Chapter 5 Five

A crumpled note, found on the pristine kitchen counter, was the only evidence she had ever been there. It bore no name, only a single, elegantly scrawled sentence: "A debt repaid is a chain broken."

Keith stared at it, the paper trembling in his hand. "How could you just vanish?" he whispered to the empty apartment, the silence offering no answer.

He sank onto the plush sofa, burying his face in his hands. The intoxicating scent of her perfume still hung in the air, a cruel reminder of her presence.

The sharp click of the front door unlocking broke the silence. "Keith? The driver said you had a... guest last night."

Keith looked up, his vision blurred with unshed tears. His elder brother, Cassian, stood in the doorway, his expression a familiar blend of disapproval and concern. His sharp eyes scanned the room, noting the two wine glasses and the discarded takeaway containers.

"Did she clean you out?" Cassian's voice was flat, pragmatic. "How much did she take?"

"Nothing! She didn't take anything!" Keith insisted, his voice cracking. "But she's gone. She was... different. She could be in trouble out there, alone. I have to find her!"

He surged to his feet, but Cassian moved with the swift, assured grace of a man used to command, blocking his path. "Stop this ridiculous performance."

"Let me go! I have to find her!" Keith struggled, but his brother's grip was like iron.

"Listen to yourself," Cassian's voice was a low, cold whip. "You're hysterical over a woman you met once. She's played you, and you're too blind to see it."

"You don't understand-"

"What I understand," Cassian cut him off, his eyes narrowing, "is that if you embarrass the Sterling name by chasing after some bar girl, I will personally ensure she understands the consequences. Permanently."

The threat, delivered with icy calm, froze Keith in place. He knew his brother wasn't bluffing. Defeated, his shoulders slumped. "You don't have to do that. She... she wasn't like that."

Cassian released him, his gaze lingering on the note in Keith's hand. "What did she call herself?"

"Elara," Keith mumbled, the name tasting like a prayer.

A flicker of something unreadable-recognition, disbelief-crossed Cassian's features before his usual mask of composure slid back into place. "Elara," he repeated, the name foreign on his tongue. He shook his head, dismissing a foolish thought. The past was dead and buried. "Forget her. You're coming back to the main house. I'm not leaving you here to be manipulated again."

...

Across the city, in her sleek, modern apartment, Elara handed a thick envelope of cash to Leo. "For your university expenses. Buy some new clothes."

Her brother's eyes widened at the amount. "Sis, this is too much! Where did you get this?"

"A small investment returned a quick profit," she said smoothly, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. The money from Keith was insignificant; the real value was in the hook she'd set in his psyche. He was now a potential asset, a weapon of sentiment she could wield against the fortress of the Sterling family when the time was right.

That evening, she transformed. Shedding her casual wear, she donned an outfit of calculated elegance-a dress of deep emerald that clung to her every curve, hidden beneath a tailored trench coat. Her destination was "The Gilded Cage," a notorious high-society club known for its discretion and its most powerful patron, Balthazar Winchester.

Her entrance did not go unnoticed. Even half-hidden behind oversized sunglasses, her presence sent ripples through the opulent lounge. A few men, emboldened by expensive whiskey, began to approach, but a single, glacial glance from Elara halted them in their tracks. She didn't need manufactured brawls; her aura was shield enough.

She moved directly to the head bartender. "I need to speak with the manager. The one who oversees the... private entertainment."

The bartender, mesmerized by the woman before him, simply nodded. He sent a quick, discreet text. The reply was almost instantaneous.

He led her through a secluded corridor to a soundproofed office. The air inside was thick with the cloying scent of expensive cigars and perfume. Behind a large mahogany desk sat a woman whose sharp eyes missed nothing. Madame Lavigne was a relic of old-world vice, her elegance as sharp as a razor.

"My dear," Madame Lavigne purred, her gaze conducting a thorough inventory of Elara's assets. "You are a rare vintage. What brings a creature like you to my establishment?"

Elara met her gaze unflinchingly. "I'm not here for employment. I'm here to purchase an opportunity." She placed a sleek black cardholder on the desk. "There's twenty thousand there. I wish to be the server for Mr. Winchester's private party tonight."

Madame Lavigne's painted lips curved into a slow smile. She didn't touch the money. "Mr. Winchester is a man of particular taste. Twenty thousand merely gets you through the door. To be placed directly in his path... that requires a far more significant investment." Her eyes gleamed with avarice. "What else are you offering?"