Chapter 1 - The Public Auction—You're Not Marrying Him, You're Coming With Me
Spencer Harrington told a room full of strangers I was going to marry him before he ever asked me.
Seconds later, Gabriel Costa threw him onto the polished marble floor and pulled me toward the exit.
Only when we reached the waiting armored car did I learn that one man had planned to sell me—and the other had been keeping secrets about me for years.
Spencer’s fingers dug into the soft curve of my waist when the high-society photographer raised his heavy lens. I forced my lips into a smooth, practiced smile because Spencer had already reminded me twice on the ride over what an awkward expression could do to his firm’s public image. Behind us, vintage champagne glasses chimed beneath the towering, gilded arches of Cipriani Wall Street. The air was thick with the scent of white orchids, expensive cologne, and predatory ambition.
“Richard Carrington is looking this way,” Spencer murmured through his teeth, his smile never faltering. “Straighten your shoulders. Try to appear happy, Shantel.”
“I am trying,” I whispered back, feeling the stiff emerald silk of my evening gown constrain my ribs.
“If I land Carrington’s real estate portfolio tonight, our entire trajectory changes. We can start looking at penthouses along Fifth Avenue.”
I looked down at the hem of the gown. He had chosen it, paid for it, and sent his assistant to my Chelsea art restoration studio with explicit instructions regarding tailoring and jewelry. Now he spoke about an opulent apartment I had never asked for, in a world where I barely belonged.
“I like my studio in Chelsea, Spencer. I like where I live.”
“You like what you can afford,” he corrected coldly, his voice dipping beneath the ambient hum of the orchestra. “There is a profound difference.”
Four months earlier, I had mistaken that absolute confidence for stability. Spencer was punctual, remembered dinner reservations at Michelin-starred restaurants, knew which private entrances avoided the paparazzi, and sent expensive floral arrangements whenever my restoration contracts kept me working past midnight. Only gradually had his thoughtfulness acquired rigid conditions.
Answer the phone on the second ring. Wear the designer labels I purchase. Never contradict me in front of my investors.
Across the grand ballroom, the cadence of conversations suddenly shifted. Powerful men turned their heads in unison, their laughter dying in their throats as they adjusted their postures before the newcomer crossed the threshold.
Gabriel Costa had arrived.
I knew his face from the covers of international finance periodicals, and I knew his reputation from the gallery owners and art brokers who lowered their voices to a frightened hush whenever his name surfaced. Gabriel was the undisputed head of the Costa syndicate—a sprawling conglomerate of shipping logistics, real estate empires, and untraceable underworld power.
Six months earlier, he had brought a damaged, undocumented seventeenth-century Italian oil painting to my modest studio. He had sat in an old wooden chair for three solid hours while I examined the cracked varnish under specialized ultraviolet lighting. He had not checked his phone once. He had not demanded immediate results. He had listened with quiet, intense respect when I refused to rush the delicate chemical solvent tests.
That quiet, observant stillness was what I remembered most about him.
“Don’t look at him,” Spencer hissed into my ear, his grip on my waist tightening painfully.
“I was only observing the room,” I replied, attempting to pull back slightly.
“He is a savage in a bespoke suit,” Spencer muttered, though I could feel a sudden, nervous tremor running through his fingers. “Stay close to me.”
Gabriel was already cutting across the floor directly toward our station by the marble pillars. He wore a midnight-blue tuxedo tailored so impeccably that every other man in the room looked like an amateur playing dress-up. His broad shoulders gave him an intimidating silhouette, and his dark eyes were locked entirely onto me. A tall, scarred man named Mateo followed several paces behind him, scanning the perimeter with cold vigilance. Neither looked interested in the social niceties of Manhattan's elite.
“Spencer,” Gabriel said, his deep, resonant voice cutting through the nearby chatter like a blade.
Spencer straightened his spine, puffing out his chest in a desperate bid for dominance. “Costa. I didn’t realize you had an interest in the Children’s Hospital Charity Gala.”
Gabriel completely ignored Spencer's words. His dark, piercing gaze dropped slowly to the heavy hand Spencer kept clamped onto my hip.
“Shantel,” Gabriel said softly.
Hearing my name roll off his tongue in that low, cultured timbre sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. “Mr. Costa.”
“You look breathtaking tonight.”
Spencer let out a sharp, forced laugh that was several octaves too high. “Careful, Costa. That’s my future wife you’re speaking to.”
I froze, turning my head toward Spencer in utter shock. “What?”
