CHAPTER 2
SCARLETT P.O.V.
The air in the stairwell tasted like burnt primer and expensive perfume, a sickening cocktail that coated the back of my throat.
My heels—Italian leather, custom fit, worth more than most people’s cars—skidded uselessly against the rough concrete steps.
I wasn’t walking; I was being hauled. Like a sack of trash. Like a dead body.
"Let go of me! You bastard!" I screamed, the sound bouncing off the utilitarian grey walls and coming back to me thin and pathetic.
The man gripping my arm didn't even flinch.
His fingers were locked around my bicep like a blood pressure cuff pumped to the point of bursting.
He moved with a terrifying, mechanical steadiness, descending the stairs two at a time, his heavy boots thudding a dull rhythm that drowned out the frantic tempo of my heart.
I tried to dig my heels in again, desperate for traction, but the silk of my gown offered zero resistance. I stumbled, my weight pitching forward. He didn't catch me gently; he just jerked me upright with a brutal yank that nearly dislocated my shoulder.
"Walk," he growled. One word. Low, gravelly, and completely devoid of humanity.
"Where are you taking me?" I gasped, my lungs burning. "My security will find you! Do you know who I am?"
He ignored me. We hit the landing, and he took the corner sharp. My pearl earring—grandmother’s heirloom—snagged on the rough wool of his suit jacket. There was a sharp pinch, a hot tear of pain, and then the distinct tink-tink-tink of the pearl hitting the concrete and rolling into the shadows.
Gone. Just like that.
"My earring!" The absurdity of worrying about jewelry while being kidnapped wasn't lost on me, but my brain was misfiring, latching onto small things to avoid processing the massive, terrifying reality.
He dragged me through a heavy fire door into the lower service hallway. It was dimmer here, smelling of stale cleaning chemicals and garbage juice. The sounds of the gala—the crystal clinking, the polite laughter, the string quartet—were gone, replaced by the hum of industrial HVAC units.
I grabbed at a rusty metal railing as we passed, trying to anchor myself. The hand-stitched emerald silk of my bodice caught on a jagged screw. Riiip. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet hall. A strip of fabric tore away, exposing the pale skin of my ribcage to the drafty air.
I instinctively clamped my hand over the tear, trying to preserve some shred of dignity. "Help me! Someone! Please!"
My voice scraped my throat, raw and desperate. But the hallway was empty. Desolate. Just flickering fluorescent tubes and the retreating backs of two bodies moving too fast.
"You’re hurting me!" I shouted, twisting in his grip.
"Move," he said, not even looking back at the ruin of my dress. He treated me like stolen luggage. Inanimate. Burden.
He shoved open the final set of double doors, and the night air hit me like a slap.
Cold, damp, and smelling of wet asphalt.
We were on a loading dock, the glamorous fa?ade of the hotel completely stripped away here.
A row of overflowing dumpsters lined the wall, and idling right next to them was a blacked-out sedan.
It looked like a shark in still water. Sleek, armored, predatory.
Two men in dark suits stood by the rear doors. They didn't look like hotel staff. They didn't look like police. They stood with feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped in front of them, watching us approach with dead, professional eyes.
This wasn't a random mugging. This was an extraction.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded my veins. "Who are these men?" I demanded, planting my feet. "Where are we going? You can't just take me!"
The wind whipped a strand of hair across my face, sticking to the tear tracks on my cheek. The engine of the sedan purred, a low vibration that I could feel through the soles of my shoes.
"Get in," the man said, his grip tightening as we reached the car.
"No!"
I made a break for it. It was stupid, instinctual. I lunged toward the edge of the dock, aiming for the ramp, for the street, for anywhere but that car.
He yanked me back so hard my neck snapped. A massive hand clamped over my mouth, stifling my scream into a muffled, choked sob. The leather of his gloves tasted bitter.
I didn't think. I reacted. I bit down. Hard.
