A shard of porcelain sliced my finger. Blood beaded up.

Anthony didn't even glance at it. He stepped over me and grabbed a bottle of Evian from the fridge.

"There's a banquet tonight. You're coming."

His tone was ice.

"With my current status, it's not appropriate—"

"What status?" He cut me off with a sneer. "A prostitute? Or Miss Sullivan?"

I had no answer.

"If you're going to be arm candy, act like it."

He tossed me a black gift box.

"Put this on. Don't embarrass me."

That afternoon, a stylist came to do my hair and makeup.

When I opened the box, I found a red, skintight spaghetti-strap dress.

There was barely any fabric. The entire back was bare, the slit climbing all the way to my upper thigh.

This was something a nightclub dancer would wear—not a gown for a business banquet.

But I had no right to refuse.

After putting it on, I stood before the mirror and lowered my eyes. The woman staring back looked no different from an antique on an auction block.

Eight o'clock that night. Harborview City's largest banquet hall.

I walked in on Anthony's arm.

Instantly, countless gazes landed on me.

"Isn't that Miss Sullivan?"

"What Miss Sullivan? The Sullivans went under ages ago. I heard she'll do anything to pay off debts."

"Tsk. Dressed like that—she's probably being kept by Mr. Vance, huh? She used to act like she was better than everyone."

Anthony acted like he heard nothing, guiding me through the crowd.

Those trust-fund kids who used to swarm around me—now they looked at me with something between mockery and hunger.

A potbellied man named Jesse Lambert walked over, wineglass in hand.

"Mr. Vance, you've got good taste. This one looks familiar—killer body."

His eyes crawled over my chest.

Instinctively, I shrank behind Anthony.

But he stepped aside, leaving me fully exposed to Lambert's gaze.

He sipped his champagne, a lazy smile playing on his lips.

"It is pretty killer. If Mr. Lambert's interested, I'll have her pour you drinks sometime."

I looked up at him.

No protection in his eyes. Only cold satisfaction.

"Then it's a deal!" Lambert reached out, fingers aimed at my waist.

I forced myself to dodge, swallowing back nausea.

"Oh, she's got some fire." Lambert's expression soured.

"That's what makes the training fun, isn't it, Layla Sullivan?"

Anthony turned to me. His voice was soft—the kind of softness that made your skin crawl.

I lowered my head.

"Yes. Mr. Vance is right."