The Metropolitan Museum of Art was a fortress of history and stolen treasures, tonight repurposed as a playground for New York's elite. As the town car pulled up to the grand steps, the flashbulbs of the paparazzi felt like a firing squad. Elara felt the weight of the crimson dress—a heavy, silken armor—and the rubies that seemed to grow colder against her skin the closer they got to the entrance.
"Breathe, Elara," Adrian murmured, though it sounded less like comfort and more like a command. He stepped out of the car, offering his hand. As she took it, he pulled her closer than necessary, his palm settling flat against the bare skin of her lower back. His touch was proprietary, a silent announcement to the waiting cameras: This is mine.
As they entered the Temple of Dendur room, a hush fell over the crowd, followed by a ripple of whispers that sounded like the dry rustle of dead leaves. The ancient Egyptian temple, bathed in soft, artificial blue light, stood as a silent witness to modern excess. Elara felt every eye on her—on the scandalous neckline that left nothing to the imagination, the blood-red rubies that mocked her poverty, and the way Adrian held her as if she were a prize he'd just plundered.
"Adrian! You've finally arrived," a man in his fifties with silver hair and a tan that spoke of private islands approached them. This was Robert Kensington, their host. He didn't look at Adrian; his eyes were busy dissecting Elara. "And this must be the mysterious Mrs. Blackwood. A stunning acquisition, Adrian. Truly. I didn't think the Vance estate had anything this precious left to seize."
The word acquisition made Elara's skin crawl. She wasn't a wife; she was an asset on a balance sheet.
"Thank you, Robert," Adrian replied, his voice smooth as silk but hard as steel. "She's full of surprises."
For the next hour, Elara was paraded through a sea of wolves in tuxedos. She was introduced to CEOs who looked through her as if she were glass and socialites who looked at her with a disdain so sharp it felt physical. Adrian played the role of the attentive husband perfectly—leaning in to whisper in her ear, keeping his hand on her waist, and ensuring she never stood alone. But his grip was a vice, a constant reminder that she had no exit strategy.
"I need air," Elara finally whispered, her head spinning from the scent of expensive perfume and the suffocating weight of the lies.
Adrian glanced at her, his eyes unreadable. "Five minutes. Do not embarrass me."
She escaped to the terrace, which overlooked the dark expanse of Central Park. The night air was a mercy. She leaned against the cold stone balustrade, taking deep, ragged breaths, trying to remember who she was before she became a Blackwood.
"Quite a dress," a voice said from the shadows.
Elara turned to find a woman smoking a cigarette in a long holder. She was older, with fierce eyes and a family that was the Blackwoods' only true rival—Genevieve Sterling.
"It's a weapon, that dress," Genevieve continued, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Adrian always did understand the power of visuals. You're Michael Vance's daughter, aren't you? You have his eyes. He had integrity—a fatal commodity in this world. They killed him for it, you know."
Elara's throat tightened, the rubies feeling like they were choking her. "You're the first person here who hasn't sneered at his name."
Genevieve studied her with a predatory curiosity. "Most people in there are vultures, child. They feast on carrion. But you… you still have a pulse. Tell me, are you a prisoner or a player? Prisoners weep in corners until they're discarded. Players learn the rules of the game so they can burn the board."
Before Elara could respond, the terrace doors swung open. Adrian stood there, his face a mask of frost. The air between him and Genevieve crackled with a decade of corporate warfare.
"Genevieve," Adrian said, his voice edged with frost. "I should have known I'd find you corrupting my wife."
"Adrian, darling. I was just welcoming her to the jungle," Genevieve smiled, a flash of teeth that held no warmth. "Take care of her. She seems… breakable."
Adrian didn't wait for another word. He grabbed Elara's elbow, his grip tight enough that she knew there would be finger-shaped bruises by morning. He hurried her back inside, ignoring her protests. "Stay away from her. The Sterlings are sharks, and you are far too naive to swim with them."
The night culminated in a charity auction—a "pissing contest" between billionaires. When a trip to St. Barts was announced, Adrian's rival started the bidding. Adrian didn't even look at the man. He raised his paddle again and again, the price climbing to three hundred thousand dollars—nearly the amount of her mother's medical debt—just to prove he could.
"Sold to Mr. Blackwood!" the auctioneer cried.
Adrian leaned in, his lips brushing Elara's ear. "See? I can be generous when it suits me."
The drive home was a suffocating silence. It wasn't until they reached the penthouse, away from the prying eyes of the staff, that Adrian's control finally snapped. He slammed the door of the study, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
"You embarrassed me with Genevieve! I told you not to speak to anyone!" he roared. "You are a prop in my revenge, Elara! A living, breathing reminder to this city that I won and your father lost! You don't get to have allies! You don't get to have opinions! You get what I give you!"
"I'm not a doll you can just dress up and parade around!" Elara screamed back, her own fury boiling over. "You hate me so much, yet you're obsessed with owning me! You're terrified that someone might see me as a human instead of your trophy!"
"Yes!" Adrian lunged forward, grabbing her by the waist and spinning her around until she was pinned against the wall. His hand came up, cupping her cheek, but instead of the violence she expected, his thumb traced her jawline with a sudden, terrifying tenderness. "You're mine, Elara. I bought every inch of you. And I will break you if that's what it takes to make you understand that you belong to me now."
His eyes dropped to her lips, and for a heart-stopping second, the air between them became electric. It was a volatile mixture of pure hate and a dark, unwanted attraction that made Elara's blood run hot. She hated him, but her body was betraying her, leaning into his touch despite the poison in his words.
Adrian seemed to realize what was happening. He snatched his hand away as if she'd burned him, his mask of cold indifference sliding back into place. "Go to bed. The stylist will be back at eight for the business lunch. Do not be late."
Brutal Hook:
Elara fled to her room, her hands shaking as she struggled out of the crimson dress. She let it fall to the floor in a heap of silk and gold, leaving it there like shed skin from a past life. She reached for the pearls—the only thing that felt real in this gilded prison. Adrian thought he could break her by turning her into a Blackwood, but as she stared at her reflection, her eyes hard and gleaming like flint, she realized the first rule of the game. In a den of wolves, the only way to survive wasn't to hide—it was to become the thing they feared most. She wasn't just a prisoner anymore; she was a hunter in training.
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