He led her through a private elevator to the very center of the ship. The doors opened to a dimly lit, opulent room.
The Elysium Lounge.
It was empty of patrons, but the smell of stale smoke and spilled cognac lingered.
Clinton sat on a velvet sofa in the center of the room. He pointed to the floor in front of him.
"Stand there."
Isela stood. She felt exposed in the oversized shirt and sweatpants.
"Jairo questioned your loyalty," Clinton said. "He thinks you're a spy. I need to know you can handle pressure without a knife in your hand."
He pointed to a bottle of vodka on the table.
"Pour."
Isela reached for the bottle. Her hands were shaking.
"Not for me," Clinton said.
He gestured to the shadows.
A man stepped out. It wasn't Jairo. It was Huston Lyons.
Isela's stomach turned.
"Mr. Lyons feels... aggrieved," Clinton said lazily. "He feels you disrespected him. Pour him a drink. Apologize."
It was a test. A cruel, twisting test.
Huston grinned, stepping forward. He sat opposite Clinton, looking like a toad on a throne.
"Yeah," Huston said. "Pour it, sweetheart."
Isela picked up the glass. She poured the vodka.
She held it out to Huston.
Huston reached for it, but at the last second, he slapped her hand.
The glass flew. Vodka splashed all over Isela's shirt and onto Huston's boots.
"You clumsy bitch!" Huston yelled. "Look what you did to my boots!"
He pointed at the wet leather.
"Clean it up," Huston sneered. "Use your mouth."
Isela froze.
She looked at Clinton.
Clinton was watching her. He didn't intervene. He didn't blink. He was waiting to see if she would break.
If she refused, Huston would attack her, and Clinton might let him. If she did it, she lost everything she was.
Isela looked at Huston's boots. Then she looked at the napkin holder on the table.
She knelt.
Huston laughed, spreading his legs.
Isela took a linen napkin. She didn't lower her head. She grabbed Huston's ankle with a grip of iron.
She scrubbed the boot. Hard.
"Mr. Lyons," she said, her voice clear and loud. "As the Caretaker, hygiene is my priority. But as Mr. Collier's property..."
She stood up, dropping the dirty napkin in Huston's lap.
"...my mouth is reserved exclusively for my owner."
Silence.
Huston turned red. He opened his mouth to shout.
Clinton chuckled.
It was a dark, rich sound.
"She has a point, Huston," Clinton said. "She's exclusive stock."
Clinton stood up. He walked over to Isela.
He took off his white suit jacket. He draped it over her shoulders, covering the wet stain on her shirt.
"Test passed," Clinton murmured.
He looked at Huston. "Get out."
Huston scrambled away, defeated again.
Clinton put his hand on the small of Isela's back. "Now. The contract."
---
