Sold To The Devil I Ruined

The tires of the black SUV screeched against the wet gravel, a sound like an animal in pain that cut through the roar of the storm. The vehicle hadn't even come to a full stop before the back door was ripped open.

Rain lashed into the leather interior, soaking Elenora Vang's silk shirt in seconds. It clung to her skin, cold and heavy. Before she could take a breath, a hand clamped around her upper arm. It wasn't a hold meant to guide. It was a clamp of steel meant to bruise.

The bodyguard yanked her out.

Elenora stumbled. Her heel caught on the slick stone of the driveway. There was a sickening snap, not of bone, but of the expensive Italian stiletto giving way. She went down hard. Her knees hit the mud and gravel with a wet thud that jarred her teeth. Pain shot up her legs, hot and sharp, but the cold rain was numbing it fast.

She pushed her hair out of her face, gasping for air that felt too thick with water to breathe. Through the blur of the downpour, she saw a pair of shoes.

They were hand-stitched leather. Immaculate. Not a speck of mud on them.

Elenora's eyes traveled up the sharp crease of the dark suit trousers, past the fitted jacket, until she met the eyes of Fitzgerald Woodard.

He stood under the shelter of the massive portico, dry and untouched by the chaos. He looked down at her. There was no anger in his face. Anger would have been human. There was only a hollow, terrifying void. He looked at her the way one might look at a dead rodent on the doorstep. An inconvenience.

He didn't offer a hand. He didn't speak. He just watched her shiver.

"Get her inside," he said finally. His voice was low, barely audible over the thunder, but it carried the weight of a gavel striking a sound block. "Don't let her dirty my steps."

The bodyguard hauled Elenora up by her armpits. Her feet dragged. She tried to find purchase, but without her shoe, she was unbalanced. They dragged her up the stairs and threw her into the foyer.

The transition from the dark storm to the blinding brilliance of the crystal chandelier made her squeeze her eyes shut. She hit the floor again. This time it was marble. Hard, unforgiving, and cold. The air left her lungs in a wheeze.

She lay there for a second, the water from her clothes pooling around her, staining the intricate Persian rug. She heard the soft sound of leather moving.

Fitzgerald was peeling off his gloves. They were wet from the brief exposure to the blowing rain. He balled them up. With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed them.

The wet leather slapped against Elenora's cheek.

It stung. Not enough to injure, but enough to mark. It was a dismissal. A degradation.

Elenora pushed herself up on trembling arms. The heat of humiliation burned