Elie stood pinned against the heavy oak door. Her hands shook violently as she slowly bent down and picked up the red silk dress from the floor.

Ebert let out a cold scoff. He turned his back to her, walking back toward the floor-to-ceiling window. He pulled a cigar from a humidor, clipped it, and lit it. Thick, blue-grey smoke began to fill the air.

Elie clenched her jaw. She turned around to face the door. With stiff, freezing fingers, she peeled off her torn, wet sweater and pushed down her soaked, heavy jeans.

She quickly pulled the red silk dress over her head. The fabric barely reached her mid-thigh, and the front featured a dangerously plunging neckline that left almost nothing to the imagination. The dress had no zipper in the back. It was held together only by a series of thin, delicate straps that crossed over her entirely exposed back.

Elie reached behind her, trying to tie the silk strings, but her fingers were trembling too violently. She kept dropping them.

Ebert must have heard her struggling. He turned around. He stood there, cigar clamped between his teeth, his dark eyes fixed on the large expanse of pale, bare skin on her back.

He walked up behind her.

The intense heat radiating from his large body hit her back. His hot breath brushed against the sensitive skin of her nape. Elie's entire body went rigid. She stopped breathing.

Ebert's rough fingers brushed against her spine as he gathered the silk straps. A violent shiver wrecked through her. He pulled the strings tight, his movements rough and impatient, and tied them into a knot.

As the straps pulled tight, the red silk molded perfectly to her narrow waist and the curve of her hips. Ebert's eyes darkened.

He grabbed her wrist. His grip was like a steel vice. He didn't care that she was barefoot. He dragged her away from the door and out of the study.

They walked down the grand staircase. The maids and servants in the foyer immediately dropped their heads, staring at the floor, not daring to look at the humiliating scene.

Davin stood by the front doors. He held a pair of towering, rhinestone-encrusted high heels and a heavy, black men's overcoat.

Ebert snatched the coat from Davin. He threw it roughly over Elie's shoulders, completely covering the scandalous red dress and her bare skin.

Davin placed the heels at Elie's feet. Elie stepped into them. They were at least a size too large. The hard material made her feet slip dangerously with every step, offering absolutely no stability.

Outside, a black, armored Maybach sat idling in the pouring rain. A bodyguard held a massive black umbrella over the open rear door.

Ebert shoved Elie into the spacious back seat. He slid in right after her. The heavy door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the sound of the storm.

The Maybach pulled away from the estate, gliding smoothly toward the glowing skyline of Manhattan.

The silence inside the car was suffocating. Elie pulled Ebert's coat tighter around herself. The fabric was saturated with his scent-a sharp, cold mix of cedarwood and tobacco. It invaded her lungs with every breath.

She turned her head to look at him. She had to break the silence.

"Who are you taking me to see?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Ebert leaned back against the plush leather seat. He crossed his long legs. He didn't look at her.

"Mortimer Finch," he said, his tone entirely casual.

The blood drained from Elie's face. Her heart plummeted into her stomach. Everyone in New York knew Mortimer Finch. He was a venture capital titan, and a notorious, disgusting predator.

She snapped her head toward him, her eyes wide with horror.

"Are you making me... escort for him?" she demanded, her voice rising in panic.

Ebert let out a low, cruel laugh. He leaned closer to her. His long fingers reached out and pinched the hem of the coat she was wearing.

"You think too highly of yourself," Ebert mocked. "You aren't an escort. You're just a free gift."

Elie violently slapped his hand away.

"I won't do it. I won't go," she spat. "Let me out."

She reached for the door handle and pulled. It didn't budge. The central locking system was engaged. She was trapped.

Ebert watched her panic with absolute calm. He adjusted his cuffs slowly.

"Your grandmother is currently undergoing an experimental targeted therapy at Manhattan General," Ebert said softly.

Elie froze. Her hand dropped from the door handle.

"And your uncle's H1B visa renewal application," Ebert continued, his voice like ice. "It is currently sitting on the desk of a senior immigration officer. A man who happens to owe me a very large favor."

The two threats hit Elie like physical blows to the chest. They were two sharp knives, instantly severing every single ounce of fight she had left in her.

Because of the US healthcare system, her grandmother's treatment cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Because of the strict immigration laws, her uncle's visa was the only thing keeping their family from being deported and ruined. Ebert controlled it all.

