Chapter 9: Ophelia's POV

The man walked in through the main entrance.

His black bespoke suit was cut with ruthless precision, tracing the line of broad shoulders down to a narrow waist. His skin was the kind of pale that came from years without sunlight, his brow ridge deep-set, his jawline sharp as a cold blade. Even his lips carried almost no color — and yet his eyes, at their outer corners, held a faint wash of red.

Every person in the room stepped back without thinking, clearing a wide path.

"Mr. Locke."

The city's elite bowed their heads, fawning and careful. Some hunched their spines without seeming to realize it, as though submitting to something larger than themselves.

He didn't respond. He raised one hand, barely, in a gesture of vague acknowledgment.

Two broad-shouldered bodyguards in black moved in immediately, guiding him toward a secluded VIP lounge at the far end of the hall and pouring a measure of whiskey.

The whispers rolled in like a tide.

"The head of the Locke Consortium actually showed up to a charity gala?" "Don't stare at him. You know he's unhinged, right? Last month some newly-minted nobody made the mistake of looking at him too long. Next day they found him in Lake Michigan."

I stood where I was and watched the man sitting in the shadows, my champagne glass tilting slowly in my hand. He sat with his legs crossed, long fingers curled loosely around his glass. A few strands of hair fell across his forehead, obscuring half his face. He looked like fine porcelain — beautiful, breakable, and not to be touched.

"Stop staring."

Richard's doughy face pushed into my line of sight and blocked the view.

"That's Sebastian Locke." He dropped his voice, something guarded beneath the words. "Keep your distance. The man's unhinged."

I pulled my gaze away and let a small, convincing flinch show. "Really? How is that possible?"

"Who knows. The kind of lunatic who coasts on family money — everyone just stays out of his way. Forget him." Richard's eyes slid back to me, that familiar slick attention settling on my collarbone, my waist. "Miss Ophelia, shall we go upstairs? There's a private room. Quieter up there."

Arthur, who had been hovering nearby as if about to say something to Richard, took a deliberate step back the moment Richard spoke.

"Richard, you two carry on. Ophelia." He gave me a pointed look. "Mind yourself."

And just like that, he sold me out completely.

Richard must have caught the signal. The fat of his cheeks bunched together, and he reached out with stubby fingers, impatient, moving to loop his arm around my waist.

I stepped back half a pace and let him miss.

His hand hung in the air. The smile at the corner of his mouth flattened.

"Something wrong, Miss Hayes?" He kept his voice low, a wet, porcine rasp beneath the words. "No one's coming to your rescue now. Your father's financing has collapsed. Keeping me happy is the only option you have left. Don't throw away what's being offered."

I looked at him steadily, set my champagne glass down on a passing tray, and let the corner of my mouth curl upward.

"Mr. Richard," I said, "do you know what you smell like?"

"You smell like offal that's been rotting in a sewer drain for three days."

He went rigid.

"Something that foul has no business getting this close to me." I held his gaze, my voice flat. "A dog in heat has more dignity than you."

The color that flooded his face was immediate and ugly — deep, purplish red, a vein pulsing at his temple.

"You little bitch. You want to die?"

He lunged forward and seized my wrist, yanking me toward the side corridor that led to the private rooms.

I noted, inwardly, that his grip was stronger than it had any right to be. My actual strength is considerable — more than most men — but he was pulling with a force that didn't match what I'd expect from someone who spent his days behind a desk. A soft, pampered upstart like Richard shouldn't have felt like this.

I filed that away.

"Let go — you're hurting me—"

The tears came on cue. I stumbled against his grip, twisting with deliberate, helpless-looking resistance.

The guests nearby turned to look. I saw the expressions move across their faces in sequence — detachment, calculation, a thin trace of pity — and not one of them moved.

Richard felt my apparent weakness and grew louder for it. "Plenty of attitude out here, isn't there? Let's see how loud you are once we're upstairs."

He kept dragging me. My plan had been to make a scene, to embarrass him enough that he'd back off in front of the crowd. I hadn't counted on him not caring at all.

The index finger of my right hand bent slightly, almost on its own.

"Richard."

A single voice, from somewhere in the corner of the hall.

Richard's entire body locked up as if the word had been a current run through him.

The hand gripping my wrist went slack — and then I felt it begin to shake.