Trapped By My Sister's Billionaire Fiance

The November wind sliced through Alyssa's sweater as she hurried toward the subway entrance. Her ankle throbbed with every step. She kept her eyes fixed on the concrete, on the gum stains and the cracks, anywhere but at the black Maybach that had started its engine.

The car door opened.

Dina Mccoy stepped out, wrapped in a fur coat that probably cost more than Alyssa's annual rent. She positioned herself directly in Alyssa's path, one hand playing with the enormous diamond on her left ring finger.

"Need a ride back to Brooklyn?" Dina's smile showed too many teeth. "He's just dropping me off for my private party. He has a few calls to make before he joins me inside. I'm sure we can squeeze you in. Though I wouldn't want to get anything on the leather."

Alyssa's gaze flicked past Dina to the open car door. She could see the silhouette in the back seat. Broad shoulders. A profile cut from marble. The same man who had watched her from the front row, who had looked at her like she was merchandise.

"I prefer the subway." Alyssa's voice was flat. "Less chance of staining anything."

Dina's smile flickered. She leaned closer, her perfume overwhelming. "Suit yourself. Some of us have places to be. People to see." She turned back toward the car, her heels clicking a sharp rhythm on the pavement. "Enjoy your walk, Alyssa. Try not to trip."

The door closed with a solid, expensive thunk. The Maybach pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the Manhattan traffic, silent as a shark.

Alyssa stood frozen until her fingers went numb. Then she forced herself to move, down the stairs into the subway, into the fluorescent-lit tunnels that smelled like urine and desperation. She held the handrail with both hands because her legs were shaking.

She didn't sleep that night. She sat on her mattress in the apartment she shared with Paige Sutton, counting the cracks in the ceiling and trying not to think about dark eyes and hotel keycards.

The next morning, the rehearsal studio floor was already slick with sweat when Alyssa arrived. She wrapped her ankle with an elastic bandage she'd bought at a dollar store and started her barre exercises. Her cheek was hidden beneath a thick layer of concealer. The swelling had gone down enough that she could pretend it was a bad angle if anyone asked.

Julian Cromwell pushed through the studio doors at ten-fifteen. The room went silent. The artistic director never visited morning rehearsals unless someone was being promoted or fired.

He walked straight to Alyssa's corner.

"Medina. My office. Now."

The other dancers stared. Alyssa wiped her face with her towel and followed him, her stomach in knots.

Julian's office smelled of Cuban cigars and old coffee. He didn't offer her a seat. He pulled a sheet of paper from his desk and threw it at her. It was next month's casting sheet. Her name had been crossed out in red pen. The solo she'd been promised for the past six weeks was gone.

"You're out," Julian said. "Effective immediately."

Alyssa's hands shook. "Why?"

"Why?" Julian lit a cigar, watching her through the smoke. "Because you couldn't keep your legs closed when it mattered. Gregg Ashley's family has donated three hundred thousand dollars to this company annually for the past decade. This morning, his father called me and suggested that perhaps we should reconsider our artistic priorities."

"I didn't do anything wrong."

"That's not the point." Julian leaned forward. "The point is that you have become a liability. Unless..." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "Unless you're willing to make amends. Tonight. The Apex Club. Private performance for some of our most valued patrons."

Alyssa's stomach turned. "I'm a ballet dancer, not a stripper."

Julian's laugh was short and ugly. "No one asked you to strip. Just to be pleasant. To be accommodating. To show Mr. Ashley that there are no hard feelings." He pulled another document from his drawer. "Of course, if you refuse, I should mention that the Elena Voss Medical Fund is currently under review by our board of directors. Such a shame if their support were to be withdrawn. The poor woman might not survive another transfer."

Alyssa looked at the paper. She recognized the letterhead. She recognized the signature of the fund administrator. Her knees went weak.

Julian slid a black envelope across the desk. The address was embossed in gold. The Apex Club. She'd heard whispers. Everyone had.

"Eight o'clock," Julian said. "Don't be late. And Alyssa? Wear something that shows you understand the gravity of the situation."

She walked out of his office in a daze. The envelope burned in her hand. In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face until her skin went numb. She looked in the mirror and saw a stranger. Pale. Terrified. Trapped.

She pulled out her phone and searched the address. The results made her want to vomit. Private club. Members only. Discretion guaranteed. The kind of place where Wall Street traders celebrated bonuses and destroyed lives in the same breath.

And Gregg Ashley would be there. She knew it with absolute certainty.

She wasn't sure which was worse. Facing Gregg again, or the possibility that the man from the Maybach might also appear in those shadows.

Back at the apartment, she dug through her closet until she found the black dress. High neck. Long sleeves. The most conservative thing she owned. She was pulling it on when Paige came through the door, still in her scrubs from the hospital.

"Where are you going dressed like a funeral director?"

"Work thing." Alyssa didn't turn around. "Gala. Boring. I'll be back late."

"Alyssa." Paige's voice changed. She crossed the room and grabbed Alyssa's arm, forcing her to turn. "Your face. What happened to your face?"

"Barre accident. I'm fine."

"You're lying."

"I have to go." Alyssa grabbed her bag and her coat. "I'll explain later. I promise."

She escaped before Paige could stop her. The subway ride to Midtown took forty minutes. She spent them staring at her reflection in the dark window, practicing her smile.

The Apex Club occupied a converted townhouse in the East Sixties. The doormen looked at her dress, at her canvas bag, at her face. They didn't want to let her in. Then she produced the invitation, and their expressions shifted to something worse than contempt. Something that said they knew exactly why she was there.

A man in a tuxedo led her through corridors lined with velvet and gilt mirrors. The music grew louder. Bass vibrations traveled through the floor into her chest. He stopped at a heavy oak door and pushed it open.

The noise hit her like a physical blow. Neon lights. Cigarette smoke. Men in suits holding glasses of amber liquid, women in dresses that left nothing to the imagination draped across their laps. And in the center of it all, on a white leather couch, Gregg Ashley. He saw her and raised his glass in mock salute.

"Well, well. The swan has landed."

Laughter rippled through the room. Alyssa's feet wouldn't move. Her eyes scanned the space, looking for exits, looking for allies, finding neither. Then her gaze reached the far corner, the deepest shadow, and her blood turned to ice.

Cornell Knight sat in a leather armchair, one ankle crossed over his knee, a crystal glass balanced on his thigh. He was watching her. He had been watching her from the moment she entered.

His lips curved into a smile that held no warmth.

"Welcome, little swan," he said, and his voice carried over the music like he owned the room. "We've been waiting for you."