CHAPTER THREE
1472 Words
As soon as I exit the car, the air changes.
The entrance to the Whitmore Foundation Charity Ball lights up like a fantasy — gold fluted columns, crystal chandeliers streaming light down onto polished marble, the pop-pop of flashbulbs like bored stars. It’s what Victor refers to as “good investment.”
I call it what it is:
Another night of pretending.
Another performance.
Tonight hopefully will be my last appearance alongside Mr. Crane.
I spot him instantly.
Long legs, sharp suit, glass of scotch already in hand.
He’s handsome, in a sort of crafted way — glossy black hair, square jawline, eyes that cause other women to melt. But even in the distance, even shrouded by the aura of the event, his presence feels … off.
Rotten Fruit under a perfect skin.
He whirls to face me as I step into the light. His smile widens — gradual, appreciative, predatory.
“There she is,” he mutters as I walk up, his eyes flicking over my body with the ownership of someone who has paid for a thing.
“Isabella.”
I offer him a small, peaceful smile. “Mr. Crane.”
He offers his arm. I take it.
His hand lingers on the bare flesh of my back just slightly too long. Not enough to cause a scene. Just enough to remind me why this is the last night.
The ballroom inside is a cathedral of money.
There's something playing, a string quartet -- soft and arrogant. Waiters slip through the throng with trays of what is surely champagne that is more expensive than some apartments. Billionaires are mixing as if they’re deciding who’ll get a turn to play God the next time.
I breathe to the rhythm of the music. Smooth. Even. Controlled.
Crane leans in. “You look stunning tonight.”
“You’re very kind,” I say, calm, civil.
His eyes gleam. “Not really generous enough to have the grace to look away, it appears.”
He says it with a charming smile — but I feel something seize in the back of my head. This invisible blade of caution I’ve learned to live with.
We make our rounds.
He brings me to men who would rather pretend not to recognize me, but eyes me like I’m the next meal they’re plotting on.
Women who stare too long.
Politicians who have eyes like locked doors.
Board members who shake my hand and keep holding it a little too long.
Crane is very much alive in this world — the old money, the quiet corruption, the skewed power games. He knows whom to greet, whom to flatter, whom to pretend not to see.
And all the while, his hand never departs from me.
Not my waist.
Not my lower back.
Not my arm.
He holds me like an object.
An ornament.
I keep my breathing slow.
Control.
Always control.
We, no. He stops me by a balcony, and now he turns to me all the way, raking his eyes over me as if deciding which flaw of mine to chip at first.
“Relax,” he says softly. “You’re safe with me.”
Safe.
That word tastes like poison.
But I smile. “I am relaxed.”
He smirks, unconvinced but entertained. “Good. Tonight is important.”
“For your contract?” I ask lightly.
“For more than that.” His eyes darken. “Some of the most powerful people in the world are here. Men I want to impress.”
His thumb runs along my hip and I tense up.
“I need you present,” he says quietly. “Obedient. And very, very charming.”
“I am always,” I say, striking the balance between warmth and distance just right.
He chuckles, the sound hollow. “This is why I like you.”
Like.
Not respect.
Never respect.
A server approaches with champagne. Crane gets two glasses, gives one to me.
“Here’s to a productive evening,” he says.
I clink gently. “To your success.”
We drink.
The hours slip by — laughter, chitchat, secrets swapped behind politesse. My face aches from being so perfect in form. My back hurts for the strain pretending to be grace.
Crane’s hand slips too low at one point when he tells a joke.
At another he pulls me in close for a photo with some corporate giants.
I do what Isabella must do.
Not Orchid.
Not survivor.
Only Isabella — the one reshaped to suit nights like these.
Crane leads me to the border of the ballroom as the music slows.
“Dance with me,” he says, not inquiring, demanding.
I place my hand in his. His hand is warm — too warm — as his other one presses hard into the small of my back.
We sway.
He smells like fine cologne and a rich s**t.
He leans in. “You know, Isabella… I do believe I'm going to have you again… for the third time.”
My heart stutters.
A third time breaks the rule.
My rule.
Victor’s rule.
The line I don’t cross.
I keep my voice neutral. “That’s unlikely.”
His smile sharpens. “Victor will approve it.”
My stomach tightens.
“He won’t,” I say simply.
“Then I’ll make him.”
And there it is. The chill. The reminder that men like Crane do not hear no. They hear… invitation to push.
He lowers his voice. “You’re worth bending rules for.”
I keep my face expressionless.
Inside, a knife's blade of cold anger runs along my spine.
He is handsome.
He is rich.
And he is exactly that which women should flee.
When the music stops, he holds me an extra beat too long before letting go.
“Another drink?” he asks.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper, and step away before he can stop me.
I blend into the crowd — I’m not running, you, not really.... I’m just, breathing. Reclaiming space.
I emerge onto the balcony, and the night air chills my skin at once.
The bright lights of the city sparkle on the horizon. Behind the glass, a violin faintly hums.
I allow myself for an instant to feel the quiet that isn’t quiet.
The quiet that listens.
Footsteps approach.
My shoulders tense — but it’s just Rosie, easing out with two glasses of water.
“You alive?” she asks quietly.
“Barely,” I say.
She passes me a glass, her face sympathetic. “He’s worse tonight?”
I nod once.
Rosie exhales. “Well … it’s your last night with him, anyway.”
“It is.”
Her smile softens. “Good.”
We clink water like champagne.
Silent solidarity.
A voice calls Rosie back into the gala, and I am alone once more.
And then—
A voice behind me:
“Isabella.”
I straighten instantly.
Victor half-shaded, half-lit in the doorway, black suit pristine.
He does not go on the balcony. He doesn’t need to.
On his body: He fills the room, anyway.
“Come,” he says quietly. “We need to talk.”
I am following him down a back corridor — hushed, carpeted and off-limits to the guests.
He hesitates by a small alcove and looks me over once.
“Tomorrow evening,” he says, voice slick as glass. “You’re meeting someone new.”
“Who?”
“A man by the name of Lorenzo De Luca.”
The name lands with the soft ripple of a silence I can’t translate.
A foreign surname.
Italian.
Power embedded in the syllables.
“A high-value client,” Victor continues. “Extremely private. Extremely important.”
“And what do you want out of him?” I ask.
Something cold flickers in Victor’s eyes.
“Access,” he says. “You will drug him.”
My blood cools.
“And then?” I ask carefully.
“You’ll get into his phone. All of it. Download everything.”
“So this is a job,” I say.
He smiles faintly. “Everything you do is a job.”
My clutch is clutched in my fingers.
“What’s the target?” I ask softly.
“You don’t need to know.”
His voice is smooth. Dangerous. Decided.
“Just follow instructions to a T.”
He whirls away, dispelling me like air.
But I stand still.
I’ve always heard bad things from the girls whenever they go to an event with an Italian.
Victor pauses, glances back.
“Win him over,” he says.
“That’s all.”
Without waiting for a reply, he leaves.
I inhale slowly.
In my clutch, the glass vial from before shifts — it’s cold in my palm.
A reminder of what tomorrow entails.
- Writer
