Page 31

"What would you have done?" she challenges, a spark of defiance cutting through her fear. "If you were desperate enough?"

I drag a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face toward mine, my grip just tight enough to remind her what she let me do in the dark, what she asked for with those breathless pleas against my skin.

"You stepped into the lion's den." A pause. One breath. Then, "So tell me, little thief—who the fuck are you, really?"

The question hangs between us, heavy with implications. She stands there, silent, the rise and fall of her chest the only movement.

My shirt hangs off her like it was made for her body and not mine, slipping off one shoulder to reveal the marks I left. Her legs are bare, her mouth still swollen from where I kissed her, fucked her, marked her.

And now I want her truth. Not all of it, just enough to know how deep the damage runs.

She shifts her weight, glancing down at the floor. "It wasn't me who was invited," she murmurs.

"I know." My response is immediate, certain… impatient.

"I stole someone's invitation," she admits, fingers playing with the edge of my shirt.

I take a slow step forward, circling her like the predator I am. "Whose?"

She hesitates, teeth catching her lower lip, and that pause tells me everything. It wasn't just anyone. She didn't climb her way into this world—she came from it.

The sharpness in her spine, the silence she knows how to wear, the look in her eyes that says she's seen what happens when men like me stop pretending to be civil. She was born in this power; she just wanted to escape it.

"Tell me," I demand, more quietly this time.

She swallows hard. "Does it matter?"

"Everything matters. Especially in here." I gesture to the room, to the world beyond its walls. "Especially with me."

"I used a name they'd recognize," she finally says. "It got me through the gate."

"And you came here… why?"

This time, she doesn't lie. "To survive."

"Survive what?" I press, circling her slowly. "Or who?"

She tenses but doesn't answer, her eyes following me as I move around her. I let the silence fall again between us, not because I have nothing to say, but because I want her to feel the weight of her own honesty.

"You thought coming here, surviving the night, and walking away with $250,000 would save you."

"I knew it would," she replies with surprising certainty.

I hum, continuing my slow circle. "So sure of yourself."

"I had to be," she responds, fingers clenching at her sides. "Uncertainty gets you killed in places like this."

"Is that what they taught you?"

Her eyes flash. "No one had to teach me that."

I drag a finger down her arm—slow, purposeful—watching the shiver that follows my touch. "You didn't flinch when you walked in that ballroom. Didn't ask questions. Didn't need guidance. Didn't look lost among the masks and the rules. You stood out, but from your confidence, not your fear."

I pause, letting my words sink in. "You've been in rooms like that before."

Her lips press together in resistance.

"Haven't you?" I demand, leaning closer.