Elie's hand slid off the door. Her entire body went limp. She collapsed back into the leather seat, all the life draining from her eyes.

She closed her eyes. A hollow, broken laugh escaped her lips.

"As you wish, Master," she whispered into the dark car.

The Maybach glided smoothly through the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan. It turned off the main avenue and onto a highly private, tree-lined driveway.

The car came to a slow stop under the grand, low-lit portico of the Red Leaf Club. Two rows of valets in crisp uniforms stood at attention.

Davin quickly stepped out of the passenger seat. He opened a massive black umbrella and pulled open the rear door.

Ebert stepped out first. His long legs carried him to the edge of the dry pavement. He turned his head, his cold eyes fixing on Elie still inside the car.

Elie took a deep breath. She pulled the black overcoat tightly around her body. Wearing the shoes that were a size too large, she forced herself to step out of the car.

The moment her stiletto hit the wet, polished marble of the driveway, her ankle rolled sharply. A spike of pain shot up her leg, and she pitched forward.

Ebert reacted with lightning speed. His long arm shot out, wrapping tightly around her narrow waist. He yanked her hard against his solid, hard chest.

Elie gasped. Her hands instinctively flew up, pressing flat against his chest to steady herself. She looked up, her eyes crashing into his deep, dark gaze.

For a fraction of a second, a memory flashed through Elie's mind. Three years ago, during a thunderstorm, he had caught her exactly like this. He had held her so warmly.

But the absolute ice in Ebert's eyes shattered the memory instantly.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear.

"Don't play games with me," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Elie bit her lip. She pushed against his shoulders, trying to stand up straight. But the large hand on her waist clamped down harder, locking her against him.

Suddenly, Ebert lowered his head. His mouth crashed down onto the pale, exposed skin of her neck.

Elie's eyes went wide. Her entire body stiffened in shock. She felt his teeth scrape against her skin, right over her pulse point. He sucked hard, biting down with a painful, punishing force.

"Stop!" she gasped, struggling wildly. She pushed at his chest with all her strength, but it was like trying to push a brick wall. He didn't move an inch.

A few seconds later, Ebert lifted his head. He raised his thumb and roughly wiped the saliva from her skin. He stared at the dark, purple-red bruise blooming on her neck with dark satisfaction.

"That," Ebert sneered, his voice dripping with malice, "is so Mortimer knows exactly whose property he's touching. Even when I give you away, you wear my brand."

A wave of absolute nausea and freezing cold washed over Elie. Her pride, her dignity, everything was crushed into the dirt by that single, violent mark.

Ebert let go of her waist. He calmly adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, instantly returning to his untouchable, aristocratic posture.

He looked at Davin. "Take her to the VIP suite on the top floor."

Ebert turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing down a different hallway of the club.

Elie stood frozen on the marble floor. The cold wind whipped around her legs. She watched his back disappear, feeling a profound, bottomless despair.

Davin gestured toward the entrance with a blank face. "This way, Miss Joyce."

Elie moved like a puppet with its strings cut. The pinching pain in her toes was nothing compared to the numbness in her chest. She followed Davin into the opulent, gold-trimmed lobby of the club.

Several wealthy New York socialites were lingering near the bar. They turned their heads, their eyes raking over Elie-a woman limping in a man's oversized coat. Their whispers and mocking stares felt like physical slaps.

Elie kept her head down. She dug her fingernails so hard into her palms that the skin broke. She forced herself to ignore them.

They entered a private, gold-plated elevator. Davin swiped a sleek black card. The elevator shot up to the top floor.

The doors slid open. The hallway was lined with thick, sound-absorbing carpet and expensive modern art.

Davin stopped in front of a pair of heavy mahogany doors with gold handles. The most exclusive suite in the club.

Davin turned to face her. His expression was completely devoid of sympathy.

"Take off the coat," Davin instructed coldly. "Mr. Finch does not like unnecessary layers."

Elie squeezed her eyes shut. A single, hot tear escaped, sliding down her cheek. She slowly pushed the heavy black coat off her shoulders. It fell to the floor in a heap.

She stood there, shivering in the tiny red silk dress, the violent purple hickey fully exposed on her neck.

Davin pushed the heavy mahogany doors open.

The heavy mahogany doors swung open. Elie stepped into the room. Her bare arms were covered in goosebumps. Her toes throbbed in the tight heels. Her movements were stiff, mechanical.

