CHAPTER 3
SCARLETT P.O.V.
The engine cut out, and the silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a ribcage.
We weren't in a prison yard. We were in a garage that looked more like a sterilized operating theater for cars that cost more than my life was apparently worth. The air smelled of cold concrete and raw exhaust, a chemical tang that coated the back of my throat.
I sat frozen in the backseat of the sedan, my fingers digging into the torn emerald silk of my thigh, trying to ground myself.
My heart was doing some frantic, rabbit-kick rhythm against my ribs, but I forced my face to stay blank.
I wasn't going to give this psycho the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
Hassan, the lieutenant who looked like he’d strangled people for fun before breakfast, opened my door. The gesture was mocking in its politeness.
Then there was Nikolai.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. He just reached across the leather interior, his hand a dark blur, and clamped onto my arm. It wasn't a hold meant to help a lady out of a car; it was a clamp. Steel fingers digging into soft flesh.
"Get out," he said. Low. Bored.
I stumbled as he hauled me onto the polished concrete.
My ruined heels clicked an uneven, pathetic staccato against the floor.
I tried to yank my arm back, a reflex of pure, unadulterated rage, but he didn't even sway.
He was an iron pillar in a bespoke suit, and I was just a mess of expensive fabric and bad decisions.
"Get your hands off me," I hissed, the words tasting like copper.
He didn't even look at me. He just started walking, dragging me along like a recalcitrant dog on a choke chain.
We moved toward a private elevator. The doors slid open with a whisper, revealing a box of brushed steel that reflected my nightmare back at me. I looked like a train wreck. Hair wild, makeup smeared, dress torn at the shoulder where he’d grabbed me at the gala.
And him? Perfect. Not a hair out of place. The jagged scar across his throat was the only thing that proved he was mortal, a singular flaw in the machine.
The elevator hummed, the numbers climbing. I watched his reflection. He was staring straight ahead, dead-eyed.
"Where are we going?" I demanded. My voice shook, just a little. I hated myself for it.
"Silence," he said. He didn't blink.
The doors opened onto a hallway that swallowed sound. No windows. No natural light. Just deep, blood-red carpet and walls hung with abstract art that looked like violence captured in oil paint. It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that makes your ears ring.
He marched me down the corridor, his grip shifting to the nape of my neck. It was degrading. He was steering me. Guiding me. Like I was a piece of furniture he was moving to a new room.
We stopped in front of double doors that looked heavy enough to keep out a swat team. Nikolai shoved them open and pushed me through.
I stumbled into the room, catching my balance just before I face-planted onto the carpet. I spun around, ready to scream, ready to fight, but the words died in my throat.
It wasn't a cell. It was a penthouse suite designed by Satan’s interior decorator.
Everything was red. The lighting strips along the ceiling cast a crimson glow over everything, turning the room into a developing tray for a horror movie. Massive bed. Velvet furniture. It smelled of expensive cologne and ozone.
It was a cage. A gilded, velvet-lined, fifty-million-dollar cage.
"What is this place?" I managed, backing away as he stepped inside.
"Your accommodations," Nikolai said. He closed the doors behind him.
Thud.
Then came the sound that made my blood run cold. The heavy, electronic clack-click of a deadbolt engaging. It wasn't a manual lock. It was automated. Heavy-duty.
The air in the room suddenly felt thinner.
"You can't keep me here," I said, my voice rising. "My father—"
Nikolai let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-growl. It was dry as bone dust. "Your father is currently boarding a private charter to the Caymans, Scarlett. He traded you for a clean exit and a suitcase of cash. You are the receipt."
The words hit me like a physical slap. I knew Aris Vance was a coward. I knew he was a thief. But to sell me? To literally hand me over to a monster to save his own skin?
"You're lying," I whispered, but I knew he wasn't.
Nikolai walked toward me. He moved with a predator's grace, silent on the plush carpet. I backed up until my calves hit the edge of the massive bed. Trapped.
He leaned in, invading my personal space until I could feel the heat radiating off him. He smelled like danger. Like cold nights and sharp steel.
"This room is soundproof," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly rasp that vibrated in my chest. "Triple-paned glass. Reinforced walls. You could scream until your throat bleeds, Scarlett. No one is coming. No one will hear you. The only sound that matters in here is mine."
