“You have the hips for it, at least.” His voice is a low, flat murmur meant only for my ears. “Good for breeding. Good for something.”
His dark, dead gaze drops from my face. It tracks slowly down to my chest. To my stomach. To my hips. The assessment is slow. Itemizing. Vile. He looks at me the way a buyer inspects livestock at auction.
“You will need to drop at least twenty before the official photos, though.” His fingers squeeze my hip. “I will have my private nutritionist call you on Monday. She works miracles.”
He saysmiracleslike he means aggressive damage control. He calls me fat with a camera-ready smile on his handsome face.
Behind us, a champagne cork fires toward the ceiling. Polite laughter ripples through the crowd. The string quartet shifts into a new movement. The room keeps turning. The party celebrates.
Nobody notices a monster with his hand clamped on my hip.
“And the kid.”
His tone drops lower. What remains under the fake charm is flat, bored cruelty. The voice of a man discussing a minor defect in an otherwise adequate purchase.
“The bastard stays with the nanny.” He issues the command without leaving room for negotiation. “Or wherever you have been hiding her. I am not raising another man’s mistake.”
The rage detonates in my chest.
“Her name is Tyra.”
The words leave my mouth without permission. Flat. Controlled. The only fracture I allow in the mask. Not in my voice. Not in my expression. Only in the simple fact that I interrupted him at all.
Costa women do not interrupt the men holding the power.
“She is four years old.” My voice is a lethal whisper.
Calix curves his mouth into a sharp, cruel line. Not a smile. He files the reaction away. He stores the exact knowledge of my daughter. He just found the raw nerve. He knows where to press whenever he wants me to flinch.
“Tyra. That is cute.”
He releases my hip. He pats the tight red fabric twice. The dismissive gesture of a farmer checking a horse’s teeth for rot.
“She stays out of my sight.” He smooths the lapels of his expensive suit. “We will not have a single problem.”
He turns his back on me.
He lifts a fresh champagne flute off a passing tray without breaking stride. He raises the glass toward Dominic across the crowded room. A silent, crystal handshake.
The deal is closed. The asset is transferred.
I stand exactly where the butcher left me.
My ribs ache from the lack of oxygen. My face holds the mask. The spot on my hip where his fingers pressed burns like a fresh brand through the fabric.
I set the untouched gin and tonic on a passing tray. It takes concentration.
I walk.
I move through the dense crowd with practiced ease. I flash a polite smile at a wealthy woman whose name escapes me. I touch a councilman’s arm as I squeeze past his conversation.
Lovely evening.A polite nod.Thank you so much.Gracious. Pliable. Perfect.
I perform total compliance at a frequency that satisfies every Costa in the ballroom. My back teeth grind hard enough to crack enamel. The brand on my hip keeps burning.
I push through the heavy wooden door of the women’s restroom.
Empty. The music from the ballroom disappears.