Chapter 10 The Girl in Red

Emilia had just stepped into the hallway when she saw her.

Tall. Stunning. A predator in heels.

She wore a long coat, barely fastened. Beneath it, flashes of red silk clung to her skin like fire. Lingerie. Her heels struck the marble like gunshots, confident and unapologetic.

Lucien's bedroom door opened.

The woman walked in without knocking. Like she'd done it before. Like she was expected.

Like she belonged.

Emilia froze at the top of the stairs, her chest tightening, the floor shifting beneath her. The air thickened in her lungs, too heavy to breathe.

She turned and fled to the kitchen, heart pounding. Rosa was there, chopping herbs like she was stabbing something.

Emilia's voice barely rose above a whisper. "Who is she?"

Rosa looked up slowly, eyes gleaming with something cruel. Then she laughed. Cold. Mean. "Oh, her?" Rosa sneered. "That's Isla. Lucien's favorite. She comes when he needs to forget everything else." Emilia's stomach twisted. But she didn't speak. Rosa tilted her head. "What's the matter? You thought you mattered? You were bought, Emilia. Don't mistake his pity for affection."

She shoved a silver tray into Emilia's hands. "Take this up to him. Maybe he'll want a smoke break between rounds."

Whiskey. A cigar. Some kind of roasted meat.

The tray shook in Emilia's grasp.

She wanted to disappear.

But she climbed the stairs anyway.

Each step heavier than the last. She could hear them now, muffled sounds from behind the door. Louder. Rhythmic.

A moan. A gasp. The creak of a bed.

Then Isla's voice, low, dirty, dragging Lucien's name like a drug across her tongue.

Emilia stopped outside the door, frozen.

She should turn back.

She didn't.

She knocked.

The moaning stopped.

A long silence.

Then the door creaked open, just enough for her to see inside.

Isla was on his lap, wearing nothing but red lace and a wicked smirk. Lucien was shirtless, his chest rising and falling. His eyes landed on Emilia.

And something in them shut off.

He looked like sin.

And he looked... furious.

Not shocked. Not guilty.

Just cold.

Like she was a nuisance. Like she was filth on his polished floors.

"Leave it," he said.

His voice was flat. Angry. Distant.

Emilia placed the tray down, hands trembling. Then she turned and walked away.

Lucien said nothing. Neither did Isla.

She didn't cry.

Not until she was in her room. Lights off. Blankets pulled over her like armor that didn't work.

She told herself it didn't matter. That she didn't care.

Why did it hurt so much? Why did she care? Why did it matter who warmed his bed?

But it did. God, it did.

And for the first time, she let herself feel it, every bruise, every humiliation, every word he'd never said. The want. The ache. The foolish hope that maybe, just maybe, he saw her as something more.

But he didn't. He never did.

She curled into herself, small and shaking.

Then,

The door creaked.

Two men entered.

Unfamiliar. Tall. Armed.

Her body jolted upright. Panic flooded her veins.

"Lucien didn't-" she started, but a hand smothered her scream.

One of them lunged. His hand clamped over her mouth. The other grabbed her wrists. She fought. Kicked. Thrashed. Screamed.

But her cries were muffled.

Still, she screamed again, louder.

A desperate sound that cracked the night open.

Down the hallway, behind closed doors, above the moans of pleasure, her scream echoed.

Back in Lucien's room, Isla moved faster on top of him, grinding harder, dragging her nails down his chest.

"Don't stop," she whispered.

But Lucien had gone still. He wasn't listening.

That scream, he heard it again.

It wasn't the wind.

It was her.

Something inside him snapped.

He shifted beneath Isla, but she pinned him down harder, the red silk between them slick with heat.

"It's the wind, Lucien," she hissed into his ear.

"Get off me. Now. That was Emilia."

He reached to shove her off, then felt it. Cold steel against his ribs.

"Don't be stupid," Isla murmured.

His eyes snapped to hers.

He couldn't believe it. He'd known her for years. Trusted her.

"How much were you paid?" he growled. "To betray me."

Isla smiled. Dark. Deadly.

"Oh Lucien, a lot. Someone finally saw my worth better than you ever did."

"Your worth?" he laughed bitterly. "You were nothing in that filthy club before I picked you up. You belong to me, Isla. And you should know better than to cross me."

"Get off me while I can still forgive this betrayal."

"You never forgive anything, Lucien." She leaned in, dragging the barrel of the gun along his chest. "That's why I didn't come alone."

Then she saw it, the panic in his eyes.

Emilia's voice was getting fainter. Fainter.

"She's not just a slave, is she?"

Lucien didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

Isla's smile widened.

"Wow. The almighty Lucien. I saw it the moment she knocked. Your body changed. You weren't even here anymore."

Her finger curled tighter around the trigger.

Lucien's pulse thundered in his veins.

"I could shoot you right now," she whispered. "But I won't. Not if you cooperate. I still owe you my life."

She leaned in again, lips brushing his cheek.

Then she pulled out her phone.

"Jerry," she said coolly, "She's valuable. She means something to him."

She hung up.

Lucien stared at her, breathing hard. Rigid.

Fear and rage roared in his chest.

Because now...

He couldn't hear Emilia's voice at all.