The mirror didn’t lie, but it felt like it was telling a story about a woman Selene no longer recognized.

The gold dress Silas’s stylists had chosen was less an outfit and more a suit of liquid armor. It was backless, held up by two impossibly thin chains of real 24-karat gold that crossed over her shoulder blades. The silk clung to her curves, shimmering with every breath. On her finger, the canary diamond felt heavy—a literal anchor keeping her tethered to the man waiting in the foyer.

When she stepped out of the elevator, Silas was waiting. He was dressed in a black tuxedo so sharp it looked like it could draw blood. He was leaning against the marble console, checking his watch, but the moment the heels of her gold sandals clicked against the floor, he froze.

His gaze started at her feet and traveled slowly—agonizingly slowly—up the length of her legs, the curve of her waist, and finally rested on the pulse point at her throat, which was hammering visibly.

"You look..." Silas paused, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on her arms stand up. "Expensive."

"Is that the only compliment you have, Silas? Price tags?" Selene challenged, though her heart was racing.

He walked toward her, the scent of his cologne—dark vetiver and crisp gin—filling her senses. He reached out, his gloved hand catching the small of her back. The heat of his palm burned through the thin silk of the dress.

"Tonight, Selene, price tags are the only thing these people understand," he whispered, leaning down so his lips were an inch from her ear. "You are the most valuable thing in this room. Remember that. If you look like you’re suffering, they’ll smell blood. Smile. Look like you’ve never been happier to be owned."

The gala was held at the Metropolitan Museum, a sea of black ties, floor-length gowns, and the clinking of crystal. As they stepped onto the red carpet, the wall of paparazzi erupted. The flashes were blinding, a strobe-light nightmare that made Selene want to flinch, but Silas’s grip on her waist tightened, pulling her flush against his side.

"Head up," he commanded under his breath, his face a mask of cool, billionaire arrogance for the cameras.

They moved through the crowd like a royal procession. Selene felt the weight of a thousand stares—some envious, some predatory. But it was the arrival of Julian Vane that changed the air in the room.

Julian was Silas’s half-brother, the "legitimate" heir who had spent his life trying to bury Silas. He was blonde, polished, and wore a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Silas," Julian purred, stepping into their path with a champagne flute in hand. "I heard a rumor you’d found a new hobby, but I didn't realize it was the lovely Selene Vance. I haven't seen you since your father’s stock plummeted. Rough year for the Vances, isn't it?"

Selene felt Silas’s body go rigid. The muscle in his jaw turned to stone.

"Selene isn't a hobby, Julian," Silas said, his voice coming out as a low, dangerous silk. "She’s my fiancée. And as for her father’s stock... I’ve decided to take a personal interest in his recovery."

Julian’s eyes flickered to the massive diamond on Selene’s hand. "Fiancée? Fast work, even for a shark like you. Tell me, Selene, does he treat you as well as he treats his companies? Or are you just waiting for the liquidation?"

Before Selene could find her voice, Silas stepped closer to his brother, the atmosphere between them turning lethal. "Careful, Julian. You’re talking about my future wife. If you breathe in her direction again, I’ll buy your firm just to fire you in the parking lot."

Julian laughed, but it sounded strained. He looked at Selene, his eyes lingering on the exposed skin of her back. "We’ll see how long the 'contract' lasts, Silas. Everything has a shelf life."

As Julian drifted away, Selene felt a wave of nausea. She turned to Silas, her voice a sharp whisper. "Is that what I am? A weapon to use against your brother?"

Silas didn't look at her. He signaled a waiter and took two glasses of champagne, handing her one. His hand brushed hers, and for a second, the coldness in his eyes cracked, revealing a flash of that raw, jagged hunger from ten years ago.

"You’re not a weapon, Selene," he murmured, taking a slow sip. "You’re the prize. And I don't lose prizes."

He leaned in then, his hand moving from her waist to the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. In front of the entire elite of Manhattan, he pressed a slow, possessive kiss to the corner of her mouth. It wasn't a kiss of love; it was a mark. It tasted of expensive bubbles and ancient resentment.

"Now," he whispered against her lips, his eyes dark with a heat that terrified her. "Let’s go find the man who tried to buy your father’s house this morning. I want him to see you standing next to me while I ruin him."