I was once the princess of the Upper East Side, but now I'm just "debt wrapped in pretty skin." To keep my father alive in a federal penitentiary, I signed a contract I didn't fully understand. I thought it was about restoring my family's name, but producer Barnett Orr treated it like a bill of sale for my soul. Inside his limousine, the air smelled like gasoline and fear. Barnett didn't want a star; he wanted a victim. He bruised my jaw and ripped my vintage silk gown to shreds, laughing because he knew I couldn't fight back without signing my father's death warrant. "Don't forget who owns you, Felicity," he whispered. When he dragged me into Dewitt Knight's penthouse party, I was a walking disaster. I huddled in Barnett's oversized jacket, my lip bleeding and my spirit shattered. The elite crowd didn't see a victim; they saw a fallen girl selling herself for a role. A former rival poured red wine over me, and the room erupted in cruel laughter while Barnett told everyone he was just "testing my commitment." I looked up at the balcony, locking eyes with Dewitt Knight. He was a god in a bespoke suit, looking down at me with cold, lethal disgust. He didn't see the bruises or the desperation. He only saw a transaction he found beneath him. "So the rumors are true," he said, his voice cutting through the music. "The Aguilars really will do anything for money now. Even this." I was trapped between a monster who wanted to break me and a man who thought I was trash. No one cared that my father's life depended on my silence. When Barnett cornered me in a guest room later that night, his belt jingling like a death knell, I realized no one was coming to save a girl like me. I fought back with a crystal vase, shattering it against his shoulder, but I was drowning in my own terror. Just as Barnett lunged for my throat, the door was kicked off its hinges. Dewitt stood there, finally seeing the blood on the carpet and the map of purple bruises on my bare back. He chased the monster away, but I didn't feel safe. I locked the guest room door, wedged a chair under the handle, and slept with a silver letter opener pressed against my skin. When I crept into the kitchen at midnight and found him waiting in the shadows, I aimed the blade at his heart. "In this house, no one hurts you," he promised, his voice a low velvet rumble. But in a world where I had already been sold once, I knew that even protection came with a price I couldn't afford to pay.
Felicity pressed her face against the cold glass of the limousine window. The condensation cooled her cheek, but it did nothing to stop the burning in her lungs. She tried to make herself small, to disappear into the black leather upholstery, but there was nowhere to go. The partition was up. The driver couldn't hear a thing. Or maybe he just didn't want to.
Barnett's hand clamped around her ankle. His grip was wet and hot. He yanked her back toward the center of the seat. Her heels scraped uselessly against the floor mats.
"You look beautiful when you struggle," he said. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through the seat. It made her stomach turn over.
"Please, Barnett." Felicity's voice was barely a whisper. She didn't recognize it. It sounded thin. Broken.
He laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. It was the sound of a man who owned something expensive and liked breaking it. He reached up and grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jawline. He squeezed until her teeth ground together.
"Don't forget who owns you, Felicity. Remember Article 12 of the Image Rehabilitation Agreement? You signed it. You agreed to do whatever is necessary to restore your market value."
Felicity stared at the dark partition. She focused on a small scratch in the leather. If she looked at him, she would vomit. If she fought him, he would make the call. Her father was sitting in a federal penitentiary in upstate New York. One call from Barnett to his connections on the inside, and her father wouldn't survive the night.
She bit her lip. She bit it until she tasted copper.
Barnett didn't like her silence. He wanted her to beg. He wanted the old Felicity, the one who threw champagne in people's faces, to cry for him. When she didn't make a sound, his face twisted.
He backhanded her.
The sound was loud in the enclosed space. A sharp crack. Felicity's head snapped to the side. Her ear rang. A dull throb started in her cheekbone and radiated down her neck.
She didn't cry. She slowly turned her head back to face him. Her eyes were dry. They felt like sand. She looked at him with nothing. No fear. No anger. Just nothing.
That look was a mistake.
Barnett growled. He reached for the strap of her gown. It was vintage silk, worth more than most people's cars. He tore it like it was paper. The sound of ripping fabric filled the car.
Felicity gasped. Her hands flew up to cover her chest. The air in the car suddenly felt freezing.
Barnett unbuckled his belt. He pulled off his tie and wrapped it around his knuckles.
"You think you're still the princess of the Upper East Side?" he hissed. "You're nothing. You're debt wrapped in pretty skin."
He lunged for her. Felicity kicked out. Her heel hit the door control panel. The window motor whirred. The glass slid down a significant gap, nearly halfway down.
The smell of gasoline and exhaust from the garage rushed in. It was the sweetest thing she had ever smelled.
Barnett cursed. He reached over her to hit the switch.
He slammed his fist against the partition glass and jabbed the intercom button. "Shut that damn window!" he yelled.
Felicity curled into a ball. She pulled her knees to her chest. Tears finally leaked out, hot and stinging. She squeezed her eyes shut. She tried to dissociate. Madame Rouge had taught her that in acting class. Be the object. Be the chair. Be the glass. Be the doll.
Barnett grabbed her hair. He yanked her head back.
Suddenly, the world turned white.
A beam of light, intense and blinding, flooded the back of the limousine. It cut through the tinted glass of the rear windshield and illuminated everything. The torn dress. The bruises forming on her arm. The tie wrapped around Barnett's hand.
Barnett froze. He threw his hand up to shield his eyes.
"What the hell?" he shouted.
Felicity blinked against the glare. Through the rear window, she saw the silhouette of a car. It was low. Sleek. A predator in the dark. The door of the sports car began to rise upward, like the wing of a dark angel.
Chapter 1 1
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Chapter 2 2
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Chapter 3 3
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Chapter 4 4
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Chapter 5 5
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Chapter 6 6
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Chapter 7 7
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Chapter 8 8
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Chapter 9 9
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Chapter 10 10
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