Chapter 5
514words
No tenderness—only punishment.
Dominic seemed to be purging five years of hatred.
Or perhaps he could only confirm I was real through such brutal means.
When I woke the next morning, an expensive black evening gown lay beside the bed.
And a terse note:
"Accompany me to the charity gala tonight. Since you've taken the money, play your part as my trophy."
…
Seven o'clock that evening at the Hilton Hotel ballroom.
I clung to Dominic's arm as we entered the glittering arena of wealth and power.
Camera flashes exploded around us.
I instinctively wanted to shrink away.
Beneath my backless gown were marks that couldn't be displayed in public.
My waist still bore Brad's bruises.
Along with the fingerprints Dominic had left last night.
But I steeled myself.
Scarlett, you're worth five million dollars now.
Even if it's just an act, make it convincing.
"Stand up straight."
Dominic's deep voice rumbled in my ear.
He stared straight ahead, a perfect fake smile plastered on his face.
"Don't slouch like some amateur pickpocket."
"I don't parade garbage in public."
I gritted my teeth and straightened my spine.
"Yes, boss."
We navigated through the crowd.
Curious and disdainful glances followed us from every direction.
"Isn't that Scarlett Miller?"
"I heard her husband lost her in a poker game last night..."
"My God, is it true? Did Dominic Knight really pick up that tramp?"
The whispers buzzed in my ears like flies.
I felt naked under their judgment, stripped bare for all to see.
"Well, if it isn't Mr. Knight?"
A shrill female voice sliced through the crowd.
Tiffany sauntered over in a red designer gown.
The famous oil heiress who'd been chasing Dominic for five years.
She swirled her champagne glass, eyeing me with undisguised contempt.
"Dominic, I heard you have a new plaything? I was wondering who it might be, and lo and behold—it's Mrs. Miller?"
Tiffany emphasized "Mrs." with venomous delight.
"What happened? Your gambling addict husband can't keep you in style, so you've taken up this side hustle?"
Muffled laughter rippled through the nearby crowd.
I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms.
But I couldn't lash out.
I was Dominic's escort—I couldn't embarrass him or jeopardize our arrangement.
I glanced at Dominic, hoping he might intervene.
If only to defend his "property."
But Dominic merely swirled his wine glass with detached interest.
He made no move to defend me.
He was enjoying the spectacle.
His message was clear: Since you've sold your dignity for cash, what's a little humiliation?
The last flicker of hope in my heart died.
I released his arm and smiled bitterly.
"Miss Tiffany, how amusing."
"This is just business. A trust fund princess like you wouldn't understand how people like me have to survive."
My blunt self-deprecation caught Tiffany off guard.
Just then, a commotion erupted at the entrance.
"Let me through! I'm Scarlett's husband! I need to talk to her!"
That familiar, revolting voice.
My blood instantly froze.
Brad.
What the hell was he doing here?
