Chapter 2 2

At some point in the dead of night, she must have dragged herself from the cold tiles to the even colder sheets of their bed, because sunlight hit Elle's face like a physical blow. She blinked, her eyelids heavy and swollen. The bed beside her was empty, the sheets cool to the touch.

She sat up, wincing as a dull ache radiated through her lower back. The memories of the previous night rushed back-the grinding noise of the disposal, the cold marble, the way Hunt had looked at her. Like he owned her.

A sound came from the walk-in closet. The slide of a hanger against a metal rod.

Elle wrapped the duvet around herself and walked to the closet door. Her bare feet sank into the plush carpet.

Hunt stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. He was fastening his cufflinks-gold ones, not the sapphires she had destroyed. He saw her reflection in the glass. His eyes were cold, detached.

"You're awake," he said.

Elle leaned against the doorframe for support. "Are you going to explain last night?"

Hunt didn't turn. He adjusted his collar with precise, jerky movements. "Explain what? My schedule isn't something I need to run by you."

"I'm not talking about your schedule."

He paused. For a second, his shoulders tensed. Then he resumed fixing his tie. "You were making a scene. I calmed you down."

"Is that what you call it?" Elle asked. Her voice was raspy. She took a step into the closet. "If I went to the Polo Club with another man, would you be this calm?"

Hunt spun around. The movement was so fast she flinched. He closed the distance between them and grabbed her waist, pulling her flush against his suit.

"You dare," he hissed. The possessiveness in his voice was thick, suffocating.

Elle looked up at him, searching his grey eyes for anything that resembled love. She found only anger and a terrifying need for control.

"Preston says my contract is up for renewal," she said, testing the waters. "Maybe I should find a new sponsor. Someone who doesn't make me feel like a whore."

Hunt's fingers dug into her hip. He grabbed her chin with his free hand, forcing her to look at him.

"In this town," he said softly, "nobody can afford you but me. You're an expensive habit, Elle. Without me, you're nothing but a pretty face in a sea of pretty faces."

The words struck her hard. They confirmed her worst fear: that to him, she was just an asset. An acquisition.

The light in Elle's eyes dimmed. She stopped resisting his grip. She just stood there, defeated.

Hunt seemed to sense the shift. His grip on her chin loosened. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, a ghost of a caress. It was gentle, confusingly tender, completely at odds with his cruel words.

He stared at her mouth, his pupils dilating. For a second, he looked like he wanted to apologize. Or kiss her.

Then he pulled his hand away as if burned. He checked his watch.

"The Gala is tonight," he said, his voice flat again. "Carlyn is bringing your dress. Be ready at seven."

Elle looked down at the floor. "Am I going as your date? Or as a Noble Media employee?"

"As the obedient partner who doesn't cause scenes," Hunt said. He grabbed his briefcase. "Don't embarrass me."

He walked out. The front door slammed, the vibration rattling the crystal chandelier in the hallway.

Elle sank onto the floor of the closet. She touched her neck, where a faint bruise was forming.

Her phone rang. It was her father's assistant.

"Ms. Allison," the voice was crisp, professional. "Mr. Allison wanted to remind you that the family dinner is next week. He insists you come alone. No... guests."

Meaning no Hunt. Her father hated Hunt, not because he treated Elle badly, but because Hunt was more powerful than the Allison family.

"I know," Elle said. She hung up.

She needed to breathe. She walked to the spare room she used as a studio. It was the only room in the penthouse Hunt rarely entered.

She pulled the sheet off the easel. The smell of oil paint and turpentine calmed her instantly.

The canvas showed a profile. A boy bathed in sunlight, his messy hair catching the light. His face was blurred, unfinished, more a feeling than a person.

Elle picked up a brush. Her hand hovered over the canvas. She tried to recall the curve of his jaw, the exact shade of his eyes.

Nothing. Just a blank space in her mind where the memory should be.

Her hand trembled. The brush slipped, leaving a jagged smear of ochre across the background.

"Damn it." She threw the brush across the room. It hit the wall with a clatter.

Hunt was erasing her. He was filling up every corner of her mind with his coldness, pushing out the few fragments of herself she had left.

Her phone buzzed again. A text from Carlyn.

Wear red tonight. Burn the bitch down.

Elle stared at the message. Burn it down.

She typed back: Okay.

She walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Tonight was the Gala. The biggest social event of the season.

She would give Hunt one last chance. One final, desperate attempt to bridge the gap between his wallet and his heart.

And if he failed?

She would burn it all down.