Spencer looked around at the nearby circle of onlookers, beaming with synthetic warmth. “I was saving the formal toast for dinner, but yes. We are announcing our engagement this evening.”
My fingers tightened violently around my velvet clutch. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. We had never once discussed marriage. We had never talked about a shared future beyond his calendar appointments. There was no ring on my finger. There had been no private proposal, no quiet question asked over candlelight. Nothing except his cold, possessive hand pinning me in place while wealthy strangers began to applaud politely.
“Spencer, stop,” I said, my voice shaking with sudden fury. “We are not engaged. What are you doing?”
Spencer leaned down, his fingers pinching the skin of my waist through the silk hard enough to bruise. “Smile and keep your mouth shut,” he hissed under his breath. “Don’t you dare humiliate me in front of Carrington.”
Gabriel took a single step forward, the atmosphere around us instantly plummeting below freezing. “Take your filthy hands off her.”
Spencer’s mask slipped. The polished banker vanished, replaced by a desperate, cornered malice. “She is mine, Costa. Back off before I have security throw your criminal ass out into the street.”
Gabriel didn't hesitate.
His hand shot out like striking iron, seizing Spencer by the satin lapels of his tuxedo. The motion was so explosively fast that the surrounding socialites gasped before they could process what was happening. A crystal champagne flute slipped from someone’s hand and shattered on the floor.
Gabriel lifted Spencer onto his tiptoes with a single arm, effortlessly cutting off the man's airflow. Spencer’s hands clawed uselessly at Gabriel’s wrists, his eyes bulging in sudden, raw terror.
“Gabriel, please!” I cried out, stepping forward.
Gabriel’s eyes shifted toward mine. In the depths of his dark irises, there was an ocean of absolute fury, but beneath it lay a strange, protective calm.
“You are not marrying this coward,” Gabriel said quietly.
Then, with brutal, contemptuous force, Gabriel hurled Spencer backward.
Spencer went flying into a tiered dessert station, crashing through silver platters of pastries and cascading ice sculptures before slamming violently onto the hard marble floor. Broken glass and champagne rained down around him. Spencer groaned, clutching his ribs, his immaculate tuxedo ruined with berry coulis and spilled wine.
A woman shrieked. Two private event security guards rushed forward with their batons drawn, but Mateo stepped smoothly into their path, opening his jacket just enough to flash a silver holster. The guards froze in their tracks, their faces draining of all color.
I instinctively took a step toward Spencer out of pure shock, but Gabriel’s large, warm hand closed firmly around my wrist.
“We are leaving. Now.”
“Let go of me!” I protested, my adrenaline surging as heads turned from every corner of the vast ballroom. “You can’t just attack him and drag me away!”
Gabriel didn't argue. He kept his grip secure, pulling me past the sea of paralyzed millionaires and through the towering mahogany exit doors. My high heels struggled for traction against the polished travertine.
The moment we burst through the grand entrance, the icy November night air struck my bare shoulders, shocking my senses. Down at the curb, an armored black SUV sat idling, its heavy rear door held wide open by another stone-faced associate.
I dug my heels into the concrete sidewalk and ripped my hand away with all my strength.
“Stop it!” I yelled, breathing hard, my chest heaving. “You can’t drag me out of a private venue like a piece of luggage, Gabriel! What is wrong with you?”
Gabriel stopped and turned around. The streetlamps cast deep, dramatic shadows across his sharp jawline and the broad planes of his face. His dark eyes were fixed on me with terrifying intensity.
“You’re right,” he said, his voice flat and deadly serious. “I shouldn't have had to do that. But we are out of time.”
I shook my head, shivering in the freezing wind. “Out of time for what? Spencer is an investment banker, not a street thug! He’s going to call the police!”
Gabriel took two deliberate steps toward me, closing the distance until I could smell the subtle cedarwood, bourbon, and leather of his cologne. He looked back over my shoulder toward the doors of Cipriani, then stared directly into my eyes.
“Spencer isn’t calling the police, Shantel. Spencer is calling Viktor Vane.”
The name sounded like a death knell, though I didn't recognize it. “Who is that?”
Gabriel’s expression became utterly merciless. “The man Spencer owes four million dollars to. The man who was supposed to pick you up in a private limousine from the back alley tonight.”
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I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat. “What are you talking about?”
“Spencer didn’t announce your engagement to marry you,” Gabriel said, the words falling like lead weights. “He announced it to publicly tie your identity to him before handing you over as collateral. He sold you, Shantel. And if you don't get into this car right now, you won't live to see tomorrow morning.”
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