The East Wing of the Thorne Estate was a museum of cold luxury. The floors were white marble, polished to such a high gloss that Ava could see her own reflection—pale, wide-eyed, and looking entirely out of place.
Henderson stopped before a set of double oak doors. "Your quarters, Miss Miller. Or should I say, Madam?" The way he said the word felt like a slur. He didn't wait for a response before pushing the doors open.
Ava gasped. The room was larger than her entire apartment. A four-poster bed draped in champagne-colored silk sat in the center, and a fireplace of carved limestone flickered with a pre-set flame. But it wasn't the furniture that caught her eye.
Three women stood in the center of the room. They wore black uniforms and looked at Ava with the clinical detachment of surgeons.
"What is this?" Ava asked, clutching the strap of her battered bag.
"Mr. Thorne's instructions," the tallest woman said. Her voice was clipped. "I am Sophia, the lead stylist. We have four hours to prepare you for the dinner with Mr. Marcus. Your current... aesthetic... is unacceptable."
"My aesthetic?" Ava looked down at her paint-splattered jeans. "I'm a restorer, not a runway model."
"You are a Thorne now," Sophia countered, gesturing to a rolling rack of clothes that appeared behind her.
For the next three hours, Ava was subjected to a silent, efficient torture. They scrubbed the charcoal from her pores until her skin was raw. They brushed her hair until it shone like polished mahogany. They dressed her in a gown of deep emerald silk that clung to her curves in a way that made her feel exposed, despite the modest neckline.
When they finally stepped back, Ava looked in the floor-length mirror. She didn't recognize the woman staring back. The girl from the dusty library was gone, replaced by a haunting, elegant stranger.
"A masterpiece," Sophia whispered, though her eyes remained cold. "The jewelry is on the vanity. Mr. Thorne selected it himself."
Ava walked to the vanity. Resting on a velvet cushion was a necklace of raw emeralds and diamonds, shaped like a serpent. Beside it sat the secret journal she had found in the library.
Her heart skipped. Julian had left it there. Was it a test? Or a reminder?
She reached out to touch the leather, but her hand stopped when she noticed something odd about the vanity mirror. There was a tiny, pin-sized hole in the corner of the gilded frame.
A camera.
Julian wasn't just giving her a room; he was giving her a cell. He was watching her.
She pulled her hand away, her skin crawling. If Julian was watching, then he saw her find the camera. She looked directly into the tiny lens, her jaw tightening. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
She picked up the emerald serpent and fastened it around her neck. It felt like a cold hand squeezing her throat.
A knock sounded at the door. It wasn't the polite tap of a servant. It was the heavy, rhythmic thud of a man who owned the air he breathed.
"Enter," Ava said, her voice steady.
The door swung open, and Julian Thorne stepped in. He had changed into a black tuxedo, the stark white of his shirt making his tan skin look even darker. He stopped dead when he saw her. For a split second—a heartbeat—the "Ice King" mask slipped. His eyes darkened, roaming over the emerald silk and the line of her throat.
"You'll do," he said, his voice lower than usual.
"Is that a compliment, Julian?" she asked, using his name like a challenge. "Or just an appraisal of your investment?"
Julian walked toward her, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. He stopped so close she could smell the whiskey on his breath—expensive and smoky. He reached out, his fingers tracing the edge of the emerald necklace.
"Both," he whispered. "Don't forget the script, Ava. Tonight, you aren't a girl who found a book. You are the woman who tamed me. Marcus will try to provoke you. He will try to make you scream. Don't let him."
"And if I do?"
Julian leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Then we both lose. And I don't like losing, Ava. It makes me... unkind."
He offered his arm. Ava took it, her fingers sinking into the expensive wool of his jacket. As they walked toward the dining room, she realized the dinner wasn't a meal. It was a battlefield.