Chapter 6 - The Armour of Haute Couture
Within two hours of signing the contract, my life ceased to belong to the mundane world.
Gabriel’s east wing was larger than any home I had ever stepped foot in. The bedroom featured a panoramic view of the East River, a king-sized bed wrapped in ivory Egyptian cotton, and a bathroom entirely carved from black Calacatta marble with an infinity tub overlooking the clouds.
Before I could even process the space, the double doors swung open, and an army marched in.
Twelve people, led by an impeccably dressed man with silver hair and an Italian accent, entered carrying rolling garment racks swathed in protective black silk, cases of velvet jewelry boxes, and professional cosmetic trunks.
"Miss Collins," the silver-haired man said, bowing slightly. "I am Jean-Paul. Mr. Thorne informed me that we have exactly four hours to prepare you for the Whitmore Foundation Gala tonight."
"Tonight?" I gasped, looking at Claire, who stood silently by the door with a digital tablet. "Gabriel didn't say anything about a gala tonight."
"Mr. Thorne doesn't believe in wasted momentum," Claire replied smoothly without looking up from her screen. "Damian Cross and Victoria Langford are chairing the junior host committee tonight. It is their crowning social achievement of the season. It would be rude of us not to attend."
A cold thrill raced down my spine.
For the next three hours, I was measured, tucked, brushed, and painted. They stripped away the exhaustion of four years of double shifts. They used serums that cost more than my monthly grocery budget, erased the dark circles beneath my eyes, and shaped my thick chestnut hair into soft, aristocratic waves that cascaded down my bare back.
Then came the dress.
Jean-Paul unzipped the garment bag with the reverence of a priest unveiling an altar.
It was an asymmetrical column gown of liquid midnight-blue silk—the exact shade of Gabriel’s evening tuxedos. It was backless, plunging down to the base of my spine, while the front draped across my collarbone with absolute elegance. A slit ran up the left thigh, dangerous yet impeccably tailored. It was not a dress designed for a victim. It was an executioner’s shroud.
When I stepped into the floor-length mirror, I didn't recognize the woman looking back.
The tired, frantic girl who had wept over Damian’s text messages at 3:17 in the morning was gone. In her place stood a woman with sharp, arresting eyes, a regal neck, and an aura of untouchable, terrifying grace.
The door clicked open behind me.
Gabriel stepped into the suite. He stopped dead in his tracks, his dark eyes sweeping down the length of the gown, over the exposed curve of my back, lingering on the line of my jaw.
For three long seconds, the most powerful man in Manhattan forgot to breathe.
"Will I do, Mr. Thorne?" I asked, raising my chin slightly.
Gabriel stepped forward, his footfalls silent on the thick carpet. He stopped directly behind me, his reflection towering over mine in the glass. Reaching into his breast pocket, he produced a velvet box.
He flipped it open.
Nestled inside was a necklace of flawless, pear-cut blue diamonds suspended from a band of platinum. In the center hung a five-carat stone that caught the suite’s lighting and shattered it into thousands of azure sparks.
"The Thorne family sapphire," Gabriel whispered, lifting the cold, heavy gems and fastening the clasp around my neck. His fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of my throat, sending an electric shock straight through my nervous system. "My mother wore this the day she took control of Thorne Maritime."
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his breath hot against my skin.
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"Tonight, Ava... you don't just survive them. You hunt them."
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