Chapter 4

Jillian Andrews POV

The air in the Bradley estate was thick with the scent of old money and the metallic tang of fresh blood.

It was Eleanor Bradley's eightieth birthday, and the Iron Matriarch sat upon her velvet throne, observing the room like a vulture waiting for a carcass to cool.

Alex stood at her right hand.

He hadn't spoken a word to me about the auction. In fact, he acted as if it had never happened-as if my public humiliation had been nothing more than a fever dream or a hallucination.

"The gift," Eleanor demanded, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

I stepped forward, my hands trembling slightly as I clutched the large, flat box.

I had spent three months painting a detailed watercolor of the family's ancestral home in Sicily. It was meant to be my peace offering. My desperate attempt to be accepted into this shark tank.

"Happy birthday, Donna Eleanor," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

I lifted the lid.

A gasp tore from my throat before I could stop it.

The painting was gone.

Inside, pinned to the black velvet backing, was a dead rat.

The mockery was grotesque. The carcass was dressed in a tiny, crude wedding veil, and its stiff, cold paws were superglued to a miniature auction gavel.

The sickly sweet smell of rot hit the room instantly, silencing the guests.

Eleanor's face twisted, her features contorting into a mask of pure fury.

"What is this?" she hissed, the sound like steam escaping a valve.

"I... I didn't..." I stammered, backing away as the blood drained from my face.

Charlotte emerged from the shadows like a viper striking from the grass.

"Oh, Jillian," she said, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy that barely masked her glee. "Is this a confession?"

"A rat," Eleanor spat, rising slowly from her throne. "You bring a rat into my house?"

In our world, a rat wasn't just an insult or a prank.

It was an accusation.

It meant traitor.

"No!" I cried, panic rising in my chest. "I painted the house! Someone switched it!"

I turned desperately to my husband.

"Alex, please," I begged, searching his eyes for a shred of humanity. "You saw me painting it. You know I did."

Alex looked down at the rotting creature in the box.

Then, slowly, he turned his gaze to me.

His face was a stone wall-impenetrable, cold, and utterly void of mercy.

"She needs to learn respect, Grandmother," he said evenly.

My heart stopped.

He wasn't going to save me.

He was the one who had opened the cage.

"Butler Fields," Eleanor commanded, pointing a bony finger at the floor. "The cane."

Two enforcers seized my arms before I could move. They dragged me to the center of the room and kicked the backs of my knees, forcing me to the floor.

I didn't scream.

I locked my jaw. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

Butler Fields, a man with dead, shark-like eyes, stepped forward gripping a flexible bamboo cane.

"Ten strikes," Eleanor pronounced. "For the disrespect."

The first blow landed, hitting my back like a whip of liquid fire.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper.

One.

Alex watched.

He lifted his glass and took a slow, indifferent sip of his scotch.

Two.

Charlotte smiled, her fingers idly tracing the Star of Bradley pendant resting on her neck.

Three.

The pain radiated outward, wrapping around my ribs like a crushing vice. I forced my eyes open, focusing on the intricate pattern of the Persian rug.

I focused on the hate.

It was the only thing keeping me conscious.

Four.

Five.

By the tenth strike, I couldn't breathe. My back felt as though it had been flayed open.

The enforcers released me, and I slumped forward onto the floor, gasping for air.

Alex walked over. I saw his polished shoes stop inches from my face.

He crouched down.

He didn't offer a hand. He didn't help me up.

Instead, he leaned close, his lips brushing my ear.

"Don't ever embarrass me again," he whispered, his voice dark and lethal.

He stood up, adjusted his cuffs, and walked away with Charlotte on his arm.

I lay there on the rug, shivering.

Through the agony, I started counting.

Not the pain.

The days.

Sixty-two days.