The champagne in my glass was warm. I didn't drink it. I just held it because I needed something to do with my hands.

"Smile, Clara," my father hissed in my ear.

I forced the corners of my mouth up. It hurt. My cheeks ached from fake smiling for three hours.

We were at the Grand Hotel ballroom. The room was filled with the smell of expensive perfume and fresh lilies. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above us. To anyone looking in, it looked like a fairy tale.

But to me, it was an auction block.

"He is coming over," my father whispered, gripping my elbow hard. "Stand up straight. Don't embarrass me."

I straightened my spine. My dress—a tight, silver silk gown—felt like it was shrinking. It was beautiful, but it felt like wrapping paper.

A man walked towards us. Mr. Sterling.

He was fifty-five years old. He had thinning hair and skin that looked sweaty even in the air-conditioned room. He was one of the richest men in the city.

And he was the man my father wanted me to marry.

"Richard!" Sterling boomed, shaking my father’s hand. Then his watery eyes turned to me. They slid down my body, lingering on my chest.

I felt like I needed a shower.

"And the lovely Clara," Sterling said. He took my free hand and kissed it. His lips were wet. "You look stunning tonight, my dear. Like a silver trophy."

A trophy. That’s all I was.

"Thank you, Mr. Sterling," I said quietly. My voice sounded hollow.

"Please, call me Arthur," he said, stepping too close. I could smell his breath—stale cigars and mints. "After all, we have much to discuss. Your father tells me the merger is almost ready."

By "merger," he meant the marriage. He was going to pay off my father’s massive debts, and in exchange, he got me.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the warm champagne in his face and run. But I couldn't.

My little sister, Ellie, was at home. She needed tuition for art school. She needed a roof over her head. If I ran, my father would lose everything. We would be on the street.

So I stood there. I let him hold my hand. I let him think he owned me.

Suddenly, the music stopped.

The chatter in the ballroom died down. A strange silence swept across the room, starting from the entrance.

"Who is that?" someone whispered nearby.

"Is that... Vane?"

I turned toward the double doors.

A man was walking in.

He was tall. Taller than anyone else in the room. He wore a black suit that fit him so perfectly it looked like armor. His hair was dark, swept back from a face that was dangerously sharp. High cheekbones. A strong jaw.

But it was his eyes that froze me.

They were blue. Not the color of the sky, but the color of ice. Cold. Hard. Empty.

He didn't look like he belonged at a party. He looked like a wolf walking into a sheep pen.

"It can't be," my father gasped beside me. His grip on my arm turned painful. "Silas Vane."

The name hit me like a punch.

Silas Vane.

I remembered him. Ten years ago, he was the boy whose father worked with mine. He was the boy who wore second-hand clothes. The boy my father had laughed at when he kicked his family out of the company.

I remembered a boy with dirt on his shoes and tears in his eyes.

But the man standing there now had no tears. He looked like he had burned his tears a long time ago.

He walked into the room, and the crowd parted for him. They were scared of him.

He walked straight toward us.

Mr. Sterling looked annoyed. "Who invited him?"

Silas stopped three feet away. He didn't look at Sterling. He didn't look at me.

He looked straight at my father.

"Richard," Silas said. His voice was deep and smooth, like velvet wrapped around a knife. "It’s been a long time."

My father was shaking. He was terrified.

"Silas," my father stammered. "I... I didn't know you were back in the city."

"I never left," Silas said calmly. "I was just waiting."

Then, for the first time, Silas turned his head.

His ice-blue eyes locked onto mine.

My heart stopped beating. He looked at me, and I felt naked. He didn't look at me with lust, like Mr. Sterling. He looked at me with something much worse.

He looked at me like I was a target.

"Hello, Clara," he said softly.

He remembered my name.

"You grew up," he noted, his eyes scanning my silver dress. "You look expensive."

"What do you want, Vane?" Mr. Sterling stepped in, trying to be tough. "We are in the middle of a private conversation."

Silas looked at Sterling. He smiled. It was a terrifying, cold smile.

"I'm here for business, Arthur," Silas said. "I heard there was a sale going on."

He looked back at me.

"And I’m in the mood to buy."

Mr. Sterling turned red. "You are in the mood to buy? What is that supposed to mean?"

Silas ignored him. He didn't even blink. He kept his ice-blue eyes fixed on me.