I stared at him, my breath hitching. The audacity of this man. The absolute, unhinged arrogance.
"I am not a thing you can just keep," I spat, trying to summon the anger to burn out the fear. "I am a person. I have rights."
"You have a debt," he corrected.
He reached out, his gloved hand brushing the torn strap of my dress. His touch was light, almost clinical, but my skin crawled as if he’d used a knife.
"You look a mess," he said, his eyes scanning me with zero appreciation. It wasn't lust. It was an appraisal. He was looking for dents in the fender. "This dress... it's evidence. You’re wearing your father's theft."
He pulled his hand back and crossed his arms.
"Take it off."
My brain short-circuited. "What?"
"The dress," he said, bored. "Take it off."
I crossed my arms over my chest, clutching the ruined silk. "Go to hell. You sick bastard, I’m not stripping for you."
Nikolai’s eyes narrowed. The boredom vanished, replaced by a sharp, lethal focus. He took a step closer, towering over me.
"I don't ask, Scarlett. I audit. And right now, I need to see exactly what I'm holding. Unmarked. Untouched. Mine."
"No," I said. It came out weak.
He moved fast. Too fast. One hand snapped out, grabbing my waist, and he shoved me backward. I hit the velvet mattress hard, the breath knocking out of me. Before I could scramble up, he was looming over me.
"You have a choice," he said, his voice devoid of any human warmth. "You do it yourself, and you keep a shred of your dignity. Or I rip that silk off your body, and you end up bruised and naked anyway. I don’t care which."
I stared up at him, tears of rage pricking my eyes. He meant it. He would tear the clothes off me like wrapping paper.
I hated him. I hated him with a violence that frightened me.
"Fine," I choked out.
I scrambled to a standing position, my hands shaking so hard I could barely grip the zipper. I refused to look at him. I focused on the wall, on the red light, on anything but his cold, dead eyes.
Zzzzzzzip.
The sound was deafening in the silence.
I shrugged the dress off my shoulders. It fell to the floor in a puddle of emerald silk. The cool air hit my skin, and I shivered, instinctively crossing my arms over my lace slip.
"All of it," Nikolai said. "Drop the hands. Drop the slip."
"Please," I whispered. I hated the word the second it left my lips.
"I want to see every cent of my fifty million," he said. "Every damn cent. Strip."
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. Slowly, agonizingly, I peeled the slip down. Then the stockings.
I stood there. Naked. Exposed.
The red light washed over me, making me feel like I was bleeding. I wanted to curl into a ball. I wanted to disappear. But I stood straight, lifting my chin. If he was going to look, let him look at the hatred in my eyes.
He didn't look at my eyes.
He walked a slow circle around me. He was silent, methodical. I felt his gaze like a physical touch, sliding over my ribs, my hips, my legs. He was checking for scars. For marks. For value.
I started to cover myself with my hands again—a reflex.
"Arms down," he barked.
I snapped them to my sides, my fingernails digging into my palms.
He completed his circle and stopped in front of me again. He leaned in close, his face inches from mine. I held my breath, waiting for him to touch me, to grab me, to do whatever monsters do when they have a woman trapped in a soundproof room.
He didn't touch me.
He looked me in the eye, his expression flat.
"Adequate," he muttered. "For a start."
The insult stung worse than a slap. Adequate. I wasn't a woman to him. I was inventory.
He turned his back on me, walking toward the door with that infuriatingly calm stride.
"There's a robe in the wardrobe," he threw over his shoulder. "Don't put it on until I'm gone. You wait."
He opened the door, stepped out, and pulled it shut.
Thud. Click.
The lock engaged.
I was alone.
I didn't scream. I didn't run to the door and pound on it. I just collapsed onto the edge of the bed, the velvet soft against my bare skin. The silence of the room pressed in on my ears, heavy and suffocating.
My father sold me. I was locked in a soundproof box with a man who looked at me like I was a ledger entry.
I pulled my knees to my chest, staring at the locked door. I wasn't going to break. Not yet.
But as the red light bathed the room in its bloody glow, one thought looped in my head, cold and inescapable.
I was collateral. And the debt was just getting started.