Chapter 3 3

Ayla needed air. She needed to scream.

"Excuse me," she murmured, pushing back her chair. "I need to check on the dessert."

Spencer didn't even look up from his conversation with Chloe. "Don't be long."

Ayla walked out of the dining room, keeping her head high until the double doors swung shut behind her. Then she slumped, gasping for breath. The hallway was empty. The staff was busy in the main kitchen.

She ducked into the butler's pantry, a narrow, walk-in storage room lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves of silver platters and crystal glassware. It smelled of silver polish and dried lavender. It was quiet. Dark.

Ayla leaned against the cool metal shelving, pressing her forehead against the wire rack. Just breathe. Just survive tonight.

The door handle clicked.

She spun around. "Henderson, I was just-"

It wasn't Henderson.

Julian slipped inside, closing the door behind him. The lock clicked with a sound that echoed like a gunshot in the small space.

"Julian," Ayla hissed. "You can't be here."

"Neither can you," he said. He moved forward, crowding her. The pantry was tiny. There was nowhere to go. Her back hit the shelves, the crystal glasses rattling ominously.

"If Spencer sees you-"

"Spencer is too busy staring down his mistress's dress to notice I'm gone," Julian said. His voice was hard, angry.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and sharp. Ayla's disposable scalpel, glinting in the sliver of light from under the door.

He held it up between his thumb and forefinger. "You forgot this."

Ayla reached for it. "Give it to me."

He pulled his hand back, lifting it high above his head. He stepped closer, his body pressing against hers. She could feel the heat radiating off him through his tuxedo.

"Why do you stay?" he demanded. "Was this meant to be a message? A surgeon's warning? I watched them tonight. They treat you like a dog. Worse."

"It's complicated," she whispered, staring at his tie knot because she couldn't look him in the eye.

"It's money," he corrected. "It's always money. How much is he paying you to take that abuse?"

"It's for my mother," she snapped, tears pricking her eyes. "He pays her medical bills. She has cancer. Without his specialists, she dies. Is that simple enough for you?"

Julian went still. The anger in his eyes shifted, replaced by something darker, something unreadable.

"So you sold yourself," he said softly. "To save her."

"I did what I had to do."

"And last night?" he asked. He lowered his hand, but he didn't give her the scalpel. He placed his palm flat against the shelf next to her head, boxing her in. "Was that part of the sale?"

"No," she breathed. "Last night was... a mistake."

"Liar." He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. She shivered violently. "Last night was the only honest thing you've done in years."

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. The heavy tread of the butler. Voices.

Ayla froze. Julian didn't move. He just watched her, his eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness.

"Mr. Sterling?" Henderson's voice called out from the other side of the door.

Ayla held her breath, her heart hammering so hard she thought it would crack her ribs. If they were found...

Julian waited a beat. Then another. Torturing her.

Then, he leaned back slightly. "I'm in here," he called out, his voice calm. "Looking for the restroom. Took a wrong turn."

"Ah," Henderson said. "The restroom is down the hall to the left, sir."

"Thank you."

The footsteps faded.

Ayla's knees gave out. She sagged against the shelf. Julian caught her, his arm wrapping around her waist to hold her up. His grip was iron.

"You enjoy this," she accused, pushing at his chest. "You enjoy terrifying me."

"I enjoy making you feel something other than misery," he countered. He grabbed her hand and slapped the scalpel into her palm. His fingers lingered, squeezing hers.

"Get out," she whispered.

"I'm leaving," he said. "But this isn't over, Ayla. I don't like sharing my things."

"I'm not a thing. And I'm certainly not yours."

He smirked. "We'll see."

He unlocked the door and slipped out.

Ayla waited five minutes, counting to three hundred, before she dared to leave. She checked her reflection in a silver platter. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips looked swollen.

She walked back into the dining room. Dessert was being served.

Spencer glared at her as she sat down. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Bathroom," she muttered.

"You missed the toast," Chloe said, licking chocolate mousse off her spoon. "Julian had to leave early. Said he had an urgent matter to attend to."

"Probably bored," Spencer said dismissively. "He's a busy man."

The dinner dragged on for another hour. By the time the last guest left, Ayla's feet were throbbing and her head was pounding.

She walked toward the stairs, desperate for sleep.

"Ayla," Spencer called out from the living room.

She stopped, hand on the railing. "Yes?"

He was pouring a brandy. Chloe was sitting on the sofa, her shoes kicked off, her legs curled under her. She looked at home.

"Sleep in the guest room tonight," Spencer said, not looking at Ayla. "Chloe had too much to drink. She can't drive back to the city."

The air left the room.

"You want me to sleep in the guest room," Ayla said slowly, "so your mistress can sleep in our bed?"

Spencer turned, his face cold. "It's my bed, Ayla. My house. You just live here. Now go."

Chloe giggled.

Ayla looked at them. The hatred she felt was so pure, so sharp, it almost frightened her.

"Fine," she said.

She turned and walked up the stairs. She didn't cry. She was done crying.