Chapter 7 7

The deafening sound of Tchaikovsky echoed off the mirrored walls of the massive rehearsal room at the Lincoln Center.

Gretchen launched herself into the air, executing a flawless, explosive Grand Jeté.

Sweat soaked through the thin fabric of her black leotard.

Her calf muscles screamed in protest from the sheer overuse, burning like hot coals under her skin.

She refused to stop.

Only the severe, blinding physical pain of ballet could drown out the memory of her mother's music box being tossed into the trash.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the room.

The heavy, soundproof double doors were violently shoved open from the outside.

Kian marched over to the sound system and yanked the auxiliary cord.

The music cut off instantly.

A dead, terrifying silence fell over the room.

Every dancer froze, their eyes wide with fear as they stared at the doorway.

Dixon stepped into the room.

He was wearing a long, black wool overcoat, bringing the freezing winter air in with him.

He walked across the sprung floor with the heavy, arrogant steps of a tyrant invading a foreign country.

The other dancers immediately began to whisper, recognizing the billionaire who had dominated the morning news.

Caught mid-jump by the sudden silence, Gretchen lost her footing and crashed hard onto the wooden floor.

She sat there, her chest heaving violently as she glared up at the intruder.

"Are you out of your mind? This is my private rehearsal time!"

Dixon ignored the terrified stares of the ballet company.

He walked straight up to her, stopping inches from her legs.

He looked down at the sweat dripping from her flushed cheeks.

"Three o'clock sharp, Mrs. Spencer. You are late."

He lifted his wrist, tapping the glass of his Patek Philippe watch. His tone left absolutely no room for negotiation.

"I still have to run the second act-"

Gretchen tried to push herself off the floor.

Before she could stand, Dixon reached down.

His large hand wrapped completely around her bare wrist.

With a single, effortless pull, he hauled her to her feet.

"Your rehearsal is over. Go change your clothes. Now."

Dixon's eyes slowly dragged down the tight, wet fabric of her leotard.

A dark, heavy heat flared in his pupils, but he quickly snapped his gaze back to her face, his jaw tight.

Feeling the burning stares of her colleagues boring into her back, Gretchen swallowed her pride.

She yanked her wrist out of his grip.

She spun around and marched into the locker room.

Ten minutes later, she emerged wearing her street clothes.

Dixon didn't say a word.

He simply wrapped his arm around her waist, his fingers pressing firmly into her side.

He half-walked, half-dragged her out of the Lincoln Center in front of everyone.

The Maybach did not head toward Long Island.

Instead, it pulled up to the curb on Fifth Avenue, stopping directly in front of Bergdorf Goodman.

The general manager of the luxury department store was already standing on the sidewalk, flanked by a row of personal shoppers.

They immediately escorted them to the VIP floor, which had been completely cleared of all other customers.

"Why did you bring me here?"

Gretchen frowned, looking at the endless racks of unreleased couture gowns.

"To arm you."

Dixon unbuttoned his overcoat and sat down on a plush velvet sofa.

He crossed his long legs, his posture lazy but suffocatingly dominant.

"You cannot walk back into my estate wearing last season's rags. It makes me look bad."

He used the cruelest, most arrogant words to mask the violent urge he had to bury her in everything she deserved.

He gave a slight nod.

The personal shoppers swarmed Gretchen like bees.

They began pulling dresses off the racks and holding them up against her body.

For the next two hours, Gretchen felt like a hollow plastic doll.

She was forced in and out of the dressing room, trying on dozens of outfits.

"The red one. Too cheap."

Dixon waved his hand dismissively.

"The black one. Looks like you're going to a funeral. Take it off."

He rejected everything.

Until Gretchen stepped out of the dressing room wearing a dark emerald-green silk slip dress.

The fabric clung perfectly to her dancer's waist, exposing the elegant, sharp lines of her collarbones and shoulders.

Dixon's eyes locked onto her.

His breath hitched.

His Adam's apple bobbed heavily in his throat.

The bored look in his eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, predatory hunger.

He stood up slowly.

He walked across the thick carpet until he was standing right behind her.

They faced the massive floor-to-ceiling mirror together.

He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off his chest.

Dixon reached over to a velvet tray held by a trembling manager.

He picked up a heavy, blindingly expensive emerald necklace.

He raised his arms and draped the cold jewels around her neck.

As he fastened the clasp, the tips of his cold fingers brushed against the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck.

A violent, uncontrollable shiver shot straight down Gretchen's spine.

"This is the one."

Dixon stared at her reflection in the mirror.

His voice was terrifyingly low and raspy.

"Take every piece from the new collection in her size."

He turned his head slightly, giving the order to the manager.

"Have it all delivered to the master bedroom at the estate."

The words hit Gretchen like a bucket of ice water. The master bedroom. A cold dread, sharp and suffocating, seized her lungs. She stared at his broad back in the mirror, her mind racing as the terrifying reality of her contract finally settled in: tonight, she was sleeping in his bed.