Vivian held the heavy black dress box against her chest with her good arm. She stood in front of Landon's desk, feeling like a prisoner waiting for the executioner's final words.

Landon walked around the mahogany desk. He looked incredibly pleased with her submission.

"Don't look so miserable, Vivian," Landon said, his tone dripping with fake magnanimity. "Once the wedding is over, you'll stay on as my assistant."

He leaned against the edge of the desk. "I'll move you into a nicer apartment in Back Bay. I'll increase your monthly allowance."

Vivian's stomach rolled. The bile rose in her throat, but she forced herself to keep her face completely blank.

"And," Landon continued, his eyes gleaming with sick generosity, "when I'm eventually tired of this arrangement in a few years, I'll make sure you're taken care of. There's a VP in equities who has always liked you. I wouldn't mind gifting you to him."

The word gifting struck Vivian like a physical blow to the head. The blood in her veins instantly turned to ice.

In Landon's eyes, she wasn't even a human being. She was a depreciating asset. A toy he could pass down to a subordinate to buy loyalty.

The sheer horror of his words burned away the last remnants of her grief. A strange, absolute numbness washed over her brain. The panic stopped. The fear stopped.

She looked at Landon. She didn't argue. She didn't scream.

"I will make sure everything goes smoothly tonight," Vivian said. Her voice was completely hollow, devoid of any human emotion.

Landon smiled, satisfied that he had finally broken her. He did not touch her. Instead, he looked at her with the cold, detached satisfaction of an owner admiring a caged animal. He gestured toward the door with his chin. "Go to the restroom and change," he ordered flatly.

Vivian turned around. The second her back faced him, the deadness in her eyes sharpened into a razor-thin focus.

She walked quickly down the hall and pushed into the women's restroom. She locked herself inside the handicap stall.

She dropped the black box onto the toilet lid. She pulled out her phone and dialed the encrypted number.

Alex Dunn answered on the first ring. "Miss Snow."

"Is the meeting still on for tonight?" Vivian asked, her breathing fast and shallow.

"Mr. Vance-Beaumont will be waiting for you at nine o'clock at the Ritz-Carlton Residences penthouse," Alex confirmed.

Vivian checked her watch. It was four in the afternoon. Five hours until she could escape this hell.

"I have one condition before I sign," Vivian said, gripping the phone tight. "I need Julian's legal team to take over the St. Agnes Orphanage land lease by tomorrow morning."

There was a one-second pause on the line.

"Consider it done," Alex replied smoothly.

Vivian hung up. She let out a long, shuddering breath. She looked at her pale face in the mirror.

She opened the black box. Inside was a blood-red, deep-V evening gown with a completely open back. It was designed to make her look cheap. It was designed to humiliate her in front of Boston's elite.

Vivian stripped off her clothes. Wincing as the fabric caught on her fiberglass cast, she pulled the red dress over her body.

She applied a coat of bright red lipstick, turning herself into the exact vulgar prop Landon wanted.

She walked out of the restroom. Gus was waiting by the elevators, his eyes sweeping over her with blatant disrespect.

Vivian lifted her chin. She stepped into the elevator, the countdown ticking in her head. Five hours.

The black Maybach rolled up the long, winding driveway of the Mercer family estate in Concord. The massive wrought-iron gates stood wide open.

The driveway was lined with Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, and black SUVs. The entire Boston elite had gathered for the spectacle.

Vivian stepped out of the car. She pulled a thin trench coat tightly around her shoulders, trying to hide the exposed skin of the red dress against the biting autumn wind.

The main house was brilliantly lit. A massive white tent covered the back lawn, and the elegant notes of a string quartet drifted through the cold air.

The moment Vivian stepped into the grand foyer, the atmosphere shifted. Dozens of eyes locked onto her. Whispers erupted behind crystal champagne flutes.

Her bright red dress clashed violently with the sea of conservative black, navy, and silver gowns worn by the old money crowd. She felt the physical weight of their disgust pressing down on her chest.

She scanned the room and spotted Landon near the fireplace, laughing with two state senators.

Landon saw her. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second before he deliberately turned his back to her, leaving her completely exposed to the wolves.

Whitney Astor-Kensington glided across the room in a stunning white haute couture gown. She wrapped her arm possessively around Landon's waist, claiming her territory.

Vivian's throat tightened. She turned to retreat into the shadows near the hallway.

A hand holding a glass of champagne suddenly blocked her path. The golden liquid sloshed, nearly spilling onto her dress.

Maelie Mercer stood there, flanked by Hayden Kensington and Sloane Bishop.

Hayden, Whitney's notoriously sleazy younger brother, let his eyes drag slowly up and down Vivian's body.

"Look at this," Sloane laughed, her voice shrill. "Did you get lost on your way to the strip club?"

The guests nearby stopped talking. They turned their bodies toward the commotion, their eyes gleaming with cruel entertainment.

Vivian clenched her good hand into a fist. She tried to step around them, but Maelie shifted her weight, blocking the exit.

Maelie leaned in close. "You really have no shame, do you? Just like that night at BU."

The letters BU hit Vivian like a physical punch to the gut. All the blood drained from her face. Her lungs seized.

Four years ago at Boston University. She had stood up to Maelie's clique. In retaliation, they had stripped her clothes off and locked her in a pitch-black basement for an entire night.

Hayden leaned close to Vivian's ear. He whistled softly. "You look even cheaper now than you did crying in that basement."

A violent wave of PTSD crashed over Vivian. The elegant string music warped into the echoing sound of their laughter from four years ago. The room started to spin. Cold sweat broke out across her back.

She looked desperately toward the center of the room. Landon was looking right at her. He saw the panic in her eyes. He saw Maelie cornering her.

Landon frowned slightly, then turned back to the senator and raised his glass.

The absolute betrayal froze Vivian's heart. He had brought her here specifically to be slaughtered.

Maelie saw Vivian's hope die. She smiled wickedly. She reached out and violently yanked the trench coat off Vivian's shoulders.

The coat hit the floor. Vivian's bulky arm cast and the completely bare back of the red dress were exposed to the entire room. Several guests gasped audibly.

Before Vivian could react, Sloane stuck her foot out and kicked Vivian's ankle hard.

Vivian lost her balance. She crashed heavily onto the hard marble floor. Her kneecaps hit the stone with a sickening crack.

The sheer, agonizing humiliation swallowed her whole. She lay on the floor, surrounded by the pointed toes of expensive designer shoes.

Maelie looked down at her. "Get out to the backyard," she ordered coldly. "Don't bleed on my mother's rugs."