Chapter 17 — Red on Black
Ethan Vance’s absence wasn’t just a man vanishing into the crowd—it was the removal of a force field.
Maya felt the shift in atmospheric pressure immediately.
The air, once filtered by the aura of untouchable protection he projected, suddenly became dense, hot, and charged with danger.
The orchestra’s music, which had seemed like an elegant backdrop when his hand was at her waist, now sounded shrill—violins screaming like cats in heat, cellos sawing at her nerves.
She leaned against the cold marble column, clutching the empty champagne flute like a glass weapon.
The diamond at the center of her choker felt like it weighed a ton—a platinum and carbon anchor dragging her down, reminding her with every second that she didn’t belong here.
She was an impostor wrapped in emerald green silk velvet, a Cinderella whose clock had already struck midnight, but whose prince had vanished to discuss zoning with the enemy.
The eyes.
They were everywhere.
Without Ethan’s dark silhouette to block the view, the male gazes in the ballroom became direct, predatory.
The fearful respect was gone. Only calculation remained.
They looked at the slit in her dress, at the exposed skin of her shoulders, at the curve of her adorned neck.
Maya could feel the obscene mathematics running through their minds: How much did she cost? Where did he find her? Does he share?
She raised her chin, trying to emulate Ethan’s coldness, but inside, her legs were trembling. The champagne that had given her courage earlier now soured in her stomach, turning to acidic bile.
One of the men from the group that had laughed earlier separated from the pack.
He didn’t walk in a straight line—he serpentined between tables, a glass of whiskey swaying dangerously in his hand.
He was young, maybe early thirties, with that polished, empty beauty that comes from generations of old money and no real responsibility.
His tuxedo was midnight blue, too modern, and his blond hair was slicked back with a gelled precision that made him look like a wax doll melting under the hot lights of the chandeliers.
Maya looked away, fixing her gaze on the side door where Ethan had disappeared. Come back, she begged mentally. Come back now.
But the door remained closed.
The man stopped beside her. He invaded her personal space with the drunken confidence of someone who had never heard the word “no.” His smell hit her—a nauseating mix of expensive citrus cologne and hard liquor.
“Alone?” he asked. His voice was slurred, the consonants soft.
Maya didn’t turn completely. She kept her profile to him, hoping the icy body language would be enough.
“I’m waiting for someone,” she said, her voice firm, though her fingers were white around the stem of the flute.
“Vance.” The man laughed—a wet sound. He took a sip of whiskey, his eyes traveling up and down her body, lingering on the neckline where the emerald rested.
“He always has business. Boring business. Ethan forgot how to have fun years ago. Ever since he decided he wanted to own the city instead of just living in it.”
He took a step forward, blocking her view of the side door.
“I’m Julian,” he said, extending his free hand. “Julian Baxter. My father owns half the hotels Vance hasn’t bought yet.”
Maya looked at the extended hand. The fingers were long, pale, with polished nails. She didn’t extend hers.
“Maya,” she said curtly.
“Just Maya?” Julian flashed a crooked smile that showed very white teeth. “Like Madonna? Or like one of those girls who don’t use last names because they want to protect their family’s identity back in the Midwest?”
The insult was veiled, wrapped in a joke, but it cut deep. He knew. Or at least, he suspected. He knew she wasn’t “one of them.”
“Ethan doesn’t like me talking to strangers,” Maya said, using his name as a shield.
Julian let out a loud laugh that made several heads turn at nearby tables.
“Ethan doesn’t like a lot of things. He doesn’t like losing. Doesn’t like competition. And apparently, doesn’t like sharing his new toys.”
He extended his hand again, but not to shake. He brought his fingers toward her neck.
Maya recoiled, her back hitting the cold marble column.
“Don’t touch,” she hissed.
Julian stopped with his fingers inches from the diamond choker.
“Easy, kitten. I was just admiring the collar.” The word “collar” came out with vulgar emphasis. “It’s an impressive piece. Vance has good taste in stones. And in necks.”
He lowered his hand but didn’t step back. He leaned in, resting his arm on the column above her head, effectively trapping her.
“You know, Ethan is a busy man,” Julian continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He gets bored fast. He likes the hunt, the acquisition. But maintenance?” He shook his head. “He doesn’t have the patience. Six months, tops. That’s his record.”
Maya's heart skipped a beat. Six months. The length of the contract. Was it a coincidence? Or did Julian know something? Or worse, did Ethan do this so often there was a known pattern?
