CHAPTER 2

ALINA

The ballroom shimmered with the opulence of crystal chandeliers, their light cascading over the polished floors. Laughter echoed in the air, mingling with the delicate notes of a string quartet. Women in silk gowns danced beneath the arms of suited men, the fragrance of roses and champagne hanging like a cloud. But none of it mattered to me.

It was supposed to be my birthday, yet all I felt was a gnawing emptiness.  There was no one here my age, just men with greying hair and their wives in dresses that looked more like armour than anything meant for celebration. My father had invited his business associates and friends, all of whom looked at me as though I were some kind of... prize to be admired.

But I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t grasp why my father—Arthur Santini—had spent the last of his inheritance on this extravagant party. The money we needed for college, the money we needed just to get by, was being poured into this farce. Every penny he’d ever inherited, every cent he’d taken, seemed to be wasted on this superficial display.

What was the point of it all? Why was he spending money we didn’t have on wine, on laughter, on things that would be gone by the time the night ended, when we were on the verge of losing everything? He didn’t see it, of course.

He never did.

And here I was, stuck in a gilded cage, playing the part of the dutiful daughter, while the reality of our financial ruin loomed just beyond the edge of the glittering chaos.

My father’s voice broke through my thoughts as he appeared beside me, his hand sweeping through the crowd.

"Come, let me introduce you to one of my colleagues, sweetheart."

Reluctantly, I followed him through the throng of guests, my heels clicking against the marble floor. He led me to a man with a too-wide smile and eyes that lingered a little too long on my body.

"Robert, this is my daughter, Alina", my father said with a false cheerfulness, his tone proud.

I forced a smile, my stomach turning. The man’s eyes roamed over me, lingering in places that made my skin crawl.

The man’s smile was too wide, his eyes too eager, as he looked me over with an intensity that made my skin crawl. His gaze slid down my body slowly, too slowly, like he was undressing me with his eyes, savouring every inch.

There was a sleaze in the way he examined me as if I were something to be owned, something to be claimed.

I wanted to take a step back, but my father was right there, proudly presenting me like some kind of valuable possession.

Roberts's eyes lingered on my neckline, then lower, tracing the curve of my figure with an almost predatory gaze. I caught a flicker of something else in his expression—a gleam of satisfaction as if he had just discovered something hidden, something he could take advantage of. I clenched my fists at my sides, the urge to slap that look off his face nearly overwhelming.

“Stunning,” he said, his voice oily and too smooth, slipping over the words like he was savouring the taste of them. His fingers brushed against my arm, sending a shiver of revulsion through me. The touch was light, but it felt like the weight of a thousand hands.

I instinctively took a step back, my breath quickening, but it only seemed to amuse him more. I felt his gaze follow me, still hungry, still possessive. It was as if he expected me to be flattered, to smile and thank him for noticing.

Everything about him repulsed me—the way he lingered too long, the way his eyes moved over me like I was an object for sale.

I saw the flash of irritation in my father’s eyes before he gripped my arm sharply, pulling me away from the man with a tight-lipped smile.

"You're making a scene," he hissed through clenched teeth, dragging me toward a corner of the ballroom, far from prying eyes. His fingers dug into my skin like a vice.

"Why do you have to be such a prude?"

My heart hammered in my chest as I pulled away, but his grip only tightened.

"Smile. Be polite. It’s not about you, it’s about me."

"Arthur, didn’t you see the way he was looking at me?" I whispered, my voice barely audible, hoping he might understand. But he didn't seem to hear.

"Who cares?" he snapped, his voice sharp and dismissive.

"I need this union, and you, my dear, will smile and play along—do whatever the hell he asks. Do not ruin this for me. Do you understand?"

His grip on my arm tightened, his gaze cold and unrelenting, as if I were the problem, not the man who had made me feel like a thing to be ogled.

"Smile," he demanded again, his grip loosening just enough to let me breathe, but his eyes remained hard, calculating.

"For me," he added, his voice smooth and cold. "It's what's best for all of us."

He didn’t see me as his daughter, as a person with thoughts and emotions.

To him, I was just another piece to be moved around on his game board. And I had no choice but to wear that mask—smiling, pretending—because that was all he wanted from me. Even if it tore me apart.

A moment later, Robert Solas approached, his eyes gleaming as he offered his hand.

"Dance with me," he said, his tone almost mocking.

I could feel Arthur’s eyes on me, urging me to say yes with a casual nod.

But I couldn’t do it—

The last thing I wanted was to dance with Robert, to play along with whatever scheme they were hatching.

"I need to use the lady’s room," I said quickly, my voice tight, my smile wavering as I turned away from the dance floor.

Arthur called after me, his voice carrying a mix of annoyance and something deeper, but I didn’t stop. I kept walking, the sound of my heels clicking sharply against the polished floor.

"Happy Birthday to me," I muttered under my breath, the sarcasm thick in my voice.

........

I stayed at the edge of the ballroom, carefully avoiding the eyes of Arthur and Robert, but there was an odd sensation creeping up my spine—an invisible weight, like a gaze locked on me from across the room. It was relentless, heavy, making the already stifling air feel even thicker, suffocating.

The sensation gnawed at me all night.

The noise faded as I climbed the grand staircase, my heels tapping softly against the marble. I needed a moment alone, away from the stifling press of bodies and expectations. My bedroom door clicked shut behind me, the silence finally pressing in.

I turned to the mirror, exhaling, my fingers brushing over the delicate lace at my neckline.

The lights flickered.

A shadow shifted in the corner.

Before I could react, a hand shot out of the darkness, rough and cold, clamping over my mouth. My scream strangled in my throat as I was slammed back against the wall.

My head hit hard. Stars danced in my vision as I struggled, panic spiking through me—until I felt it.

The cold press of steel against my temple.

A gun.

His voice came next, low and deadly.

"Make a sound, and I’ll blow your pretty head off."