Chapter 7
HELENA
The dress lies on the bed like a pool of fresh blood.
A slip of dark crimson silk, barely enough fabric to cover a body, let alone a soul. The slit runs high up the thigh, the neckline plunges deep, and the message is unmistakable. This isn’t a dress meant for a business partner.
It’s a dress meant for a mistress.
The bathroom mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize, fever burning behind my eyes. From inside my bra, the small orange prescription bottle slides into my hand, and my fingers tremble slightly as I lift it toward the light.
Triazolam. 0.25 mg.
Stolen this morning.
It feels like a lifetime ago, even though only a few hours have passed.
The memory is still sharp in my mind—the blur of violence in my father’s office, my voice echoing off the walls as I screamed at Konstantin and hurled the heavy leather legal folder across the room to create a distraction.
Papers exploded into the air like white confetti, scattering across the carpet, and for a split second his eyes followed the chaos.
That was my opening.
My hand had been gripping the edge of the mahogany desk, trembling, the heavy crystal ashtray within reach. I’d been ready to swing it at his head, ready to crack through the calm facade he wears like a mask.
Then I saw it.
Right beside the ashtray, sitting in the open drawer my father always left ajar, was the bottle.
My father couldn’t sleep without them. After a bad loss at the tables. After the debt collectors called too late at night. They were his escape hatch, the only way he ever managed to shut the world out.
Instinct took over.
In one smooth motion the bottle disappeared into my palm, the cool plastic biting into my skin as I shoved it blindly into the waistband of my skirt and tucked it against my hip bone—just seconds before Konstantin moved.
He struck like a cobra.
My wrist was seized and my body slammed onto the desk, pinned beneath him before I even had time to breathe. Terror flooded through me as his hips pressed against mine, grinding me into the wood, and all I could think about was the hard cylinder of the bottle hidden against my skin.
My lungs locked tight.
Please don’t hear it crack.
Please don’t reach down.
But my fear held his attention more than anything else. He was too busy threatening to burn my world to the ground to notice the small act of theft that had just taken place.
He had no idea I’d already armed myself.
One of these pills could put a grown man in a coma for twelve hours.
And I have two.
The bottle tilts, and two blue tablets tumble onto the marble counter. They look harmless—almost innocent—but they’re my ticket out of here.
Without a mortar and pestle, the thick base of a perfume bottle becomes my tool. Glass grinds against marble as I crush the pills into powder, blue dust spreading beneath the frantic pressure until not a single solid fragment remains.
Watching the powder settle, I steady my breathing.
I’m not a victim.
I’m a Blackwood.
And Blackwoods survive.
The plan is simple. Dangerous, but simple. Dinner will be a performance. I’ll play the defeated heiress and wait patiently for Konstantin to let his guard slip. When he does, the powder goes into his drink.
Once the drug takes hold—once the monster is asleep—I’ll take the key card from his pocket, walk calmly past the guards who will assume I’m leaving for the evening, and disappear before anyone realizes what’s happened.
Carefully, the powder is scraped into a tissue, folded tight, and slipped into the hidden pocket of the clutch provided with the dress.
Then the business suit comes off.
Armor that failed.
The red silk dress slides over my skin, cold and unforgiving, clinging to every curve and leaving my back, arms, and legs bare. I step into the heels, apply a coat of dark red lipstick, and paint on a smile that feels like a lie.
The woman staring back at me from the mirror looks dangerous.
A woman ready to kill for her life back.
I draw in one steady breath.
Showtime.
The guest suite door opens onto the long obsidian hallway of the penthouse, dim lighting pooling across the floor while the city glows beyond the massive windows.
When I reach the dining room, the table is already set.
A long black marble table dominates the space. Two places are set at one end with crystal glasses sparkling in the candlelight.
Konstantin is waiting by the window, staring out at the darkness. He has discarded his jacket and tie. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and the sleeves rolled to reveal the terrifying tattoos on his forearms.
He turns at the sound of my heels on the floor.
His gaze hits me, scanning from my shoes to my eyes, taking his time to devour the dress.
"Red," he murmurs. "It’s the color of warning. And of desire."
"You told me to wear it," I say, keeping my tone firm. "I’m following orders like a good employee."
"Sit," he says, pulling out a chair for me.
As I sit, the silk slides against the leather.
He pushes the chair in, leaning down so his breath tickles my neck. "You’re breathtaking, Helena. It’s a shame no one else will see you."
