Mirelle slipped through the glittering crowd, her heart racing, her eyes scanning for Rafe.
But he was nowhere to be seen.
Anxious energy prickled under her skin as she wove between groups of laughing guests, chandeliers casting fractured light over the marble floors. Then, movement caught her eye—a shadow slipping away from the main hall.
She turned just in time to see Rafe disappearing into a side corridor, accompanied by a woman.
Mirelle's breath caught.
The woman was Eleanor Vance, one of the older members of their company's board—sharp-faced, always draped in rich fabrics, her voice brittle with judgment.
Without thinking, Mirelle followed, her heart hammering in her ears.
They disappeared into a door at the end of the hall.
Mirelle crept closer, pressing herself against the wall, hidden in the heavy folds of a velvet curtain. Her pulse thundered as she watched, as the door clicked shut behind them.
Panic gripped her chest.
It was one thing to hear rumors—whispers about what people did for power, for favor.
It was another to see it.
She stayed there, trembling, waiting long after the door opened again and Eleanor and Rafe slipped out, blending back into the party as if nothing had happened.
Mirelle waited until she was sure they were gone before stepping forward, her legs stiff, her hands shaking.
Her throat closed up, the bile rising hot and sick.
She turned the handle and slipped inside.
It was just a small, ordinary room. A table. A few chairs. Nothing special.
But in her mind, the room twisted into something filthy.
She shuddered, disgust curling in her gut, imagining Rafe—cold, distant Rafe—entwined with that aging, predatory woman—the only man who had ever made her feel something so sharp, so raw, so shamefully sexual in nature.
Her stomach lurched violently, and she staggered back, a retch clawing up her throat.
She barely managed to catch herself against the table when she heard it—
"What are you doing here?"
She whipped around, caught like a thief, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Rafe stood in the doorway, his gaze sharp and accusing.
Mirelle straightened, forcing down the panic, pushing the bile back into her throat. "I needed somewhere to rest," she said stiffly, her voice too brittle to sound casual.
His lip curled in disgust. "Are you following me?"
The shame in his tone cut deeper than she expected. Heat rushed to her cheeks, but pride clawed up sharper.
She lifted her chin. "Better than selling myself to old women for scraps of power."
The words hung between them, heavy and poisonous.
Rafe laughed, low and humorless, the sound scraping down her spine. He stepped inside, circling her slowly like a predator sizing up prey.
"So you know about those things now, spoiled little brat of the Vasseur name," he sneered, his steps lazy but deliberate.
Mirelle gritted her teeth. "At least I do everything with my own power," she hissed.
His laughter deepened, low and disbelieving, as if the very idea amused him to the core. He smirked, tilting his head slightly.
"Not like me, eh? Not like how I sell my body? Is that what you're saying?" His voice dropped lower, almost mocking.
"Do you think your precious family name didn't help you get where you are right now?"
The words hit her like a slap.
"Fuck you!" Mirelle snapped, her voice rising, raw and wounded.
In a blink, he closed the space between them, grabbing her face roughly, forcing her to look at him.
He smirked, his mouth brushing cruel amusement. "You wish," he said lowly, taunting her, the words thick with contempt and something darker.
"And you don't have the right to say that," he said, voice sharp enough to draw blood. "You act disgusted because I fuck everyone—but you get wet for me like a good little liar."
His fingers tightened just slightly against her skin, his gaze burning into hers.
Her face flushed deep red with shame, her body betraying her even now—she could feel herself wet for him, hot and humiliated.
"Like mother, like daughter, huh?" he murmured darkly, the words nearly a growl.
Mirelle's shame boiled into anger. She lifted her chin sharply, spitting back, "I don't feel anything for a dick like you. And your dick's probably as small as your personality."
Rafe's smirk deepened, slow and vicious. "Are you saying that because you want to see it?"
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a cruel whisper. "Maybe you're different from your mother. Maybe for once, a Vasseur could make me come."
His eyes glittered darkly. "But out of all of you, I hate you the most. So you'll never get that chance, even if you beg." He said smiling bitterly.
The words sliced into her, leaving her breathless with humiliation.
Swallowing thickly, Mirelle forced herself to ask, her voice trembling, "Why?"
Rafe just smirked—cold, unreadable—before turning on his heel and walking out, leaving her standing there, shaking with fury and something far worse.