Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Vaughn
The estate sits on two hundred acres of manicured perfection in the Virginia countryside, an hour outside of D.C.
Old money.
The kind that's been accumulating since before the Civil War.
The kind that built this Greek Revival mansion with its towering white columns and symmetrical wings that spread across the landscape like arms ready to embrace or crush depending on your worthiness.
Tonight, it's hosting the Consortium's spring showcase.
Tonight, it's the stage for my betrayal.
The circular drive is already crowded with luxury vehicles when we arrive.
Bentleys and Rolls Royces and custom Maybachs.
License plates from New York, California, Texas, overseas.
The Consortium's reach is global.
Callum pulls up to the entrance where uniformed valets wait to park the cars.
I look at Eden beside me.
She's pale but composed in the black silk dress.
My mother's diamond catches the light at her throat.
"Last chance," I say quietly.
"Stop asking me that." Her hand finds mine. Squeezes. "We're doing this. Together."
I nod.
I can't speak past the tightness in my throat.
We step out of the car.
The entrance is lit by enormous lanterns that cast everything in warm golden light.
The kind of lighting designed to make everyone look their best.
To make the grotesque seem beautiful.
Other Consortium members are arriving.
I recognize most of them.
Men in tuxedos, women in evening gowns.
And with them—acquisitions.
Young women, mostly. Some men.
All beautiful.
All dressed to showcase rather than cover.
All wearing expressions that range from serene acceptance to barely concealed terror.
One girl can't be more than twenty.
She's in a white dress that's practically transparent.
Being led on a leash—an actual fucking leash—by a man old enough to be her grandfather.
She keeps her eyes down. Follows two steps behind him. The perfect picture of submission.
Eden's hand tightens in mine.
"That could have been me," she whispers.
"No. Never. I wouldn't have—" I stop because it's a lie.
Two months ago, I might have done exactly that.
Might have put her in something revealing and led her in here and displayed her like property.
Before I knew her.
Before I loved her.
Before I understood that some people are worth more than any amount of power.
"But it could have been," she insists. "If things had gone differently. If you hadn't—if we hadn't—"
"I know. Come on. Let's get this over with."
We climb the wide marble steps to the entrance.
The massive front doors are open, spilling light and the sound of chamber music and conversation.
Inside is even more opulent than outside.
The foyer is three stories tall, crowned by a chandelier that must weigh a ton.
Crystal and gold catching light and scattering it like diamonds.
The floor is polished marble with an inlaid design that probably cost more than most houses.
Twin staircases curve up to the second floor on either side.
Everything is excessive. Everything is designed to intimidate.
To remind you that the people who move in this world have more wealth than God and fewer morals than the devil.
Staff circulate with champagne on silver trays.
I take two glasses, hand one to Eden. "Drink," I say quietly. "It'll help."
She takes a sip. Makes a face. "I don't like champagne."
"Neither do I. Drink it anyway."
She does.
I drain mine in three swallows and immediately take another from a passing server.
"Mr. Sutherland!" Victor’s voice cuts through the crowd. "I'm so glad you could make it. We were beginning to wonder."
He materializes beside us with the predatory grace of a shark.
Sixty years old but fit, silver hair styled perfectly, tuxedo that probably cost ten thousand dollars.
Accompanied by a brunette who can't be more than twenty-five in a red dress cut so low her breasts are nearly spilling out.
His acquisition.
I've seen her at other events.
Never learned her name, and I don't want to.
"Victor." I keep my voice neutral. "Thank you for hosting."
"Of course, of course. The spring showcase is always at the estate. Richard insists." He turns his attention to Eden. "And this must be your acquisition. The one from the Valentine's auction. My dear, you're beautiful."
Eden's hand tightens in mine again. But she keeps her expression neutral. "Thank you."
"Such lovely manners. You've trained her well, Sutherland. I'm very much looking forward to your presentation tonight. There's quite a lot of interest, you know. Your acquisition has generated significant buzz."
"Has she?" My voice is flat.
"Oh yes. Virgin acquisitions are so rare these days. Most have been—well, shall we say, previously enjoyed by the time they reach auction. The fact that you've had two months to train her from complete innocence to full submission—that's quite impressive. We're all eager to see the results."
He reaches out like he's going to touch Eden's face.
I move before conscious thought and step between them, putting my body between his hand and her.
