Chapter 4

Kenzie's frantic screams echoed in the dead silence of the VIP lounge.

Alya's brain simply stopped working. The blood drained from her face so fast she felt dizzy. The name 'Dominick Duncan' slammed into her chest like a physical blow.

She slowly lowered the phone from her ear. She looked up.

Dominick stood over her. He had heard every single word. He didn't look angry. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitched upward in a slow, terrifying smirk.

Alya's lips trembled. Her teeth chattered together. She tried to push herself further back into the sofa cushions, but there was nowhere to go.

"Mr... Mr. Duncan," Alya stammered. Her throat was so dry it hurt to speak. "This... this is a misunderstanding. A terrible mistake."

Dominick reached up and calmly adjusted the cuff of his shirt. He looked down at her, his eyes cold and mocking.

"A mistake?" Dominick interrupted, his voice smooth and deadly. "You didn't call it a mistake when you were unbuttoning your shirt and offering to pay 'any price'."

Alya's stomach dropped. A wave of intense, burning shame washed over her, quickly followed by absolute terror. She remembered touching his chest. She remembered breathing on his neck.

Everyone in her circle knew the rumors about Dominick Duncan. He was the tyrant of Wall Street. He destroyed companies for sport. If he made one phone call, her father's business would be bankrupt before the sun came up.

Pure survival instinct kicked in. It overrode her frozen muscles.

Alya threw herself off the sofa. She lunged toward the center of the room.

She moved too fast. Her right heel suddenly snagged on the thick fibers of the carpet, twisting her ankle slightly. She didn't have time to pry it loose. She frantically slipped her foot out of the trapped shoe, leaving it wedged in the rug. She stumbled, almost falling face-first onto the marble table. She caught her balance, now standing awkwardly with one bare foot on the cold floor.

Dominick watched her. He looked at her bare foot, then at her panicked face. A flicker of dark amusement crossed his eyes.

Alya didn't care about the shoe. She didn't care about her grandmother's hairpin anymore. She just needed to survive. She spun around and sprinted toward the heavy oak doors.

She ran unevenly, her bare foot slapping against the carpet. She reached the double doors and grabbed the heavy brass handle with both hands. She pulled down with all her body weight.

The handle didn't move. The door was locked solid.

Alya's heart stopped. She pulled again, harder, a desperate sob escaping her throat. It was useless. She turned around slowly, pressing her back against the cold wood of the door.

Dominick hadn't moved to chase her. He stood by the sofa. He reached out and picked up a small black remote control from the marble coffee table.

He looked at her terrified face. He pressed his thumb against a silver button on the remote.

A loud, sharp click echoed from the electronic lock inside the oak door behind her.

Alya stared at him, her chest heaving. She couldn't process what was happening. Why was the tyrant opening the door? Why was he letting her go?

Dominick turned his back to her. He walked slowly toward the crystal decanter on the windowsill.

"Get out," Dominick said. The two words were cold, flat, and final.

Alya didn't need to be told twice. She grabbed the handle, pushed the heavy door open, and threw herself into the hallway.

She ran. She sprinted down the velvet corridor, her one bare foot making no sound. She ran past the two massive security guards, not even daring to look at their faces.

She hit the button for the service elevator. When the doors opened, she threw herself inside and mashed the button for the ground floor. She backed into the corner, wrapping her arms around her stomach, unable to breathe properly until the doors completely sealed her in.

Back in the VIP lounge, Dominick listened to the frantic, uneven sound of her running footsteps fade away.

He turned around. The room was empty. It smelled faintly of her perfume-a mix of crushed roses and sharp citrus.

He walked over to the center of the room. He looked down at the black, red-soled high heel stuck in the carpet. He bent down, pulled it free, and tossed it onto the marble coffee table.

Dominick reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out the antique Cartier hairpin. He held it in his palm. His thumb slowly rubbed over the sharp gold edge and the tiny diamonds. His dark eyes narrowed, the amusement gone, replaced by a deep, dangerous calculation.

He walked over to the large mahogany desk in the corner. He pressed the intercom button.

The heavy oak doors opened immediately. The two security guards stepped inside, bowing their heads.

Dominick didn't look at them. He kept his eyes on the hairpin in his hand.

"Find Brenton Trevino-Duncan," Dominick ordered, his voice dropping to a freezing temperature. "Drag that idiot to me. Right now."