I felt my teeth sink into the fleshy part of his palm, tasting copper and salt and the residue of gunsmoke.
He didn't yell. He didn't even pull away.
He just shoved me forward, using my own momentum to throw me into the backseat of the sedan.
I tumbled onto the cold leather, limbs sprawling, skirt hiking up my thighs.
Before I could scramble up, he was in the car with me, his massive frame sucking all the oxygen out of the cramped space.
The door slammed shut. The lock engaged with a heavy, final thunk.
I scrambled to the other side, clawing at the handle. Locked. Child locks. I pounded on the glass. "Let me out! Open the door!"
The car lurched forward, tires screeching against the pavement.
The sudden acceleration threw me back against the seat.
I huddled in the corner, pulling my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible.
My dress was torn, my hair was a bird's nest, and I was trapped in a moving cage with a monster.
He sat perfectly still. He smoothed the lapel of his jacket, looking bored. He looked like he was commuting to a board meeting, not kidnapping a woman from a high-society gala.
"Where are you taking me, you monster?" I hissed, pushing my hair out of my eyes. "What do you want from me? Money? Is that it?"
He reached into his inner pocket. I flinched, expecting a gun. instead, he pulled out a sleek, black tablet. The screen lit up, casting a harsh blue glow on his sharp features. He had a buzz cut, a jagged scar running across his throat, and eyes that looked like shattered ice.
"Shit! You can't do this!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "My father will have you killed! He'll send his entire security detail after you! You're dead, do you hear me? Dead!"
He swiped a finger across the screen, ignoring me completely.
"Are you deaf?" I screamed. "My father is Aris Vance! He owns this city!"
That got a reaction.
He looked up. A slow, predatory smirk touched his lips. It wasn't a smile. It was a baring of teeth.
"Your father," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the leather seat, "is the reason you're here, Vance."
I froze. "What?"
"He made a deal."
I shook my head, the motion jerky and violent. "Liar. You're lying."
He leaned closer. The scent of him hit me—sandalwood, steel, and something muskier, like pure testosterone. It overpowered the smell of my own fear.
"He stole fifty million. From me," he said, the words precise and clipped. "And when I came to collect, he didn't have the cash. So he offered a trade."
"No," I whispered. My stomach dropped out. "My father would never..."
"He signed for it, Vance. In blood, not ink. But the digital ledger holds up just as well."
"Don't touch me!" I lashed out, slapping his hand away as he held the tablet up to my face.
He caught my wrist. Effortless. He twisted it just enough to force me to look at the screen.
"Look," he commanded.
I looked. I didn't want to, but I couldn't look away. It was a digital contract. A transfer of assets.
Amount Owed: $50,000,000.
Payment Method: Asset Transfer.
Asset: Scarlett Vance.
Status: COLLATERAL.
And there, at the bottom, was the signature. Shaky, rushed, but undeniable. Aris Vance. Dated tonight.
"Collateral," he said, testing the word like he was tasting a fine wine. "Your father’s hand, isn't it? He signed your name."
The air left my lungs. The fight drained out of me, replaced by a cold, hollow horror. He sold me. My father, the man who bought me ponies and paid for my art degree and told me I was his princess... he traded me to save his own skin.
A sob ripped out of my throat, ugly and jagged. I slumped back against the door, the tablet screen blurring through my tears. "Why?" I choked out. "Why?"
He watched me. He didn't offer a tissue. He didn't look sympathetic. He looked at me like I was an equation he had just balanced.
The grief hit me like a physical blow, but then, just as quickly, it curdled. It turned hot and sour. Grief became rage. Rage at my father, yes, but mostly rage at this man who sat there looking so smug, so in control.
"You're a fucking vulture!" I spat, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. "I hate you!"
I launched myself at him. I didn't have a plan. I just wanted to hurt him. I wanted to scratch that smug look off his face. I clawed at his eyes, screaming incoherent curses.
He moved faster than a man his size should be able to move. He caught my wrists, but I used my knees, driving them toward his groin.
