The crystal chandelier above the ballroom floor was bright enough to expose every flaw in Elara Vance's life. The frayed hem of her borrowed dress, the ache in her feet from shoes a size too small, and the absolute hollowness of her bank account.
She wasn't supposed to be here. She was a restorer—a woman who lived in a world of turpentine smells and dusty gold leaf, not silk and Bollinger champagne. But her mentor had fallen ill, and someone had to deliver the Ming Dynasty Azure Dragon to the Vane Foundation's annual gala.
"Keep your head down, Elara," she whispered to herself. "Deliver the vase, get the signature, and go back to the studio."
She navigated the crowd, the heavy porcelain vase cradled in her arms like a sleeping child. It was beautiful—cobalt blue swirls dancing against a milk-white glaze. It was also insured for more than Elara would earn in three lifetimes.
Then, the world shifted.
A waiter, hurrying past with a tray of oysters, clipped her shoulder. Elara's heel—the one with the wobbly base—snapped.
Time slowed down. She felt the cold air rush past her as she tipped backward. The vase, the priceless, eight-million-dollar Dragon, slipped from her fingers.
The sound of it hitting the marble floor was like a gunshot.
The orchestra stopped mid-note. The hum of a hundred elite conversations died instantly. In the center of the ballroom, Elara sat on the floor, surrounded by a sea of blue and white shards.
"Oh god," she breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard it hurt. "No, no, no..."
"Do you have any idea what you've just destroyed?"
The voice didn't come from the crowd. It came from directly in front of her.
Elara looked up. Standing there was a man who looked like he had been carved out of obsidian. His tuxedo was worth more than her apartment building, and his face was a masterpiece of cold, symmetrical cruelty.
Silas Vane. The "Vulture of Wall Street." The man whose foundation owned the vase.
"I... I'm so sorry," Elara stammered, her hands shaking as she reached for a shard. "I'm a restorer. I can fix this. I can use kintsugi, I can—"
"You can't fix a corpse, Miss...?" Silas stepped closer, his shadow falling over her like a shroud.
"Vance. Elara Vance."
Silas froze. It was only for a millisecond—a flicker in those stormy gray eyes—before the mask of indifference returned. He leaned down, his presence so suffocatingly intense that Elara forgot how to breathe.
"Eight million dollars, Miss Vance," he said, his voice a low, dangerous silk. "That is the price of your clumsiness. Tell me, do you have eight million dollars?"
"I... no. Of course not."
"Then you are in a very difficult position." Silas reached out, his gloved fingers catching her chin, forcing her to look at him. The crowd whispered, the flashes of phone cameras catching the tears brimming in her eyes. "My legal team is very efficient. They will take your studio, your home, and whatever meager future you had planned."
Elara's breath hitched. "Please. There has to be another way."
Silas surveyed her. He looked at the fire in her eyes that even terror couldn't put out. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips.
"Actually," he murmured, loud enough only for her to hear. "I find myself in need of something far more expensive than a vase tonight. Follow me."
He turned and walked toward the private study, not even looking back to see if she followed. He knew she had no choice.