"They are playing a waltz," Silas said. "My favorite."

He extended his hand toward me. His palm was open. His long fingers looked strong enough to crush a stone.

"Dance with me, Clara."

It wasn't a question. It was a command wrapped in polite words.

"I... I can't," I stammered. I looked at my father for help.

My father looked pale. He looked like he was about to faint. He knew something I didn't. He didn't stop Silas. He didn't say a word.

"She is with me!" Mr. Sterling sputtered, grabbing my arm.

Silas shifted his gaze to Sterling’s hand on my arm. His eyes narrowed. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Let go of her," Silas said quietly.

"Or what?" Sterling challenged.

"Or I will buy your bank tomorrow and fire you by noon," Silas replied. He sounded bored. As if ruining a man’s life was as easy as ordering coffee.

Sterling froze. His hand dropped from my arm instantly.

Silas smiled. A shark’s smile.

"Smart choice."

He looked back at me and wiggled his fingers, waiting.

I had no choice. If I refused, he would cause a scene. My father was terrified of him.

I slowly lifted my hand. It was trembling.

I placed my hand in his.

His skin was warm. Shockingly warm. And rough. His hand swallowed mine completely.

He pulled me toward the dance floor. He didn't drag me, but his grip was firm. I couldn't pull away if I wanted to.

He placed one hand on my waist. His fingers dug into the silk of my dress, pressing against my lower back. He pulled me flush against his hard body.

I gasped. "Too close."

"Not close enough," he murmured.

The music swelled. Silas began to move.

He was a good dancer. He led me effortlessly, spinning me through the crowd. But it didn't feel romantic. It felt like I was being herded.

"You are shaking," Silas whispered in my ear. His lips brushed the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "Are you scared of me, Clara?"

I looked up at him. I tried to find the boy I used to know. But he was gone.

"I don't know you," I whispered.

"Liar," he said softly. "You remember. You remember the day your father threw me out. You stood at the window and watched."

"I was twelve!" I protested. "I couldn't do anything!"

"You watched," he repeated. His hand tightened on my waist. "And now, I am watching you."

He spun me around. The world blurred—the lights, the faces, the colors. The only thing in focus was his blue eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked. "Why humiliate Sterling?"

"Sterling?" Silas scoffed. "He is a pig. He wants to marry you for your name. He wants a pretty doll on his shelf."

"He is saving my family!" I hissed. "He is paying off the debt!"

Silas stopped moving.

We were in the dead center of the ballroom. The music was still playing, people were still dancing around us, but Silas stood perfectly still.

He leaned down. His face was inches from mine. I could smell expensive scotch and danger.

"Sterling isn't paying anything," Silas whispered.

"What?"

"I bought the debt this morning, Clara," he revealed. The cruelty in his voice was sharp. "Every cent your father owes. Every loan. Every mortgage."

My legs felt weak. I clung to his shoulders to stay standing.

"You... you own the debt?"

"I own the company," Silas corrected. "I own the house. I own the car you came in."

His eyes dropped to my lips, then back up to my eyes.

"And now... I own you."

The music ended. The final note hung in the air.

Silas let go of my waist. He stepped back, buttoning his suit jacket. He looked cool, calm, and collected.

"Come to my office tomorrow at 9:00 AM," he ordered loudly enough for my father to hear. "Don't be late. Or I foreclose on everything."

He turned and walked away. He didn't look back.

I stood alone in the middle of the ballroom, shivering in my silver dress. The gilded cage had just slammed shut.

Vane Tower was a spear of black glass piercing the sky.

I stood in the lobby at 8:55 AM. I was wearing my best business suit—a cream-colored blazer and skirt. I wanted to look professional. I wanted to show him that I wasn't just a scared girl; I was a negotiator.

I took the elevator to the top floor. My hands were shaking.

The doors opened. The reception area was silent. A woman with severe glasses sat behind a marble desk.

"I am here to see Mr. Vane," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I’m Clara Thorne."

The woman didn't look up. "He is expecting you. Go inside."

She pointed to the massive double doors at the end of the hall.

I walked to the doors and pushed them open.

"Mr. Vane?"

The office was enormous. It had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire city. But the room was empty.

Silas wasn't there.

But something else was.

In the middle of the pristine white marble floor, there was a mess. A bottle of black ink had been smashed. A dark, ugly puddle was spreading across the expensive stone, staining the white rug.

