Page 28

I grab my diary and use the pen to very carefully dig out some of the blank pages in the back. I create a little hole and tuck the necklace in, along with the note. Then I find some tape in Adrian’s desk and tape the pages together to conceal the hole.

It’s sloppy, but not noticeable when the diary is closed. As long as Julian doesn’t open it, the necklace should be safe there.

I set the diary on the nightstand and return the empty velvet box to the back of the drawer. My fingers trace my collarbone, still feeling the weight of the emeralds.

Adrian, why ? —

Behind me, the door opens with a soft click. I stiffen, not turning around, expecting to see Julian’s battered face in the dresser mirror facing the door. Instead, Lady Harrow’s reflection appears. The sight of her makes my blood freeze.

She radiates disgust as she looks at me and my tear-streaked face.

“What the hell do you want, murderer?” I spit, trying to gather my scattered dignity. My voice sounds raw and broken from crying.

Lady Harrow merely scoffs, her pale, thin lips curling into what could almost be a smile. “My son isn’t home right now,” she says.

I swallow, dread pooling in my stomach. “S-so?”

Something in her eyes shifts—a predator spotting weakness. She snaps her fingers.

Two guards enter, their massive frames filling the doorway.

No!

I jerk back, heart pounding. “Julian will find out about this. You can’t have his guards abuse me. They’ll tell him.”

Lady Harrow’s laughter is a chilling melody. “Oh, I love my son, but he’s a bit naive, isn’t he? All these guards are loyal to me, dear.”

Panic surges up my spine as the guards close in, each grasping an arm and dragging me through the room. My feet scramble against the carpet and I scream, trying to figure out any way to defend myself.

It’s useless. They’re much bigger than me. Stronger. And I know there are more of them outside. I’m completely outnumbered with no weapons to defend myself.

I fight anyway, just so they know I’m not giving in easily.

They haul me into the living room as Lady Harrow follows behind like mist. Nausea twists my stomach.

The air is thick with cigar smoke and expensive cologne.

Consortium members lounge with drinks and drugs, their privilege insulating them from consequence or morality.

Everything feels surreal, like I’ve stepped into someone else’s nightmare.

My mother’s nightmare.

There are so many people. Most I don’t recognize, so they must be farther down the chain of command, but there is one big player in the room—Olivia Marlowe. Victoria’s sister .

She wasn’t at the top of my list, but she is now.

The guards shove me so I fall on the marble in the middle of these monsters. My knees hit the ground hard and I wince.

Don’t show fear. Don’t let them see you tremble. Face this with strength.

I lift my chin and wait, trying not to think about what they, what Lady Harrow wants with me.

A man with slicked-back hair takes a lazy sip of whiskey, his eyes sliding over me with detached interest. Another leans back on the plush sofa, the click of his lighter punctuating the tension.

Olivia smiles down at me. Her look isn’t lecherous like the men’s, but I can tell she has some hidden agenda.

The room shifts around me as Lady Harrow steps on my back and forces my face down.

“Look at you,” she sneers. “Pathetic little girl playing at rebellion.” Her voice drips with contempt as she towers over me.

Her heel digs in painfully. If she presses any harder, she might break skin and puncture my lung.

I struggle up on my hands and knees, humiliation burning hotter than rage. “You won’t get away with this,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

As soon as I get the chance, this bitch is dead.

“We already have,” she replies coolly. “And now it’s time you learned your place.”

The guards regroup, their imposing forms flanking me on either side. One burly figure grabs my arm, his grip ironclad and unyielding, while another does the same on the other side, pinning me between them. A third guard steps forward, a sinister glint in his eyes as he reveals a knife.

He leans in, and I can smell the stale stench of tobacco on his breath as he starts to cut away at my clothing. Fabric rips. Buttons fly off my blouse, bouncing off the marble floor and scattering like miniature grenades detonating across a battlefield.

Every rip is an assault; every tear is an intrusion into my personal space.

The cloth that once provided me protection is now being stripped away without consent or dignity—leaving me bare and vulnerable under their lecherous gazes.

I feel eyes raking over me, each glance carrying with it a sickening wave that pushes me closer to vomiting.

