Chapter 7
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was drowning in camera flashes.
Franklin Owen forced Francisqui to attend the charity gala. He wanted to parade her around as proof of his new connection to the Livingston empire.
Francisqui stepped onto the red carpet. She wore the black Le Smoking suit she bought yesterday. The sharp lapels and plunging neckline made her look lethal. Beside the pastel ballgowns of the other women, she looked like a predator.
Franklin grabbed her elbow, his fingers digging into her nerve. "Smile. And go talk to Grossman. Burleigh hasn't proposed yet. We need a backup."
Francisqui felt the bile rise in her throat. She scanned the massive hall. She couldn't see Burleigh's wheelchair anywhere.
Grossman materialized from the crowd. He held two glasses of champagne. His face was flushed with alcohol.
"Francisqui," Grossman slurred. "You look... expensive tonight."
He stepped into her personal space. His hand reached out, resting heavily on the curve of her waist.
Francisqui's muscles locked. She wanted to break his wrist. But she saw Franklin glaring at her from across the room. The graveyard maintenance. If she hit Grossman, Franklin would let her mother's grave rot.
She forced her body to go limp. She stood still, letting Grossman's hand burn against her suit.
Two floors up, behind a pane of one-way glass in the VIP viewing box, Burleigh Livingston watched the floor.
Vance stood behind him. "Grossman is touching her, sir."
Burleigh gripped the armrests of his wheelchair. His knuckles turned white. He saw Francisqui's body stiffen, then relax into submission.
A cold, calculating fury ignited in Burleigh's chest. It wasn't jealousy; it was the absolute disgust of seeing his property handled by a lesser player. His asset, his perfectly positioned pawn, was being tainted by a sweaty, low-level pig. It ruined the clean aesthetics of his chessboard.
"She's letting him compromise her," Burleigh sneered, his voice dropping to a lethal register. "She thinks she needs his cheap capital."
He hated it. He hated that a piece belonging to the Livingston board was allowing itself to be smeared by Owen-level trash.
Burleigh pulled out his phone.
Down on the floor, Francisqui's phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out.
Come up to VIP Box 4. Now. Unless you want that pig to take you home.
Francisqui felt a rush of relief. She shoved Grossman backward, spilling his champagne down his shirt. She turned and walked toward the grand staircase.
She pushed open the heavy door to Box 4. The room was pitch black, except for the faint glow from the gala below.
Burleigh sat in the shadows. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating.
"Do you enjoy being auctioned off?" Burleigh's voice was a low growl.
Francisqui pulled out her phone. I was waiting for your bid.
Before she could hit play, Burleigh lunged. He grabbed her wrist with terrifying speed. He yanked her forward. She stumbled, falling onto the armrest of his wheelchair.
"I already bid," Burleigh whispered, his lips brushing the skin of her neck. "Five million. Remember?"
His chest was hard against her shoulder. Francisqui's heart hammered. She slid her free hand up her sleeve, her fingers brushing the cold plastic of her backup micro-stun gun.
Suddenly, a piercing scream echoed from the gala floor below.
Burleigh released her wrist. Francisqui jumped back, gasping for air, her hand still hovering over her weapon. The moment was broken, but the danger in the room had just multiplied.
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