Next to the puddle was a metal bucket and a rag.

I frowned. What is this?

A speaker on the desk clicked on. Silas’s voice filled the room. It was calm, deep, and coming from everywhere at once.

"Good morning, Clara."

I jumped, looking around for a camera.

"Where are you?" I asked the empty room.

"I am watching," the voice said. "You want to talk business? You want to save your father’s company?"

"Yes," I said firmly.

"Then prove you are useful," Silas said. "The cleaning crew missed a spot. Clean it up."

I stared at the bucket.

"You... you want me to clean the floor?" I asked, incredulous. "I am wearing a Chanel suit."

"I don't care about your suit," Silas replied cold as ice. "I care about obedience. You have ten minutes before the ink sets permanently. If that floor isn't white when I walk in, the deal is off. And your family is homeless."

Click. The speaker went dead.

I stood there, frozen. My face burned with humiliation. He was doing this on purpose. He knew I was wearing cream. He knew I had never scrubbed a floor in my life.

He wanted to see the Princess on her knees.

I looked at the clock on the wall. 8:58 AM.

I thought about my sister Ellie. I thought about her art school tuition. I thought about my father’s terrified face.

I have to do it.

I dropped my purse. I kicked off my high heels.

I walked to the middle of the room and fell to my knees. The marble was hard and cold.

I grabbed the wet rag and started scrubbing.

The ink was thick and oily. It splashed onto my hands instantly, staining my skin black. I scrubbed harder. It wasn't coming out of the rug.

"Come on," I grunted, scrubbing until my fingernails scraped the stone.

A drop of black ink flew up and landed on my cream blazer. Then another.

I didn't stop. I was sweating. My knees ached. My breath came in short gasps.

I won't let him win. I won't let him see me cry.

I soaked the rag, squeezed it, and scrubbed again. Slowly, the white marble started to show through.

Nine minutes passed.

My hands were ruined. My suit was ruined. My hair was falling out of its bun.

But the floor was clean.

I sat back on my heels, panting, staring at the wet, clean spot.

The double doors opened behind me.

I didn't turn around. I couldn't. I was too ashamed.

I heard the click of expensive shoes on the marble. Slow. Rhythmic.

Silas walked around me. He stood in front of me, towering over my kneeling form. I looked at his polished shoes. I looked at his perfect, crisp trousers.

Then I looked up.

Silas was staring down at me. His face was unreadable. He looked at the clean floor. He looked at my ink-stained hands. He looked at the ruin of my expensive suit.

"You missed a spot," he said softly.

"I didn't," I whispered, my voice shaking with rage. "It is spotless."

Silas crouched down. He was now eye-level with me.

He reached out and took my hand. His thumb rubbed over the black ink staining my skin.

"You ruined your dress," he noted.

"It’s just clothes," I said, pulling my hand away. "I did what you asked. Now talk to me."

Silas stared at me. For a second, I saw a flicker of surprise in his icy eyes. He expected me to refuse. Or to cry.

He didn't expect me to fight.

He stood up and walked to his desk. He sat down in his massive leather chair and looked at me like I was a strange specimen in a jar.

"Stand up, Clara," he commanded. "You look pathetic down there."

I stood up. My knees cracked. I held my head high, even though I looked like a disaster.

"The debt," I said.

"Fine," Silas said. He opened a drawer and pulled out a single gold key. He tossed it onto the desk. It slid across the wood and stopped at the edge.

"That is the key to my penthouse," he said.

"I don't want your penthouse. I want to go home."

"You don't have a home," Silas said brutally. "I foreclosed on your father’s estate ten minutes ago. His locks have been changed."

I gasped. "You... you promised!"

"I promised to save the company," Silas corrected. "I said nothing about the house. Your father and sister are staying at a motel."

He pointed to the key.

"But you... you are my collateral. You live with me now. You will cook. You will clean. You will do whatever I say."

He leaned back, his eyes dark.

"Take the key, Clara. Or go join your father in the gutter. It’s your choice."

I looked at the key. I looked at the man who wanted to destroy me.

I walked forward and grabbed the gold key. My ink-stained fingers left a black mark on his pristine desk.

"I hate you," I whispered.

Silas smiled. It was genuine this time. And terrifying.

"Good," he said. "Hate keeps you warm."