Kenia POV:

The sound of the heavy metal pen hitting the glass echoed in the dead silence of the bedroom.

My shoulders jerked upward. I shrank back slightly, letting him see the fear in my posture.

I slowly reached out. My fingers brushed against the cold metal casing of the Montblanc pen. The moment my skin touched it, I forced my right hand to shake.

I didn't just tremble. I let my wrist spasm violently.

The pen slipped from my grip. It clattered against the glass coffee table and rolled a few inches away, leaving a thick smear of black ink across the pristine surface.

Holden’s dark eyebrows crashed together. A hard line of irritation formed around his mouth.

I immediately grabbed my right wrist with my left hand, squeezing it tight as if trying to stop a painful cramp. I let a fresh wave of tears pool in my eyes.

"I'm sorry," I gasped, my voice breaking perfectly. "My wrist. The old injury is acting up again. The cold weather always makes it spasm."

I looked up at him, making sure the tears were visible. Three years ago, during a brutal New York winter, I had walked miles in the snow to bring him hot soup at his office. I had slipped on the icy steps outside his building and fractured my right wrist. I had endured the pain for hours because he was busy in a meeting.

Holden’s jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck jumped. For one brief second, his expression stiffened. He hated being reminded of his debts, especially to me.

I used his silence to push the papers away with my left hand.

"I can't write right now, Holden," I whispered pitifully. "My handwriting will look like a child's scribble. If I sign such an important family document like this, your mother will laugh at me. She already thinks I'm not good enough."

Holden didn't say a word. His dark eyes locked onto mine. He stared at me with an intense, predatory focus. He was looking for a lie. He was searching for any sign of defiance.

I held his gaze. I didn't blink. I let one tear spill over my lashes and drop onto the carpet.

The silence stretched for ten agonizing seconds. I could hear my own pulse hammering in my ears.

Finally, Holden let out a harsh breath. He reached over, grabbed the pen, and snapped the cap back on.

"Fine," he said, his voice returning to its usual cold superiority. "We will do it tomorrow. After the Hamptons family dinner, you will have plenty of time to rest your hand."

I let out a shaky breath, letting my shoulders drop in fake relief.

Holden stood up. He towered over me. "Estella will be at the dinner tomorrow night. She is a crucial business partner for the Dalton family. I expect you to be gracious. Don't show me that petty, jealous face you make when she's around."

My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands. "I understand," I said softly to the floor.

Holden turned toward the bathroom. He paused in the doorway and looked back at the table. "Clean up that ink."

The bathroom door clicked shut. A second later, the sound of the shower running filled the room.

The pathetic, frightened expression melted off my face instantly. My tears stopped. My eyes turned to pure ice.

I pulled a tissue from the box on the table. I wiped the black ink off the glass, pressing down so hard my knuckles ached. I was wiping away the last three years of my blind loyalty.

I picked up the prenup and flipped to the last page. My eyes scanned the tiny print at the bottom. *The female party shall have no right to interfere with the male party’s commercial or social freedoms during the marriage.*

This wasn't a marriage contract. It was a legally binding slave agreement.

I dropped the papers. I stood up and walked into the massive walk-in closet. I stopped in front of the dress I had prepared for tomorrow night. It was a starry blue silk gown. I had spent weeks designing and sewing it myself.

I reached up and touched the cool, smooth fabric. My other hand moved down, resting firmly over my flat stomach.

Holden thought he had total control. He thought I was just a stupid orphan who would take his abuse until he handed me a check.

"You want me to leave with a check and my shame, Holden," I whispered to the empty closet. "I'll make you learn what a real price is."

Kenia POV:

The crystal chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling of the Hamptons estate blinded me as I walked down the grand spiral staircase.

I gripped Holden’s arm. The fabric of his tuxedo was smooth beneath my fingers, but his muscles were rigid. We reached the bottom step, stepping onto the marble floor of the main banquet hall.

Holden’s mother, Annabella, sat in a high-backed velvet chair near the fireplace. She didn't even look up as we approached. She kept her eyes fixed on a wealthy socialite next to her, loudly discussing the bloodlines of her racing horses.

I felt the eyes of the room on me. Dozens of women in designer gowns turned their heads. Their eyes raked over my starry blue dress, followed by sharp, cruel whispers behind their champagne flutes.

Holden suddenly pulled his arm out of my grip.

"I need to speak with the bankers from Wall Street," he said coldly, not looking at me. He turned and walked into the crowd, abandoning me instantly.

I stood alone. I walked over to a passing waiter and took a glass of sparkling water. I couldn't touch alcohol because of the baby. I retreated to a quiet corner next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the rain beat against the glass.

Suddenly, the heavy carved mahogany doors of the hall swung open. A collective gasp rippled through the room.

Estella walked in. She wore a blood-red haute couture gown that clung to every curve. She walked with her chin held high, acting like she already owned the Dalton estate.

My eyes immediately locked onto her neck.

Resting against her collarbone was a massive pink diamond necklace. It caught the light, throwing pink sparks across the room. I recognized it instantly. It was the finale piece from the Sotheby’s spring auction. It cost five million dollars. Holden had proudly told the press he bought it for his future wife.

And now, it was wrapped around Estella’s neck.

Estella scanned the room. Her eyes found me in the corner. A vicious, triumphant smile stretched across her red lips.

She took a full glass of Cabernet from a waiter and walked straight toward me. The crowd of women parted for her, eager to watch the slaughter.

Estella stopped two feet away from me. She looked me up and down, her eyes full of disgust.

