CHAPTER 3: THE PARTY
1303 Words
TRIGGER WARNING⚠️⚠️: This chapter contains s****l harassment/assault attempts, gun violence, and graphic depiction of danger
*****
Evening swallowed the sky.
A knock banged on the door, her stomach turned. Every step toward that door felt like a step toward surrender.
She opened it slowly. A flamboyantly dressed man beamed at her. "Hi! You must be Mrs Thorne. Wow, you're even more gorgeous in person."
Sammy blinked, then forced a smile. Nothing more.
"I'm Shirley, your designer. May I?" He breezed in with a portable rack lined with shimmering gowns that whispered of
money and power.
"Why are you here?" Sammy asked. "Leave, I'm not going."
"Ohhhh no," Shirley held her chest dramatically, "I'm here to do a job and I'm gonna get in trouble if I leave without doing it."
Her stomach churned. "Why is everyone scared of him?"
Shirley leaned closer, "You should be too Ma'am."
She shivered slightly.
In no time, Shirley ran practiced hands through her hair, smoothing it into waves. He painted her face like a porcelain doll—lips red, eyes smokey, skin luminous.
“Damn, he’s good,” She thought bitterly. She was becoming someone else in the mirror—someone who could survive a man like Thorne.
Shirley moved to the dresses. One by one, he held up gowns more expensive than anything she'd ever touched. She didn’t care for any of them.
"I bet this one's perfect," Shirley said holding up a silver one.
"What about that one?" She pointed at the scarlet silk siren of a dress. Backless, sleeveless, a slit high enough to whisper sin.
Shirley hesitated. “It’s stunning…" he stammered, "but Don won’t like it.”
“Perfect,” she grabbed it from the rack.
He tried to offer a fur coat but she declined with a single glare.
The gown clung to every curve, the slit teasing her thigh, the blood-red silk hugging her pale skin like it belonged there.
"I'm gonna get him angry, really angry." She smiled, as she stepped out.
*****
Sammy stepped out of the car and every pair of eyes turned to her. Men stopped mid-conversation. Women paused mid-sip. Even the moonlight took a second look.
She spotted Thorne in the corner, flanked by his armies, exchanging pleasantries. The moment his eyes landed on her, they burned—predatory, possessive, furious.
He stormed over and grabbed her arms.
"What the f**k are you wearing?" His voice was low and deadly.
She twisted herself trying to break free. “You didn’t mention it was a masked party.”
His grip tightened around her arm.
"Let me go." Her heart stuttered. "Are you gonna hurt me again?"
He let go immediately, a flicker of something that shouldn't be flashed across his face for a fleeting moment.
He handed her a black mask as they walked in.
The hall looked like something out of a royal dream—crystal chandeliers bathed everything in golden light, champagne towers sparkled like liquid diamonds. Music swelled, a full orchestra playing something tragically romantic.
Don Thorne handed her a glass of champagne. She made to decline but his eyes didn’t ask for obedience, they demanded it. Then he turned to schmooze with politicians, mafia kings, and monsters in tuxedos.
Everywhere she went, stares followed. Some men smiled like they wanted to devour her. Women glared like they wanted her dead. She cared less, not with the platter of disaster she already had to deal with.
Then the orchestra shifted. A softer, darker tune.
“Dance with me.”
Not "May I?", not even "Would you?"
Just “Dance with me.”
He pulled her onto the floor. One hand gripped hers. The other claimed the bare skin of her back.
She stiffened. Every nerve screaming with the memory of the night. He sensed her fear and released her.
Sammy looked past the crowd and her eyes landed on Damon. He was deep in a conversation with a pretty raven-haired lady, looking handsome as ever.
“Come with me to the VIP lounge, I have a meeting there.” Thorne’s voice snapped her back.
“I want to stay here,” She said, quietly.
“I don’t care what you want.”
"Please. I’ll be bored stiff in there. Just… let me stay." She couldn't believe she was pleading with a monster with no heart.
He summoned one of his army and whispered something to him.
Seconds later, she was handed a black tailored jacket. “Don’t take it off and stay visible.”
She was surprised he actually let her stay. She waved that thought off, "he's still the devil."
The moment he disappeared, Sammy peeled off the jacket and tossed it aside.
"You look... sinful," a voice said behind her.
She turned. Damon.
“Thanks,” She tried to walk past him.
He stepped in front of her. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Everything you’re doing to me.”
She blinked. "I'm your father's play-thing remember?"
“I was mad. Surprised that you chose my father over me.”
"Chose? I didn't choose any of this," she blinked back the tears pooling at her eyes, "and I hate it."
With that, she walked out.
The night air hit like a slap. She welcomed it, walking aimlessly. The distant sounds of music grew faint.
A dimly lit private lounge stood at a corner, men gathered in tight circles—cigar, drinks, loud, reckless laughters.
A man approached her.
"Lion wants a word."
She raised a brow, but ignored him anyway and kept walking.
He flashed the gun tucked into his waistband. "I said Lion wants a word."
She paused, her pulse exploded.
Then she quietly followed him into the lounge.
Every nerve screamed. The smell of alcohol, smoke, and sweat mingled in the air. Her eyes darted from menacing faces to the exits that didn’t exist.
A fat man pulled her to his front, caressing her arm softly.
“I belong to Don Thorne!” The words tumbled out terrified. She didn't believe she said that.
An intense silence followed.
"We don't see him here," Another sneered.
Then laughter.
Filthy, greedy fingers slid into the slit of her gown.
“Please stopppp—” She cried out as his fingers grazed her thigh.
But he wouldn't stop.
Something snapped. Sammy’s hand shot out, slapping him across the face. Gasps rippled through the lounge.
“I said leave me alone. All of you!” Her words carried the authority she didn’t know she had.
The fat man lurched to his feet and seized her hair, yanking hard enough to make her wince in pain.
“Motherfuckers!” The shot came before the scream. The fat man who touched her dropped dead like a sack of meat.
A deafening crack split the room. Her heart leapt to her throat. Glass shattered around her, feet ran past, and she stumbled backward, almost losing her balance.
Don Thorne stormed in—eyes wild, gun blazing. Each shot precise, lethal, every movement calculated. Armies fell before they even knew what hit them.
His men surged behind him. More shots came, chaos erupted: shouts, screams, the clash of furniture and glasses.
Sammy pressed herself against a wall, her chest hammering, Fear clawed at her, but so did awe. He was a predator.
Damon came from the side, eyes locked on her, muscles coiled and ready. He fired warning shots, keeping the opposing armies back.
Don Thorne grabbed her, shielding her body with his. Another shot fired behind them.
He snarled.
Then he looked down at her, checking if she was hurt.
Damon covered them from the rear as they slipped out through the chaos.
The price of disrespect in Don Thorne's world was paid in full.
And she had never been so terrified…
or protected.
- Writer
