The Maybach passed through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Reeves Manor. The Gothic-style mansion loomed in the darkness, its stone walls looking more like a fortress than a home.
Brenda stepped out of the car. Her knee ached dully.
The head butler, Giles, was waiting at the massive oak front doors. He bowed slightly. "Miss Vincent. Please follow me."
Brenda expected to be led upstairs to the library where she usually tutored Aiden. Instead, Giles led her down a long corridor and opened the doors to a private, dimly lit drawing room.
Bryon was sitting in a deep leather armchair. He was wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, the bow tie hanging loose around his neck. He held a crystal glass of amber whiskey.
Brenda stopped in the doorway. "Where is Aiden? I need to start the lesson."
Bryon took a slow sip of his whiskey. "Aiden got into a fight at school today. He is grounded in his room. There will be no tutoring tonight."
Brenda felt a surge of relief. "Then I'll leave."
She turned around.
"Not so fast," Bryon's voice cut through the room, cold and sharp.
He picked up a manila folder from the side table and tossed it onto the glass coffee table in front of him.
"The repair estimate for the Maybach," Bryon said.
Brenda walked over and picked up the folder. She opened it. Her eyes scanned the itemized list and landed on the total at the bottom.
$312,000.
Brenda gasped. The paper shook in her hands. She looked up at him, her eyes blazing. "This is extortion! It was a bumper! You can't charge three hundred thousand dollars for a bumper!"
Bryon stood up. He walked slowly toward her, his tall frame casting a long shadow. "It is a custom-built, ballistic-grade carbon-fiber bumper shipped from Germany. That is the cost."
He stopped right in front of her. The smell of whiskey and cedar enveloped her.
"But," Bryon said softly, looking down at her, "I am willing to wipe the debt clean. Tonight."
Brenda clutched the folder to her chest, her knuckles white. "How?"
"You will accompany me to a charity gala tonight. You will act as my date. You will smile, you will hold my arm, and you will do exactly as I say. Do that, and the debt is forgiven."
Brenda stared at him. Her stomach twisted into tight knots. She knew the upper-class world. She knew nothing was ever just a simple favor.
"I can pay you back," Brenda lied, her voice trembling. "I can set up a payment plan."
Bryon let out a dark, mocking laugh. "On a university lecturer's salary? It would take you a hundred years. You don't have a choice, Brenda."
Before she could argue, Bryon snapped his fingers.
The doors to the drawing room opened. Two women dressed in chic black outfits walked in, pushing a rolling rack filled with glittering evening gowns.
"Make her presentable," Bryon ordered the stylists.
For the next hour, Brenda was stripped, scrubbed, and painted. She fought every step of the way, but the stylists were relentless.
They forced her into a midnight-blue velvet gown. It clung to her curves like a second skin, featuring a plunging back that left her spine completely exposed. The doctor had administered a localized painkiller injection to her knee, numbing the sharp agony into a dull, manageable throb, but every step still felt precarious.
When the makeup artist noticed the faint red marks on her collarbone-the bruises from Bryon's mouth-she didn't say a word. She simply took a brush and expertly covered them with shimmering body highlighter.
When Brenda finally stepped out of the dressing room, Bryon was waiting.
He turned around. His slate-gray eyes swept over her, from the sleek updo of her dark hair down to the elegant, silver flat shoes on her feet. A dark, hungry fire flared in his eyes, so intense it made Brenda want to step back.
He walked up to her. He held an open velvet box. Inside rested a diamond necklace that caught the light like crushed ice.
Bryon stepped behind her. He draped the heavy necklace around her throat. His cold fingertips brushed against the sensitive skin of her nape, sending a violent shiver down her spine. His gaze flicked down to her flat shoes. "Do not think for a second that your little injury earns you any mercy tonight," he murmured.
He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "Remember your role tonight," he whispered, his voice a dark threat. "If you embarrass me, you will pay me back every single cent."
Brenda bit her lower lip, tasting her own lipstick. She forced herself to nod.
They walked out to a waiting Rolls-Royce.
Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up to a private club in Manhattan. The moment the door opened, a barrage of camera flashes exploded like lightning.
Brenda squeezed her eyes shut, blinded by the light.
Bryon's arm wrapped tightly around her bare waist. His grip was possessive, almost painful. He pulled her flush against his side, shielding her from the worst of the flashes as he guided her up the red carpet.
Inside the grand ballroom, the air was thick with the smell of expensive perfume and old money.
Every eye in the room turned to them. Whispers broke out instantly. Bryon Reeves never brought dates to public events.
Brenda forced a stiff smile, her face hurting from the effort. Her knee throbbed despite the flat shoes and the fading painkillers.
A waiter walked by with a tray of champagne. Bryon stopped him. Instead of taking a glass of alcohol, Bryon picked up a crystal glass of warm water and pressed it into Brenda's hand.
Brenda looked up at him, startled by the unexpected gesture.
But before she could process it, the crowd near the entrance parted.
A woman walked into the room. She wore a flowing white haute couture gown. Her hair was styled in soft waves. She looked gentle, elegant, and perfectly fragile.
Brenda felt the arm around her waist turn to solid iron. Bryon's entire body went rigid.
Brenda looked at the woman, then up at Bryon's face. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. His eyes were locked on the woman in white.
