly quiet.

Husband bidding against wife.

It was a spectacle. A public execution of my dignity.

"Two hundred thousand," I said.

It was everything-all the personal savings I had access to without the Don's oversight.

"Five hundred thousand," Bennett said lazily.

Gasps rippled through the room.

He was lighting money on fire just to show he could. Just to show me who held the matches.

I gritted my teeth, my jaw aching.

I raised my paddle one more time.

"Two hundred and ten..."

My phone buzzed in my clutch.

A text from the bank.

Transaction Declined. Account Frozen.

I stared at the screen, the white letters blurring.

Slowly, I looked up at the VIP balcony.

The Don was watching me.

He gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.

The message was clear: The golden parachute was for leaving quietly, not for fighting back publicly.

He had cut my legs out from under me.

"Going once, going twice... Sold! To Mr. Randolph for five hundred thousand dollars!"

The gavel banged.

It sounded like a judge sentencing me to life.

Bennett walked up to the stage with an arrogant stride.

He took the painting.

He didn't look at me once.

He walked straight to Aria.

"This is for you," he said, his voice amplified by the microphone, echoing off the gilded ceiling. "Because you bring beauty into my world."

He handed her my dream.

Aria blushed and batted her eyelashes, clutching the frame.

"Oh, Bennett, you shouldn't have."

She looked at me then.

Her eyes were triumphant, glittering with malice.

The room applauded.

They clapped for the man who humiliated his crippled wife to please his mistress.

I felt the heat of a hundred stares burning the back of my neck.

Some were pitying.

Most were amused.

I stood up.

My leg throbbed in protest.

I gripped my cane until my knuckles turned white, grounding myself against the pain.

I didn't run.

I didn't cry.

I lifted my chin.

I smoothed my dress.

I walked out of that ballroom with the rhythm of a queen marching to her own execution.

Click. Step. Click. Step.

I passed Bennett on the way out.

He was beaming at Aria, lost in his own ego.

He didn't even know I was leaving.

He didn't know that he had just bought a painting for half a million dollars, but he had sold his wife for free.

I reached the cool night air of 5th Avenue.

I took a deep, shuddering breath.

It smelled of exhaust and rain.

It smelled like freedom.

He thought he had won.

He thought money was power.

But he forgot one thing.

A woman with nothing left to lose is the most dangerous creature on earth.