He walks to his seat at the head of the table, perpendicular to me.
We’re close. Too close.
A server, one of his silent men, appears from the shadows and places plates of rare steak and roasted vegetables in front of us before vanishing again.
Konstantin pours the wine: a rich Cabernet.
"To the merger," he says, raising his glass.
I raise mine, my heart hammering against my ribs. "To the merger."
I take a sip. The wine is expensive, velvety on my tongue, but I can barely swallow past the lump in my throat.
We eat in silence for a few minutes.
"You’re quiet," Konstantin observes. "I expected more fire after your performance in the office."
"I’m accepting reality," I lie, pushing a piece of steak around my plate. "You have the company. You have the deeds. There’s no point in fighting a war I’ve already lost."
He studies me, his eyes narrowing slightly, looking for the trap.
"Submission does not come naturally to you."
"I’m adaptable," I say. "I want to protect my father. I want to protect my staff. If being your partner is the only way to do that, then I’ll do it."
Using every ounce of strength I have, I look his way, forcing a smile.
"Now, I want to get through this dinner, and then I want to sleep."
"Sleep," he echoes. "Yes. It’s been a tiring day."
He gestures to my glass. "Drink. You need to relax."
I glance at his glass. Perfect. There’s just enough left to dissolve the powder.
He needs to look away. To be distracted just long enough for me to work.
"I need some water," I say, reaching for the pitcher.
I deliberately fumble, knocking my fork off the table. It clatters loudly onto the marble floor.
"Oh," I gasp. "I'm sorry. I—"
I bend to retrieve it.
He sighs, annoyed, and looks toward the kitchen, signaling for a server to bring a fresh one.
It’s the split second I need.
While bent, hidden by the tablecloth, I pull the tissue from my clutch before sitting up quickly.
Konstantin is focused on the doorway, waiting for the server.
I reach across the table with my left hand, pretending to reach for the salt cellar near his plate. With my right, I hover over his wine glass. There’s only a mouthful of dark red liquid left at the bottom.
I flick the tissue open, and the blue powder falls into the wine and dissolves instantly, swallowed by the dark Cabernet.
My hands fold neatly in my lap as the monster turns his head, attention back on me.
My heart is thumping so hard I swear he must hear it.
The server arrives with a fresh fork. Konstantin takes it and hands it to me.
"Clumsy," he murmurs. "Are you nervous?"
"Tired," I say, taking the fork. "Like I said."
"Then let us toast to rest," he says.
He picks up his glass. He doesn't refill it but swirls the small amount of liquid at the bottom.
Yes, I think. Yes. Drink it.
He brings the rim to his lips and tilts his head back.
But he he freezes, the glass hovering an inch from his mouth.
My blood turns to ice.
He slowly lowers the glass, thought he doesn't put it down. He simply holds it, staring into the dark liquid before he finally looks at me.
His eyes are not cold anymore.
"You know," he says softly, "my father taught me many things before he died. How to shoot. How to fight. How to lead."
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, the glass still in his hand.
"But the most important thing he taught me was to never trust a gift."
My mouth goes dry. "It's... it's wine, Konstantin."
"Is it?"
He brings the glass to his nose and sniffs it.
"It smells..." he pauses, watching me squirm. "...bitter."
"It's the tannins," I whisper. "It's a heavy red."
"No," he says. "It smells like betrayal."
He stands abruptly. The chair scrapes loudly against the floor, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
I shrink back. "Konstantin..."
He ignores me, rounding the table until he stops beside my chair.
I try to stand, to run, but he puts a hand on my shoulder, holding me in place.
"Sit," he commands.
He holds the glass up to the candlelight, studying the sediment swirling in the red liquid.
"Triazolam," he states flatly.
He looks down at me, expression unreadable.
"I checked the inventory after we left the office,. The bottle was missing from your father's drawer. Did you think I wouldn't notice a theft in my own acquisition?"
My breath hitches. He knew. He knew the whole time. He let me play this out to watch me fail.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I protest, though my voice shakes.
"Don't lie to me," he snarls.
His hand shoots out, seizing my jaw. His fingers dig into my cheeks, forcing my lips to pucker as he tilts my head back, exposing my throat, trapping me against the back of the chair.
"You wanted me to drink this?" he asks, holding the glass inches from my face. "You wanted to put me to sleep? To escape?"