7. Dusty
DUSTY
Two days later.
The chandeliers overhead cast prisms of light across marble floors so polished they mirror the guests gliding past. My reflection stares back—honey-blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon, the wolf necklace Damian gifted me catching every flicker of light against my porcelain skin.
The dress Vivian chose hugs curves I didn't know could look refined, midnight blue silk that whispers wealth with every step.
Nobody sneers. Nobody calls me street trash or tells me to move along.
A woman in pearls actually smiles at me. A genuine smile, not the pitying kind I'm used to scraping from strangers.
My chest tightens, warmth spreading through ribs that remember hunger, hands that remember stealing. This is what respect feels like. This is what it means to belong somewhere that isn't a dark alley or a halfway house.
Damian's palm rests at the small of my back as he guides me through the crowd, his presence a wall between me and the world. His slate-gray eyes scan the room with predatory focus, cataloging threats I can't even see.
"You're doing beautifully, little girl." His breath brushes my ear, making my knees weak.
I bite my lip, heat pooling low. "Thank you."
His fingers tightening possessively against my spine.
A server approaches with champagne flutes on a silver tray.
I lift one with the grace Vivian drilled into me, no trembling fingers or fumbled grip.
Just smooth, practiced elegance. The bubbles tickle my nose as I sip, not gulp—never gulp—and the crystal stem feels impossibly delicate between my fingers.
Damian leads me to a seat near the front of the intimate theater space, black velvet chairs arranged in rows facing a raised platform. Perhaps fifty people total. The air hums with anticipation, expensive cologne and perfume mixing with the scent of fresh flowers arranged on pedestals.
"Stay here." He brushes his thumb across my cheek. "Watch."
Then he's moving toward the stage, every eye in the room tracking his commanding frame. The lights dim. A spotlight ignites, bathing him in white-gold brilliance that makes his midnight-black hair gleam, the stubble along his jaw casting sharp shadows.
"Ladies. Gentlemen." His voice rolls through the space, deep and authoritative. "What you're about to witness will redefine how humanity interfaces with technology."
He gestures. Behind him, a massive screen flickers to life, displaying code that means nothing to me but draws audible gasps from several attendees.
"Neural-adaptive AI. Not programmed. Not scripted. Evolving." Damian's hands move with purpose, each gesture deliberate. "Watch."
On the screen, patterns shift and reorganize. A digital interface responds to commands spoken aloud, anticipating needs before they're articulated. The crowd leans forward. Phones stay pocketed—nobody wants to miss a second.
I sip my champagne, watching Damian command the room with the same intensity he uses in the bedroom. Pride swells in my chest. This brilliant, powerful man chose me. Claimed me. Marked me as his.
A gentleman beside me murmurs to his companion, "Revolutionary. Absolute game-changer."
Damian's eyes find mine across the darkness, just for a heartbeat. The corner of his mouth lifts. Then he's back to his demonstration, dismantling skepticism with cold facts and undeniable proof.
I sit straighter, crossing my ankles like Vivian taught me. The silk whispers. The sapphires gleam.
For the first time in my life, I'm not hiding.
Then my gaze catches on a figure near the side entrance.
Elias.
My blood turns to ice. He leans against the wall in a crisp security uniform that doesn't quite fit right, arms crossed, those cold eyes locked on me. Recognition flares across his weathered face, followed by something worse—a slow, sinister smile that pulls at his lips like a wound opening.
I jerk my attention back to Damian on stage, forcing my expression blank. Neutral. Nothing to see here. Just another face in the crowd.
My heart hammers against my ribs. The champagne flute trembles in my grip.
Don't look. Don't react. He can't touch you here.
But peripheral vision betrays me. Elias pushes off the wall, movements casual, unhurried. He weaves through the outer edge of the seated guests, clipboard in hand like he belongs. Like he has every right to be here.
My throat closes. The elegant silk suddenly feels suffocating, the wolf necklace a weight pulling me under.
He passes behind my row. Footsteps whisper across carpet. Then something white flutters onto my lap—a folded piece of paper, landing silent as a threat.
I don't move. Can't breathe. Damian's voice continues from the stage, explaining neural pathways and adaptive learning, but the words blur into meaningless noise.
My fingers shake as I unfold the note beneath the table's edge, hiding it from view.
Back exit. Five minutes. Or I put a bullet in your boyfriend's skull.
The words swim. My vision tunnels. I crumple the paper in my fist, nails digging crescents into my palm.