“You don't know anything about him,” Maya said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“I know that everything has a price in Vance's world,” Julian retorted, his smile hardening. “Including you.”
He looked at her with naked lust.
“So, what's the number?”
“What?” Maya blinked, confused and offended.
“The number. The buy-out. How much did he pay for the rental?” Julian leaned closer, the smell of alcohol becoming unbearable. “Because whatever it is, I can double it. And I'm a lot more fun. I won't lock you in an ivory tower. I'll take you to Monaco. To my yacht.”
Bile rose in Maya's throat. She felt dirty. The sense of power she'd had walking into the ballroom evaporated, leaving only the naked reality of her position. To men like Julian, she wasn't a queen; she was merchandise being passed around. Ethan just happened to hold the current claim.
“I'm not for sale,” Maya said, her voice trembling with anger. “And I'm not a rental.”
She tried to slip out from under his arm.
Julian was faster.
He dropped the whiskey glass on a nearby table with a dull thud and grabbed her arm.
The touch was shocking.
His fingers closed around her bicep, squeezing the velvet of the dress and the soft flesh beneath. It wasn't a gentle touch. It was a possessive, painful grip.
“Don't be shy,” he growled, the playboy mask falling away to reveal the spoiled aggression underneath. “Everyone has a price, Maya. Don't pretend you're different just because you're wearing his diamonds. You're a high-class whore. The only difference is the rate.”
“Let go of me!” Maya shouted. It wasn't a whisper. It was loud enough that the orchestra's music seemed to hesitate.
People at nearby tables stopped eating. Eyes turned toward them.
Julian didn't let go. If anything, he squeezed harder, pulling her closer.
“You're making a scene,” he hissed, irritated. “Calm down. Let's have a drink and talk like adults. Ethan won't mind if I borrow you for an hour. We have business.”
“I said let go of me!” Maya tried to pull her arm away, but he was stronger. Panic began to rise, cold and sharp. She was surrounded by three hundred people, and no one was moving. They were watching. It was entertainment.
Julian laughed, amused by her struggle.
“You're feisty. I like that. Ethan likes to tame, doesn't he? He likes to break things.”
He raised his other hand to touch her face, to caress her cheek in a parody of affection.
Maya closed her eyes and braced herself to spit in his face. It was the only weapon she had.
But then, the air changed.
There was no sound of footsteps. There was no warning.
There was only a sudden shadow that fell over them, darker than the ceiling, colder than the air conditioning.
A hand appeared.
It didn't touch Maya.
The hand—large, tanned, with a Patek Philippe watch gleaming at the wrist beneath the white shirt cuff—closed around the wrist Julian was using to hold Maya's arm.
It wasn't a grab. It was a hydraulic vise.
Julian stopped mid-sentence. His eyes widened. He looked at his wrist, where Ethan Vance's fingers were sinking into the flesh, crushing tendons and nerves against bone.
“E-Ethan…” Julian stammered, the color draining from his face instantly, replaced by a gray pallor of pain.
Ethan didn't look at Julian.
He looked at Maya.
His eyes were black. Not dark as they normally were, but empty of any light, absorbing everything around them. They were black holes of contained violence. He looked at the spot where Julian's hand still weakly gripped her arm.
“Let go,” Ethan said.
The voice wasn't loud. It was a whisper. But it was a whisper that carried the weight of a death sentence.
Julian tried to let go. He opened his fingers immediately, self-preservation overriding arrogance.
But Ethan didn't release Julian's wrist.
“I said,” Ethan repeated, his voice dangerously calm, “let go of the idea that you can touch her.”
“I let go! I let go!” Julian screamed, beginning to bend to the side, trying to relieve the pressure on his wrist. “Ethan, you're breaking my arm! It's a joke! I was just saying hello!”
The entire ballroom was silent now. The orchestra had stopped. The waiters froze with trays in the air. Three hundred of Las Vegas's elite held their breath in unison.
Ethan finally looked away from Maya and focused on Julian.
Ethan's expression was terrifying because it was absolutely empty. No red-hot rage. Only arctic coldness, the efficiency of an executioner.
“What did you call her?” Ethan asked, conversationally.
Julian was sweating profusely, drops running down his waxy forehead.
“Nothing! I didn't say anything! Ethan, please, my father…”
“Your father isn't here,” Ethan interrupted. “And even if he were, he couldn't save you from what happens when you touch what's mine.”
Ethan moved his hand slightly. He twisted. Not the arm. Just Julian's index finger—the one that had been pointing at Maya seconds before.
He isolated it. And pulled back.
Crack.