Chapter 1

The silence in Damien Harrison' s penthouse was a heavy thing, pressing down on me from the high ceilings and staring out from the floor-to-ceiling windows that showed the city lights glittering like a field of broken glass. I was a ghost in this polished cage, a bartender who used to worry about rent and my mother' s hospital bills, now a prisoner in a life I didn't choose. It all started the day my father died, the day they called his death an accident. I knew it was a lie, and Damien Harrison knew I knew.

He walked into the room without a sound, his expensive shoes making no noise on the marble floor. He didn't look at me, his eyes fixed on a painting on the wall, but I felt his presence suck the air from my lungs.

"Get on your knees, Scarlett," he said, his voice low and calm. It was not a request.

I didn't move. My defiance was a small, stupid thing, the only weapon I had left.

He finally turned his head, his dark eyes pinning me in place. "Your mother' s nurse mentioned her breathing was a little shallow today. The doctors are considering a new treatment. It's very expensive."

My blood went cold. He didn' t have to say more. He owned the hospital, he owned the doctors, he owned my mother' s life. He owned me.

Slowly, I lowered myself to the floor, the cold marble biting into my bare knees. The humiliation was a hot burn in my gut. He watched me, his face a mask of cold satisfaction.

"Good girl," he murmured, turning his attention back to the city lights. "Now, stay there. I have guests coming."

He brought them to the edge of the living room, two large men in dark suits who looked like they were carved from stone. They didn't look at me, not at first. Harrison spoke to them in a low tone, his words lost to me, but I knew what this was. It was a test. It was always a test.

"Don't fight back," Harrison's voice cut through the air, directed at me. "Don't make a sound. Endure it."

The first man stepped forward. I braced myself, my muscles tight. The first blow was a heavy, open-handed slap that sent my head snapping to the side. My ear rang, and the taste of blood filled my mouth. I stayed on my knees, my eyes fixed on a crack in the marble. I thought of my father, a Navy SEAL, a man who endured things I couldn't imagine. I could do this.

The second man kicked me in the ribs. A sharp, white-hot pain exploded in my side, stealing my breath. I crumpled, curling into a ball on the floor, but I didn't scream. The silence was my victory. They dragged me back up to my knees. The assault continued, a methodical and brutal series of strikes, not meant to break bones but to break my spirit. They were professionals. Each impact was a lesson in pain and powerlessness. Through it all, I could feel Harrison's eyes on me, watching, judging. I closed my eyes and saw my father' s face, his decorated uniform, the pride in his eyes. It was a memory I clung to, a shield against the pain. When it was finally over, they dropped me onto the floor and left as silently as they came. I lay there, a heap of bruised flesh, gasping for air. I had passed his test. I had survived.

I heard his footsteps approach. He knelt beside me, his scent of expensive cologne and cold ambition filling my senses. His fingers, surprisingly gentle, tilted my chin up, forcing me to look at him. He studied my split lip, the blooming bruise on my cheek.

"You're resilient," he said, his voice flat, analytical. "Just like him."

He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the blood on my lip. The gesture was so at odds with the violence he had just orchestrated that it made me sick. This was the real humiliation, not the beating, but this intimacy that followed, this pretense of care.

"He taught you to be tough, didn't he?" Harrison continued, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "Your father. Commander Hayes. He was a man of principle. A man of strength. And in the end, it got him killed."

His words were a knife twisting in an old wound. He was telling me why he was doing this. It was about my father. It was about crushing everything my father stood for, starting with me.

His touch lingered for a moment too long. I saw something flicker in his eyes, a shadow of conflict, maybe even a hint of disgust. It wasn' t directed at me, but at himself. He pulled his hand back as if he' d been burned, his face closing off completely.

"Clean yourself up," he said, his voice once again cold and remote. He stood, towering over me. "Don't let me see you looking like this again."

He walked away, leaving me alone in the vast, silent room. The pain was a living thing inside me, but underneath it, a different feeling was taking root. It was not fear. It was a cold, hard resolve. I pushed myself up, my limbs screaming in protest. Every movement was agony, but I forced myself to stand. I limped to the bathroom, my reflection a stranger with a swollen face and dead eyes. As I washed the blood from my skin, I thought of Harrison's moment of hesitation. He was a monster, but even monsters have weaknesses. And then I pictured my father again. Not the man in the coffin, but the Navy SEAL. The hero. Harrison thought he could break me. He was wrong. He had only shown me what I was fighting for.