"Don't," I say quietly.
Victor's eyebrows rise. "My, my. Quite possessive, aren't we?"
"She's mine. No one touches her."
"Of course, of course. My apologies." But he's smiling.
Like my reaction amuses him. "Well, enjoy the cocktail hour.
The showcase begins at eight. You're fifth in the presentation order.
That gives you some time to prepare your acquisition.
The preparation rooms are on the second floor, east wing.
I'm sure you remember from the autumn gathering. "
"I remember."
"Excellent. We'll see you soon." He glides away with his acquisition trailing behind him like a ghost.
Eden exhales shakily. "He was going to touch me."
"I know."
"What if—"
"No one is going to touch you. I'll kill the first person who tries."
She looks at me. Something in her expression shifts. "You mean that."
"Absolutely."
"You'd actually kill for me."
"The fact you even ask is ridiculous. Come on. Let's see what we're dealing with."
Cocktail hour is held in what the estate calls the Grand Salon.
It's massive—probably seats two hundred people comfortably.
Tonight it holds maybe sixty, leaving plenty of space for circulation.
The room is decorated in shades of cream and gold.
More chandeliers. Floor-to-ceiling windows draped in silk. Antique furniture arranged in conversation groupings.
Waitstaff circulating with champagne and hors d'oeuvres that probably cost fifty dollars per bite.
And everywhere—acquisitions.
Some are dressed like Eden, in elegant evening wear that could pass at any upscale event.
Others are in clothing designed purely for display.
Sheer fabrics. Strategic cutouts. Leather and lace and barely-there silk.
Some stand beside their owners, hands folded, eyes downcast, the picture of submission.
Others kneel. Literally kneel at their owners' feet while the men talk business and sip champagne and occasionally reach down to pet their acquisitions like dogs.
One woman—I can't call her a girl, she's probably thirty—is wearing nothing but strategically placed jewelry.
Literally naked except for diamonds at her throat and wrists. Her owner has her posed like a statue in the corner.
She doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just stands there while people admire her like she's art.
I feel sick.
This is what I was going to be part of.
This is the world I wanted to join.
This grotesque display of wealth and control and reducing people to objects.
"Vaughn." Eden's voice is small. "That woman in the corner. Is she—"
"Yes."
"Oh God."
"Don't look at her. Don't—"
"How can I not look? How can anyone—" She stops. Breathes. "That could have been me."
"I would never have—"
"Are you sure? Really sure? Because two months ago you bought me at an auction. You trained me to kneel and beg and submit. You were planning to bring me here and display me. How is what you were planning different from what he's doing?"
The question hits like a fist.
Because she's right. It's not that different. Maybe I wouldn't have made her stand naked, but I would have displayed her. Would have made her perform. Would have reduced her as proof of my control.
The only difference is I fell in love with her before that could happen.
"You're right," I say quietly. "It's not different. And that's why we're here. That's why we're going to burn this whole thing down."
"Sutherland!" Another voice.
Geoffrey this time.
Inner circle member.
Owns a media empire.
Sixties, overweight, perpetually red-faced from too much scotch. "Good to see you, good to see you. And this must be your lovely acquisition."
He's already reaching for Eden before I can stop him. Takes her free hand and brings it to his lips.
I see red.
"Let go of her." My voice is deadly quiet.
"What? I'm just being polite—"
"Let. Go. Of. Her."
Something in my tone makes him release her hand. Step back slightly. "My goodness. You are possessive. Victor mentioned it but I didn't believe—"
"She's mine. Not yours. Not anyone else's. Mine. And if you touch her again, I'll break every bone in your hand. Are we clear?"
Geoffrey's face goes even redder. "There's no need for threats. I was simply—"
"Are we clear?"
"Yes. Fine. Clear." He backs away, disappearing into the crowd.
Eden is staring at me. "You really would have done it."
"Yes."
"Why? He was just—he barely touched me—"
"Because you're mine. Because no one gets to touch you without permission. Because—" I stop. Lower my voice so only she can hear. "Because I love you. And the thought of anyone else touching you makes me want to spill their blood on the floor."
Her eyes are wide. Shining. "We're really doing this."
"Yes."
"We're really going to reject them. All of them. All of this."
"Yes."
"And then what?"
"Then we leave. Together. And we never look back."
A bell chimes. Crystal and clear. Cutting through the conversation.