I’m left kneeling in the circle of devils, completely naked—not just physically but emotionally—stripped down to nothing more than an object for their perverse entertainment.

And through it all, I keep my head held high, refusing to let them see the pain they’ve inflicted—the raw humiliation burning deep like a festering wound.

I swallow the lump forming in my throat.

Don’t let them see it.

Lady Harrow laughs. “Well, looks like you took my advice and lost some weight. Though you went too far, I’m afraid. You look like a waif. What man will truly want to fuck you now?”

The guy with the whiskey clears his throat and sets his glass on a table. He leans forward for a bump of cocaine, then wipes white powder from his nostrils. “Will we get to play with this one finally?” he asks. “I don’t find her any less appealing. I’ve been waiting years for this.”

Lady Harrow’s smile is venomous as she glances at him. “Soon. Tonight, we’re just giving her… an initiation into her new role as the Harrow pet.”

Their laughter blends into a sickening crescendo, and I close my eyes, counting the seconds until this ends.

Would you still think me so beautiful, Adrian? Seeing me like this?

The guards hold me down on all fours, their weight pinning me. My skin prickles in the cold air and they won’t let me move my legs. I’m spread open, my ass facing Whiskey Man, the most intimate parts of my body exposed to him. When I glance back, he adjusts his erection.

The lump in my throat returns but, dammit, I won’t cry for these monsters. Not in front of them because that’s what they’re waiting for—to see me break.

Lady Harrow’s voice slices through the air. “Hold her still,” she commands, her words a sharp blade of malice. “And the rest of you, no groping tonight, understood?” A few of the men grumble. “You’ll each get your turn soon. Patience,” she adds.

Patience, is what Valentine told me.

Would he still say that knowing I’ll soon be a fuck toy?

The wolves close in as Lady Harrow lights a cigar. She takes a few puffs and then looks at it thoughtfully. “These were Lucian’s favorite, but I really despite the taste.” She glances down at me. “How about you?” She bends and her fingers brush the sensitive skin above my hip.

She presses the lit cigar end against me.

Pain explodes like a supernova, searing and immediate. My back arches involuntarily, a silent scream caught in my throat as the guards hold me still.

Lady Harrow passes the cigar to Whiskey Man.

“I understand your initiation,” he says, “but must we damage the goods?”

“Patience, Gregory.”

Gregory. Is he Gregory Whitman? The man who organized “games” where my mother was the prize?

Well, Gregory, I think you’re now above Olivia on my list. And I think I have some ideas about how I’m going to kill you.

Gregory sighs and hovers the cigar over a spot on my inner thigh. He presses it against me, but not hard, so it might not leave a mark.

A small mercy.

He passes the cigar to his left.

One after another they swarm, each taking a turn marking me. Each burn is precise, calculated to hit places easily concealed beneath clothes—my stomach, inner thighs, lower back. Again and again, agony rips through me, jagged and relentless.

I fight to withstand it, but each searing burn leaves less of me behind. I’ve done my best to fight it, but the pain is too much and a single tear slips down my cheek.

Olivia is there to catch it with her finger. “My sister was quite enraptured with you,” she says, almost sounding sorry for me. She leans close to whisper so only I can hear, “Too bad you got wrapped up in Julian. He’s the only reason I’m doing this. Nothing personal, you know?”

The bitch jabs the cigar into my left breast, the only mark above my waist.

More tears leave my eyes and Olivia laughs. “Poor girl,” she says.

Fuck them. Fuck all of them!

My breath comes in ragged gasps; I’m drowning in a sea of pain. Lady Harrow looks on with detached satisfaction as they continue their vicious initiation.

Finally, mercifully, it ends. The last man flicks the cigar bud onto a table and joins the others in sitting back on their comfy couches and chairs.

I lie trembling—a canvas of raw burns and despair—as Lady Harrow steps closer.

To add insult to injury, she jabs my side with her high heel. Her gaze is triumphant. “You look just like your mother,” she says.

Her words pierce deeper than the dozens of red marks now dirtying my pale flesh. It’s a revelation: she tortured my mother too. Saw her at her weakest and probably smiled at Lucian’s doll experiencing pain.

The guards finally release me. The room spins violently—faces blurring—as consciousness slips away like smoke through clenched fists.

I fall into darkness.