"Get off me, you bastard!"
He growled, a deep, guttural sound, and threw his weight onto me. He pinned me flat against the seat, his heavy body crushing me into the upholstery. The air whooshed out of my lungs.
"Stop," he snarled.
He locked my wrists above my head with one hand, his forearm pressing down like a steel bar. His knee wedged between my thighs, forcing my legs apart, pinning me completely.
The heat of him was shocking. Through the thin, torn silk of my dress, I could feel the hardness of his muscles, the heavy thrum of his heart against my chest. It was suffocating. Intimate. Terrifying.
I gasped for air, staring up at him. His face was inches from mine. I could see the pores in his skin, the flecks of grey in his blue eyes.
"Let... me... go..." I panted, writhing beneath him.
He didn't move. He just held me there, letting me exhaust myself. I fought until my arms shook, until my lungs burned, until I realized with sickening clarity that I was completely at his mercy.
I went limp. Not surrendering. Just waiting.
"I won't break," I whispered, my voice trembling but defiant.
He lowered his head, his lips brushing my ear. A shiver violently racked my body—fear, adrenaline, and something else I refused to name.
"I don't like damaged goods, Vance," he murmured. "Don't give me cause to mark you. You're worth more... intact."
He pulled back, his eyes scanning my face, lingering on my lips, then my throat, then the torn bodice of my dress. He wasn't looking at me like a person. He was appraising an acquisition. But beneath the cold calculation, there was a flicker of something else. Something darker. Obsession.
"You think this frightens me?" I thought, staring back into his dead eyes. "You think I'm just going to roll over?"
He slowly levered himself off me, adjusting his cuffs. I scrambled upright, pulling the shreds of my dress together, covering my chest. My skin burned where he had touched me.
I looked out the window. The city was gone. The lights were sparse now. We were in the deep outskirts.
The car slowed. I pressed my face to the cold glass. Ahead, massive iron gates loomed out of the darkness, flanked by stone walls topped with razor wire. It looked like a fortress. A supermax prison for the wealthy.
"Where are we?" I asked, my voice small.
"Home," he said.
The gates groaned open. Guards in tactical gear stood at attention, saluting the car as we rolled through. We drove up a long, winding driveway lined with ancient, gnarled trees. At the top of the hill stood the house.
It was a brutAlistairt nightmare. Concrete and dark glass, sharp angles and shadows. It didn't look like a home. It looked like a mausoleum.
"Pull around the back," he told the driver.
The car stopped in a stone courtyard. The silence was heavy, oppressive.
He got out, the cold wind rushing into the car again. I stayed put. I gripped the leather seat. I wasn't going to make this easy.
"Get out, Vance," he said, standing by the open door.
I stared straight ahead.
He sighed, a sound of supreme annoyance. He reached in, grabbed my arm, and hauled me out. My bare feet hit the cobblestones. The cold bit into my skin instantly. I stumbled, but he held me up, his grip like iron.
"You think you have a choice?" he asked, dragging me toward a heavy oak door.
"I will always have a choice," I hissed.
He stopped. He turned me to face him, his shadow engulfing me. "Inside. This is the only world you have now, Vance. Understand?"
I glared at him, teeth chattering from the cold and the rage. "I understand that you're a psycho."
He didn't respond. He just pushed me through the door.
We stepped into a cavernous foyer. Black marble floors, high ceilings, minimal furniture. It was cold. sterile. Empty.
The heavy door slammed shut behind us.
Thud.
Then the lock.
Click.
The sound echoed through the empty house, bouncing off the marble walls. It was the sound of a coffin lid closing.
I stood there, shivering, clutching my torn dress, barefoot and bruised. I looked at the man who had bought me.
He looked back, unbuttoning his jacket, completely unbothered.
"Welcome home," he said.
I didn't answer. I just calculated the distance to the nearest heavy object I could swing at his head. The audit was over. The repossession was complete. But the war? The war had just started.