VOWS OF VENGEANCE

> "You don't remember me, do you?" he said, tightening the diamond-studded collar around her neck like a vow. "But I never forgot the girl who destroyed me."

The auction room was hot.

It wasn't the gilded walls or the perfume-thick air. It wasn't even the masked elite's glances shifting around her like wolves scenting blood. It was because Elena Hart did not belong. Not among billionaires, royals, and the kind of men who could buy a life on the flip of a card.

And tonight, one of them was going to buy her.

The auctioneer's voice echoed out like a judge giving sentence. "Lot 17. Strange jewel. Untouched. Educated. Trained in classical music, speaks three languages. Perfect companion for a man of taste."

A spotlight shone down on her.

Elena winced but did not move. She could not. She had signed the contract. And if she broke it, her mother's hospital bills would disappear, and so would her last chance of keeping her alive.

She was a violinist. Not a courtesan. Not a plaything. But tonight, she was both.

The crowd murmured. Someone whistled. She hated them. All the masked, faceless devils in the room.

Then she glanced at him.

He stood in the shadows, separate from the crowd, face half-concealed behind a black masquerade mask, suit clinging to his body like it had been stitched on him. He didn't move. He didn't speak. But Elena could feel his eyes probing her like a knife slicing through silk.

Cold. Calculating. Possessive.

The auctioneer began to open the bidding.

"Two million dollars."

"Three."

"Four point five."

"Six."

Elena did not move. She remembered her mother in that chill hospital bed, the bills stacked like tombstones on her kitchen counter. She shut her eyes. She simply had to survive this.

The crowd went still.

A fresh voice entered the bidding, cold and firm:

"Ten million."

The room was still.

No one countered it. Not at that amount.

The auctioneer did not blink. "Sold. To Bidder 73."

The masked man emerged, producing a black card from his pocket and passing it over to the handler in silence. Elena's heart pounded-no, not because it was scared. Because it knew.

She didn't know him.

And yet, she did.

---

The limousine smelled of leather and threat.

Elena sat stiffly opposite him, her gown wrinkled from the tension in her muscles. She still hadn't spoken. Neither had he.

He removed his mask.

And her breath caught.

He was beautiful in the worst possible way. Hard jaw, shadowy eyes like thunderstorms over a wind-tossed ocean. Ice blue perfection. The sort of man that sculptors would mold of black marble-unreachable, untrammeled.

He regarded her with amusement, such as a cat playing with a mouse.

"Do you have an idea why you're here, Miss Hart?" he drawled, voice as soft as silk over the razor's edge.

Elena's throat dry as dust. "To pay off a debt.

He smiled. It didn't touch his eyes.

"No. You're here because I chose you."

He leaned in close. "I could've paid for anyone. Models. Actresses. Virgins bathed in lace and lies. But I didn't want those women."

He stopped.

"I wanted you."

Something in the way he'd said it-as if it meant something, like he'd been waiting years-he made her blood freeze.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

He did not answer. Instead, he drew from his pocket a velvet box and opened it to show her a choker-a diamond collar, elegant and sadistic.

"Wear it."

Her hands were trembling as she held it. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"No." He regarded her. "It's your vow. You wear it as long as you're mine."

"I don't belong to anyone.".

That made him laugh-low and dismal. "You signed the contract. One year. Blind obedience. No escape."

Elena glared at him. "Are you always so controlling?"

He moved in until she could feel the heat of his breath on the ear. "Only when I possess something I waited ten years to hold."

She jerked back, the collar slipping from her fingers.

"You're insane."

"Perhaps."

The limo stopped. Outside, a fortress loomed-a mansion: black steel gates, cloud-touching walls, cameras tall as sentinels. No exit. She knew that now.

He opened the door and stood before her, offering his hand.

She didn't take it.

He chuckled again. "You'll learn, Elena. The only choice you have now... is how obedient you'd like to be."

---

The mansion was colder than the air outside.

Polished floor. Black marble. Crackling fireplace behind glass. She had not uttered a word as he led her past a hallway full of oil paintings and silent aides who bowed without ever glancing at her.

They arrived in a bedroom.

Lavish. Vacant. Trapping.

"This belongs to you," he said. "You will stay here until I tell you otherwise."

He turned to leave.

"Wait." Her voice broke.

He stopped.

"What do I address you as?"

He looked over his shoulder.

"Lucien."

---

That night, Elena rested in the enormous bed, staring at the ceiling.

Lucien hadn't touched her. Hadn't forced her. He hadn't even looked at her since showing her in.

But something about him was worse than violence. It was restraint. Power without chaos. A storm contained.

She didn't sleep.

When she awoke, there was a dress laid out on the armchair. Black silk. Backless. Elegant. Designed for someone who desired to be gazed at like prey.

There was a note.

Dinner. 8PM. Don't be late. – L

---

The dining room was something out of a gothic novel. Candlelight shone on silverware. Lucien sat at the head of the table, waiting for her like a king before a banquet.

She entered slowly.

His gaze never left hers.

"Sit," he commanded.

She sat.

They sat in silence for five minutes, and then she broke it.

"Why me?"

Lucien set his glass down. "We'll get there."

She leaned forward. "No. Tell me now. Why subject yourself to this? Why buy me like some antique vase?"

He sipped his wine. "Because this was the only way to make you look at me."

Her stomach churned.

"I've never met you before-"

He slapped his hand down on the table.

"You did," he growled. "Ten years ago. St. Augustine Academy. You were the girl with the silver violin. You went up on stage and embarrassed the boy who had the nerve to perform before you. Called him a fake. Laughed at the crowd's booing."

She locked up.

"I didn't-"

"You did," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "And that boy-Lucian Vale-got kicked out. Homeless. Invisible. And you went to Juilliard."

Her heart stopped.

No.

That wasn't possible. She remembered the performance. A messy boy with trembling hands, an off-tune instrument, and haunted eyes. She had criticized him afterward-but she never meant to ruin him.

"You're-"

"Lucien Vale is dead," he said coldly. "I buried him. And became something far more dangerous."

She stared at him. "You ruined my life over that?"

He stood. Walked toward her. "You didn't just humiliate me, Elena. You took everything from me. My scholarship. My future. My name."

She stepped back. "I didn't know."

"But now you do."

He stroked the diamond collar on her neck.

"You're mine now. And before the year is out, you'll beg me never to release you."