Chapter 2 - The Predator in the Crowd
Saraphene stood alone in the quiet warmth of the private bathroom, her heart beating a steady, heavy rhythm against her ribs. She stared at the closed door where Selian Ashford had just disappeared, the scent of cedar and bergamot still lingering faintly in the air.
*Sixty seconds.*
She pulled out her cheap, cracked smartphone and watched the digital seconds tick away on the screen. One, two, three...
When the counter hit sixty, she took a deep, steadying breath, smoothed down the front of her black server vest, gripped the brass handle, and pulled the door open.
The administrative corridor was completely empty. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, casting long, stark shadows across the concrete floor.
Moving quickly and quietly, Saraphene made her way back toward the service doors that led into the main gallery. As she pushed through the heavy velvet curtain separating the back-of-house areas from the exhibition space, the roar of the crowd washed over her once more.
The Beaumont Gallery was still blindingly bright, filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and the pretentious drone of art critics discussing color theory and brushstroke mastery.
She immediately scanned the room for a familiar face, hoping desperately to find Marco and dive back into the anonymous rhythm of serving appetizers and clearing glasses.
Instead, her eyes locked onto the central rotunda.
Trent was standing near a massive marble sculpture, holding a flute of champagne. He was laughing again—that loud, obnoxious laugh that had once signaled the end of her peace. He had shifted positions, now standing less than forty feet from the service station where Saraphene needed to return.
Her stomach plummeted. If she walked across that open floor to reach the bar, there was a dangerously high probability he would turn around and lock eyes with her.
Panic threatened to paralyze her limbs, but years of living on high alert had trained her mind to find alternatives. She ducked behind a towering structural pillar draped in black silk, using the architectural feature to shield herself from his line of sight.
“You there—girl with the tray!”
A sharp, imperious voice cut through the murmur of conversation. Saraphene flinched, turning her head to see an elderly woman in an emerald-green gown waving a hand impatiently at her.
“Yes, ma’am? How can I help you?” Saraphene asked, plastering on the most convincing, polite server smile she could muster.
“This sparkling water is completely flat. Bring me a fresh glass immediately, and make sure the ice is actually cold,” the woman snapped, turning her back dismissively.
“Right away,” Saraphene whispered.
She pivoted, keeping her head down, and hurried toward the service bar on the opposite side of the room, far away from Trent’s corner. As she navigated the sea of wealthy patrons, she caught a glimpse of Selian Ashford across the gallery.
He was standing near the grand staircase, conversing quietly with the gallery director and a prominent city councilman. Yet, even while speaking with men who held immense political and financial clout, Selian’s sharp gray eyes were scanning the room. For a split second, his gaze swept across the crowd and locked onto Saraphene.
He gave her a single, barely perceptible nod—a silent acknowledgment that she was safe, for the moment.
A strange, unfamiliar warmth bloomed in Saraphene’s chest. For eight months, she had fought her battles entirely alone, hiding in shadows, changing locks, and jumping at every shadow in the night. Having someone acknowledge her struggle—someone who looked like he could command an army with a flick of his wrist—sent a bizarre, comforting shiver down her spine.
She quickly grabbed a fresh glass of sparkling water, delivered it to the demanding woman without incident, and spent the next hour moving like a ghost through the peripheral edges of the gala.
She avoided the central rotunda entirely, keeping her distance from Trent. From afar, she watched him cycle through charm and arrogance, working the room as if he owned it. He looked prosperous in his tailored Italian suit, completely unbothered by the trail of psychological wreckage he had left behind him in his wake.
By midnight, the auction was finally winding down. Wealthy bidders were cashing out their purchases, coats were being retrieved from the grand cloakroom, and the exhausted catering staff was directed to begin clearing the heavy silver trays and glassware.
Saraphene’s feet felt entirely numb inside her pinching heels. Every muscle in her body ached with a profound, bone-deep exhaustion.
“Alright, listen up everyone!” Marco clapped his hands loudly to get the attention of the remaining servers. “We’ve got one final sweep of the VIP lounge on the second floor, and then you’re all free to collect your envelopes from the manager's office. Let’s move!”
Groans echoed softly among the staff, but Saraphene simply kept her head down and followed the group toward the grand staircase.
The second-floor VIP lounge was quieter, smelling faintly of expensive cigar smoke and spilled vintage scotch. Most of the elite guests had already departed for private after-parties, leaving behind scattered auction catalogs and half-empty crystal decanters.
Saraphene busied herself clearing glasses from a mahogany coffee table near the back balcony, keeping her back to the open room.
“Excuse me, miss?”
A deep, smooth voice spoke up behind her.
Saraphene froze. The words weren't loud, but they carried a terrifying, familiar weight that made her blood run instantly cold.
It wasn't Marco. It wasn't Selian.
It was Trent.
Slowly, fighting the urge to drop her tray and bolt for the emergency exit, Saraphene turned around.
Trent Morrison stood less than three feet away from her. He had shed his suit jacket, his crisp white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and a cocky, self-satisfied grin spread across his handsome face. But behind his dark eyes, there was no mistaking the cold, obsessive glint that Saraphene had spent eight months running from.
“Fancy meeting you here, Saraphene,” Trent purred, stepping closer, closing the personal space between them with deliberate aggression. “When I saw a girl carrying a tray across the room earlier, I thought to myself, No way. That has to be my girl playing games with me. But look at you. Reduced to cleaning up after rich folks.”
Saraphene stepped back until her lower back bumped against the heavy velvet drapery of the balcony doors. Her throat went completely dry, and her voice failed her for a terrifying moment.
“Trent,” she managed to choke out, her fingers tightening around the edge of her silver tray like a shield. “Leave me alone. We are over. There is a restraining order.”
Trent chuckled softly, a dark, dismissive sound that sent a shiver through her bones. He reached out, his long fingers snapping forward to grab her wrist, pinning her hand against the velvet drapes.
“A piece of paper from some judge in a dusty courtroom doesn't mean a damn thing, Saraphene,” Trent hissed, his charming public persona instantly evaporating to reveal the controlling predator underneath. His grip tightened painfully around her wrist. “You think you can just run away from me? Change your number? Hide out in places like this? You belong to me. You’re coming home with me tonight, and we’re going to talk about how you’ve been ignoring my calls.”
“Let go of me!” Saraphene gasped, trying to wrench her arm away, but his grip was like an iron vice. Panic surged through her chest, blinding and hot. She raised her voice, hoping a passing staff member or guard would hear her. “Help! Someone—!”
Before she could scream a second time, Trent raised his free hand, his fingers curling into a fist as his face twisted into an ugly mask of rage.
“Shut your mouth, you ungrateful little—!”
He never finished the sentence.
From across the expansive VIP lounge, a sudden, terrifyingly cold voice cut through the air like a razor blade.
May you like
“Unhand her.”
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