"What an interesting fabric," Estella said, her voice loud enough for the surrounding guests to hear. "It looks so cheap. No label, I assume? You really lower the standard of the Dalton family by wearing rags to a formal event."

I kept my face perfectly still. "I designed and sewed it myself," I replied evenly. "The value of art doesn't come from a price tag."

A few older men standing nearby—art investors—nodded slightly in agreement.

Estella’s eyes flashed with pure malice.

She took a step forward. Suddenly, her ankle twisted in an exaggerated, theatrical motion. She lunged forward.

Her hand jerked, and the entire glass of dark red Cabernet splashed directly onto my chest.

The cold liquid soaked through the starry blue silk instantly. The heavy red wine spread across my bodice, staining the beautiful fabric with an ugly, dark patch. Because my reflexes were slightly dulled by the pregnancy, I couldn't step back in time. Drops of wine splattered against my chin and neck.

The crowd let out a fake chorus of gasps.

"Oh my god!" Estella cried out. She covered her mouth with her hand. "I am so sorry! I tripped."

She grabbed a paper napkin from a table and stepped into my space. She aggressively rubbed the napkin against my chest. Through the wet silk, her sharp acrylic nails dug hard into my skin, scratching me.

I grabbed her wrist and shoved her hand away. My eyes burned with rage.

Before I could speak, heavy, uneven footsteps pushed through the crowd. Holden appeared.

Estella immediately let out a whimper. Her eyes filled with tears. She threw herself against Holden’s chest. "Holden! I tripped and spilled my wine, and I tried to help her clean it, but she pushed me!"

Holden wrapped his arm tightly around Estella’s waist. He pulled her close, protecting her. Then, his dark, furious eyes snapped to me.

I stood as tall as I could. The wet silk clung to my skin, freezing me to the bone. I stared into his eyes, waiting for him to see the truth. I waited for just one word of defense.

Holden looked at the massive stain on my dress, his upper lip curling in disgust.

"Kenia, stop embarrassing yourself. Go to the restroom and clean yourself up."

Kenia POV:

I turned my back on the crowded banquet hall. My high heels clicked against the thick Persian rug in the hallway. Every step felt like walking on broken glass.

I pushed past the main corridors and found a secluded guest restroom at the far end of the east wing.

I pushed the heavy door open and locked it behind me.

I walked up to the mirror. The starry blue silk was ruined. The dark red wine looked like a massive bloodstain spreading across my chest and stomach. My throat tightened, and the hot sting of tears threatened to spill over.

I turned on the cold water. I cupped the water in my hands and rubbed it into the silk, but the fabric only absorbed more water, making the stain look larger and darker.

Suddenly, a sharp cramp twisted in my lower abdomen.

I stopped breathing. I dropped my hands and grabbed the edge of the sink. I closed my eyes and took deep, slow breaths, silently begging my baby to be okay.

As the pain slowly faded, I heard footsteps in the hallway outside. They were slow, heavy, and deliberate. Then, the sharp, metallic *snick* of a lighter wheel turning broke the silence.

I opened my eyes and looked through the slight crack in the bathroom door.

A tall shadow leaned against the Roman pillar in the dim hallway. The man wore a perfectly tailored black three-piece suit. A thick Cuban cigar rested between his fingers, the tip glowing orange in the dark.

He felt my gaze. He turned his head slightly, revealing a sharp, hard jawline and a profile carved from stone.

My breath caught in my throat. I knew that face.

It was Gael Russo. The Don of the Russo family. He was Holden’s deadliest rival, a man who controlled the docks and half the city’s underground. Holden had told me Gael was a monster.

Panic spiked in my chest. I reached for the door handle to pull it completely shut.

But Gael had already crushed his cigar into an ashtray. He pushed off the pillar and walked toward me. His long legs covered the distance in seconds.

A heavy, terrifying pressure filled the air as he approached. I stepped back, my spine hitting the edge of the marble sink.

Gael stopped just outside the open door frame. His deep green eyes swept over me. He looked at my wet, stained dress. He looked at my red-rimmed eyes.

There was no pity in his gaze. There was no disgust. It was a calm, piercing look that seemed to see right through my skin.

He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out a neatly folded, dark grey silk handkerchief.

He extended his arm, offering it to me. His movements were slow, polite, and completely controlled. His fingers stayed inches away from mine, ensuring he didn't touch me.

I stared at the expensive silk. My hands trembled as I reached out and took it from him.

"Thank you," I whispered. My voice shook.

I pressed the dry silk against the wet stain on my chest.

"The cut of the shoulder is brilliant," Gael suddenly said. His voice was a low, rough rumble. "The asymmetrical draping elevates the entire piece. It’s a shame about the wine, but the talent is obvious."

I snapped my head up. My eyes widened in shock.

He was the first person tonight to look past the stain and see my work. He understood my art.

Gael met my eyes. For the first time in my life, I wasn't being looked down upon. Coming from an orphanage, I was used to eyes full of pity or contempt. Holden looked at me like a possession. But Gael looked at me as an equal. The intensity of his respect slammed into my chest, breaking through my defenses.

Down the hall, the heavy thud of security boots echoed. Holden’s guards were patrolling. Gael knew he couldn't stay in enemy territory.

He adjusted his silver cufflinks. He turned to walk away.

After two steps, he stopped. He turned his head, looking back at me over his broad shoulder. His green eyes locked onto mine, burning with a quiet intensity.

"You don't belong in this cage, Kenia."