Elias wouldn't. Not here. Not with all these witnesses.
But even as I think it, memories flood back.
Tommy, fifteen, who tried to run—found three days later in the East River.
Sophia, also eighteen, who threatened to go to the real cops—disappeared without a trace, her case marked "runaway" and forgotten.
The others who vanished simply because they dared imagine freedom.
Nobody ever looked too hard. Street kids go missing all the time.
And Elias is a cop. He knows exactly how to make problems disappear.
My hands clench around the champagne stem. The crystal groans under pressure. On stage, Damian gestures to the screen, completely focused on his presentation. Unaware. Vulnerable.
One shot. That's all it would take. Elias has a gun on his hip—regulation, authorized, perfectly legal. He could use a silencer. Or has a sniper nearby.
The wolf necklace burns against my collarbone, Damian's mark of ownership and protection. But what good is protection when the threat wears a badge and knows every loophole, every way to twist the system?
I glance toward the back exit. Elias stands there now, hand resting casually on his holster. Waiting. That same sick smile carved into his face.
Five minutes.
Damian's voice rises, confident and commanding. "The future isn't coming—it's already here."
Applause erupts. He bows slightly, acknowledging the response with that controlled half-smile I've come to know so well.
Safe. Brilliant. Completely unaware someone in this room plans to kill him.
My legs move before conscious thought catches up. I set down the champagne, smooth my dress, rise with the practiced grace Vivian drilled into me.
The back exit looms closer with each step.
The back exit opens into a service corridor—bare concrete walls, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the glamour stripped away to reveal the skeleton underneath. Just like my old life bleeding through the polished surface Damian built.
Elias meets me, arms crossed, that permanent sneer carved deeper now.
"Please." The word scrapes raw from my throat. "What do you want? Just let me go."
"Let you go?" He barks a laugh devoid of warmth. "You think you can just disappear into some rich bastard's mansion and forget where you came from? Forget who owns you?"
"Nobody owns me anymore."
His hand shoots out, fingers clamping around my wrist hard enough to bruise. I gasp, stumbling forward as he yanks me closer. His breath reeks of stale coffee and cigarettes.
"Wrong answer, Dusty." He spits my nickname like poison. "You work for me until I say otherwise."
"I don't?—"
"That tech root key." His grip tightens, bones grinding. "The one your boyfriend just demonstrated in there. Neural-adaptive AI, worth millions. You're going to get it for me."
My stomach drops. "You want me to steal from Damian?"
"Smart girl. Finally catching on." Elias releases my wrist with a shove. "I've got buyers lined up—competitors who'd pay top dollar to reverse-engineer his precious technology. You bring me that key, and maybe I'll consider letting you play house a little longer."
"No." The word comes out stronger than I feel. "I won't betray him."
"You think he's untouchable?" Elias crowds into my space, backing me against the cold concrete wall. "You think money and connections make him safe? I'm a cop, sweetheart. I have power he can't even comprehend."
The wolf necklace digs into my throat as I press back, trying to create distance that doesn't exist.
"I can plant evidence so clean nobody would ever question it.
" His finger taps his badge, that familiar gesture making my skin crawl.
"Drugs in his penthouse. Child pornography on his servers.
Financial fraud buried deep in offshore accounts.
Pick your poison. By the time Internal Affairs finishes investigating, his reputation will be ashes.
His company, bankrupt. His freedom, gone. "
"You wouldn't?—"
"Try me." His cold eyes bore into mine. "I've framed bigger fish than him.
Set up politicians, judges, people with actual power.
Your billionaire boyfriend? He's just another mark.
Another target. And you're going to help me destroy him, or I'll do it anyway—and you'll watch him burn knowing you could've prevented it. "
The fluorescent lights buzz. Somewhere distant, muffled applause filters through walls—Damian's presentation must be ending.
"48 hours, Dusty." Elias steps back, straightening his rumpled uniform. "Bring me that key, or I start building the case. Evidence gets planted. Witnesses get coached. The system grinds him down until there's nothing left but a criminal record and shattered dreams."
"Please—"
"48 hours." He turns, footsteps echoing down the corridor. "Don't make me remind you what happens to people who disappoint me."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with the taste of blood and terror closing around my throat.
I slide down the wall, expensive silk pooling around me. My hands shake. The wolf necklace feels like a noose.
Damian could lose everything. His company. His freedom. His future—destroyed because some corrupt cop decided to wield his badge like a weapon.
All because of me.