Elena descended the spiral staircase. The red dress fit her like a second skin. It was backless, plunging dangerously low, a weapon of mass distraction.
Julian was waiting in the foyer. He looked up, and for a second, his breath hitched. Lust and possession warred in his eyes.
He stepped forward to take her arm. Elena sidestepped him smoothly.
"Don't touch me," she whispered. "Not unless there are cameras."
Julian's jaw tightened. "Remember the ventilator, Elena. One phone call."
The threat worked. Elena went rigid. She let him take her arm, her skin crawling where his fingers dug in.
They walked out to the waiting stretch limousine. The driver, a stoic man named Frank, held the door open, his eyes trained strictly on the horizon.
Inside the limo, the air was recycled and cold. As soon as the door clicked shut, Julian poured himself a scotch.
"I meant what I said about the baby," he said, settling back into the leather. "The Trust Fund is specific. No heir, no control over the board. I need that control, Elena."
Elena stared out the tinted window. "I will not carry your child."
"You don't have a choice," Julian said calmly. "It's in the pre-nup. Clause 14b. 'Production of an heir within five years.' If you refuse, you breach the contract. You lose the house, the allowance... and your father loses his funding."
Elena turned to him. "I would rather die."
Julian slammed his glass down. "Stop being dramatic! You act like I'm asking you to cut off a limb. I'm offering you the future of the Sterling empire!"
He lunged across the seat, grabbing her face. "You will do this. You will be a mother. And you will be happy about it."
Elena clawed at his hand. "Get off!"
He squeezed her cheeks, his thumb pressing into the fresh bruise beneath the makeup. Pain shot through her jaw.
"Frank!" Julian yelled at the partition. "Turn up the music!"
The privacy glass was already up. Classical music flooded the cabin, drowning out her muffled cry.
Julian released her, shoving her back against the door. "Fix your face. We're here."
The limo slowed. Through the window, Elena could see the blinding flash of paparazzi cameras. The red carpet of the Met was a river of blood and velvet.
"Smile," Julian commanded. "If you look unhappy, I'll have the doctors pull the plug on the funding tonight."
Elena gasped. The cruelty was bottomless.
She reached into her clutch. She pulled out her compact. She checked the concealer. It held.
She took a deep breath. She pictured her father's face. For him. Just for him.
The door opened. The noise of the crowd roared in-shouts of "Julian! Elena! Over here!"
Elena stepped out. She hooked her arm through Julian's. She tilted her head back and flashed a dazzling, million-watt smile. It was the best performance of her life.
But as they walked down the carpet, amidst the screaming photographers, she felt a gaze burning into her.
She looked up. Standing at the top of the stairs, watching them with an unreadable expression, was Sebastian Sterling.
He wasn't looking at her dress. He wasn't looking at Julian.
He was looking at the corner of her mouth, noticing the way her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, and the unnatural stiffness in her jaw when she turned her head.