The VIP suite was massive. The lights were dimmed to a sultry, dark amber. The air was thick and heavy, suffocating her with the smell of expensive cigars, spilled alcohol, and cheap, overpowering perfume.

Davin pulled the doors shut behind her. The soft click of the lock engaging severed her last connection to the outside world.

Elie's eyes scanned the room. In the center sat a massive, U-shaped leather sofa.

Right in the middle of the sofa sat Mortimer Finch. He was a heavily overweight man with thinning hair and a flushed, sweaty face.

But what made the blood freeze in Elie's veins was the man sitting on the single armchair to the right.

Ebert Ewing.

He was already there. He held a martini glass in his hand, his legs crossed, his expression completely bored and detached.

Mortimer's eyes snapped toward the door. His gaze locked onto Elie. His eyes crawled over the thin red silk clinging to her curves, lingering on the expanse of her bare skin. It was the look of a starving predator.

Then, Mortimer's eyes landed on her neck. He saw the angry, purple-red hickey.

Mortimer's thick eyebrows shot up. A greasy, highly suggestive smile spread across his face.

"Mr. Ewing," Mortimer laughed loudly, his voice grating. "The 'gift' you brought me is absolutely exquisite. And the packaging... very kinky. I like it."

Ebert slowly swirled the clear liquid in his martini glass. He didn't even look at Elie.

"As long as Mr. Finch is pleased," Ebert said, his voice flat and businesslike. "I trust the Series C funding will proceed without any further delays."

Hearing herself being traded like a piece of meat for a corporate funding round made Elie's stomach violently cramp. She felt physically sick. Her fingernails dug deeper into the bleeding crescents in her palms.

Mortimer patted the empty leather cushion right next to his thick thigh.

"Come here, sweetheart. Sit next to me," Mortimer commanded, his voice dripping with lust.

Elie's legs felt like they were made of lead. She couldn't move. She turned her head and looked at Ebert. Her eyes were wide, silently begging him. Please. Don't do this.

Ebert took a slow sip of his martini. He deliberately looked away, staring at the wall. He completely ignored her plea.

The last shred of hope died inside Elie. She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. She forced her leaden legs to move. She walked over and sat down stiffly on the very edge of the cushion next to Mortimer.

The second she sat down, Mortimer's large, sweaty hand clamped down heavily onto her bare thigh.

Elie flinched violently. She instinctively jerked her body away from him.

But Mortimer's other arm shot out, wrapping around her narrow waist. He yanked her hard against his side, pinning her against his bulky body.

The overpowering stench of his cologne mixed with the smell of stale alcohol and bad breath hit Elie's face. She held her breath, fighting the intense, physical urge to vomit.

Sitting across from them, Ebert watched Mortimer's arm wrap around Elie's waist. The fingers holding his martini glass tightened abruptly. His knuckles turned stark white against the crystal.

But his face remained a perfect, frozen mask of indifference. He made no move to stop it.

Mortimer picked up a glass filled to the brim with straight, high-proof vodka from the table. He shoved it directly against Elie's lips.

"Drink it," Mortimer ordered.

Elie turned her head away, pressing her lips tightly together. "I... I don't drink," she managed to say.

Mortimer's greasy smile vanished. He grabbed her chin roughly, his thick fingers digging into her jawbone.

"If you don't drink, you're disrespecting Mr. Ewing," Mortimer threatened.

Elie's eyes darted to Ebert.

Ebert stared at her with dead eyes. "Drink it," he commanded coldly.

Those two words were the final blow. They shattered whatever was left of her soul. A look of absolute, dead resignation washed over her eyes.

Elie took the glass from Mortimer's hand. She tilted her head back and downed the entire glass of straight vodka in one go.

The liquid was like liquid fire. It burned a path down her throat and exploded in her empty stomach.

Elie immediately began to cough violently. The harsh coughing racked her small frame. Tears sprang to her eyes, turning the edges of her eyes a painful, bright red.

Mortimer threw his head back and laughed. Taking advantage of her coughing fit, he slid his sweaty hand higher up her thigh, his fingers moving dangerously close to the edge of the silk dress.

Elie's body shook like a leaf in a hurricane. She slammed her hand down, grabbing Mortimer's thick wrist to stop his hand. She was panting heavily.

She forced her head up. Her eyes were bloodshot and watering.

"Excuse me," she choked out, her voice raspy and broken. "I need to use the restroom."