Cayla POV
The Gala was a masterpiece of gold and white, a visual symphony I had orchestrated from the shadows.
I had arranged everything. The cascading orchids, the vintage champagne chilled to perfection, the string quartet playing softly in the corner.
Yet, I stood in the shadows, wearing a plain black dress, holding a clipboard like a shield.
Grafton looked magnificent in his tuxedo, a dark prince amidst the light.
Cherrelle looked like a queen in red silk, vibrant and dangerous.
She was holding court near the champagne tower, basking in the adoration of the room.
Suddenly, she caught my eye and winked.
It was a predator's signal.
Then she reached out and "accidentally" knocked a glass from the tower.
It shattered with a crystalline crash that silenced the music.
She stumbled, landing hard on the shards.
A jagged piece of glass sliced deep into her forearm.
Blood sprayed over the white tablecloth, a violent bloom of red against the pristine setting.
Chaos erupted.
"Get the car!" Grafton roared, pressing a napkin to her arm to stanch the flow.
We sped to the Family hospital, tires screeching as we tore through the city.
The doctors were frantic the moment we burst through the doors.
"She's lost a lot of blood," Dr. Evans said, his voice tight with stress. "We need a transfusion immediately. But her blood type is AB Negative. We don't have enough in the bank."
Grafton drained of color. "Find it! I don't care who you have to bleed!"
"I'm AB Negative," I said, my voice cutting through the panic.
The room went quiet.
Grafton looked at me, his eyes unreadable.
"Do it," he said.
No 'please.' No 'thank you.'
Just a command.
I sat in the chair, rolling up my sleeve as the nurse hooked me up.
"Take two bags," I said.
"Miss Bass, you're already anemic," the nurse warned, glancing at my pale skin. "Two bags could put you in shock."
"Take it," I ordered.
I watched my blood flow through the tube, leaving me, going into her.
Into the woman who tormented me.
But the Code said the Don's woman must be protected, and I lived by the Code even if it killed me.
I passed out when the second bag was half full.
I woke up to the sensation of water filling my nose.
I was choking, burning.
I thrashed, realizing I was tied to a lounge chair.
I was by the penthouse pool.
Grafton was standing over me, holding a bucket.
He poured another bucket of water over my face.
I sputtered, gasping for air, my lungs screaming.
"Wake up," he growled.
"What..." I coughed, expelling water. "What is this?"
"The maid confessed," Grafton said, his voice devoid of humanity. "She said you paid her to poison the champagne glass. The one Cherrelle cut herself on."
"That's a lie," I gasped. "I gave her my blood!"
"Guilt," Grafton said coldly. "You realized you went too far."
He kicked the chair, sending it sliding toward the edge of the pool.
"Who are you working for? Is it the Triads? Or are you just a jealous psycho trying to kill your competition?"
"I am loyal!" I screamed, the injustice burning hotter than the water in my lungs.
He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back, forcing me to look at him.
"You are nothing. You are not an Associate anymore."
He leaned close, his eyes like black holes.
"From this moment, you are Cherrelle's personal servant. You will wash her clothes. You will clean her shoes. You will sleep on the floor at the foot of her bed if she asks."
He let go of my hair, shoving me back against the chair.
"If you try to leave, I will find your mother's grave and dig it up."
He knew exactly how to break me.
He knew I had no one left but the dead.
"Yes, Mr. Mcleod," I whispered, broken.
He walked away.
I lay by the pool, shivering, wet, and empty.
The five years were up.
But the debt, it seemed, was eternal.
Grafton Mcleod POV
I watched her lying there on the tiles, shivering in the aftermath.
She looked small. Broken.
For a second, a sharp pain twisted in my chest.
Why didn't she fight back?
Why did she just take it?
I looked at my hands. They were shaking.
I told myself it was rage.
I told myself she deserved it for what she tried to do to Cherrelle.
But deep down, in a place I refused to look, I wondered why the blood she gave Cherrelle looked so much like the blood Justen spilled the night he died.
Red.
Warm.
And wasted on me.
