Bethany shrugs out of my grip, and I see a flicker of fear in her eyes before she masks it with nonchalance. “Please. You think I’d go blabbing about anything I do here? I like my blood inside my veins.” Her eyes run over me. “What about you?”
I sit back in the leather chair. “What about me?”
“What will Mr. Ravnikar do to you if he finds out about this?”
Me? I’m too useful to Damir for him to hurt me. I bring in too much money. I like bringing in all that money. I like the power and influence we have in this city, however we go about getting it. “I can look after myself. Now go.”
But Bethany hesitates in the doorway, an unfamiliar expression in her eyes. “Be nice to her, okay? This is going to be weird for her, taking money from a bad-tempered old dude.”
My ego prickles at that. I’m not old, I’m forty-two. I’m fit, I don’t smoke, barely drink and I work out five times a week. I could sit in the bar of an upscale hotel and have women flock to me, and not only because they can smell money on me. Maybe I am bad-tempered, but while my brother makes an art out of being cruel and manipulative, I just simply don’t care about making people like me. I don’t need people to like me. Being liked is for thirteen-year-old girls and talk-show hosts. I make money. I am very bloody good at making money. That’s what people need from me and that’s what I provide. Money.
The more money I give Miss Alders and the less I want to see her, the happier she’ll be. “Nice to her? This isn’t a relationship, this is a financial transaction entirely for her benefit.”
Bethany snorts. “How would you know what a relationship is?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, sir,” she calls in a sing-song voice as she saunters out. “Sounds like you’ve got everything covered. I’ll go plant the idea in your sweet little baby’s head and everything else will just take care of itself.”
Chapter Two
Ciara
I gaze guiltily at the large hazelnut latte sitting on top of my notebooks. It cost three pounds fifty that I definitely can’t afford. Rent is due in eight days’ time. I need to purchase textbooks for the new semester and five bills need paying. I need to eat.
I sigh and pick up the latte and take a swallow. It doesn’t matter now. Not when I’m going to be in debt for the rest of my life.
My very short life.
A cold gust of wind blows through the courtyard. The sunshine is warm, but I feel winter edging closer like a glacier along a valley. I don’t even know what I’m doing here, coming to class when I’ll have to drop out and get a full-time job. When I cut ties with my parents two years ago I thought I knew what it meant to be broke. I’ve lived for a week on ramen noodles. Sold birthday presents online. Washed my clothes in a hand basin with supermarket shampoo. But that’s student broke, not real broke. Student broke is a temporary condition that’s easy to deal with because you’re bettering yourself as you struggle along. As soon as you land your first decent job you know that things will get better.
Damir Ravnikar’s predatory gray gaze invades my mind. “I own your ass until all that money is paid back and don’t you fucking forget it.”
“Please, I already told you, I’ve barely spoken to my parents in two years and I didn’t have anything to do with my father’s business. I’m just a student.”
“Not my problem. They were your blood and they’re dead, so now I’m out for yours.”
“I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell them you’re threatening me. This isn’t legal.”
“Oh, baby. It’s cute you think they can help you.”
Baby. What a condescending creep.
Real hard-up is suddenly being four hundred and fifty thousand pounds in debt to a criminal. Mr. Ravnikar seems to think I’m hiding a small fortune in my underwear drawer and if he threatens me long enough I’ll hand it over. I don’t know how to make him understand that there’s no money. No cash. No bonds. No trust funds. The house is being repossessed. Everything has been swallowed up by the debt to Mr. Ravnikar. All I have to my name is a three-year-old laptop, some frayed jeans, and this latte.
I take a long sip. And I’m running out of latte.
The only reason I’m not a dead girl floating down the river right now is because Ravnikar thinks I’m lying. Or maybe it’s because he sees another use for me. I remember his hot breath fanning my face the day of my parents’ funeral. He’s a tall man but he bent down close so he didn’t need to speak above a whisper. “If your inheritance doesn’t materialize there are other options. Pretty girl like you, nice tits and ass, you could pay off the debt fast if you work in one of my clubs.” His eyes roamed over my face and he added, “The patrons don’t even mind if the girls have a few scars. Makes them work harder, you know?”
My stomach clenched at the thinly-veiled threat. He’ll cut me if I don’t agree to his demands. “How quickly could I pay the debt off? If I worked for you?”
Mr. Ravnikar smiled a slow, cold smile. It was like seeing a demon smile. “Six nights a week working the pole, giving private lap dances… You’d be done in ten years.”
Ten years. I’m twenty-two. Working all my twenties and some of my thirties away in a strip club for Damir Ravnikar? I can’t.
But what other option do I have?
A chair is scraped out and a girl in high-waisted trousers and a cropped tee sits down. She stares at me with big, green, sympathetic eyes, her pouty mouth twisted in sympathy. “Ciara. You poor goddamn thing.”
I give Sloane a wan smile. I met her two years ago when I transferred from art history to law. We’re both extremely competitive with each other for our grades. It motivates us to study, this friendly competition we have going. Or rather, it did. My heart hurts at the thought of giving up my degree.
“Hey.” I’m about to ask Sloane how she’s been, because I really don’t want to talk about the funeral, when she leans over and envelops me in a huge hug.
“I’m so, so sorry.”
I pat her arms and push her back. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
She studies me closely. “It’s not fine. Just because you haven’t talked to your parents in years doesn’t mean their deaths haven’t affected you.”
If one more person tells me not to bottle up my emotions I will scream. I’m sick of the platitudes, the expressions that say it’s okay to cry. I don’t want to cry, I want half a million pounds.
Sloane takes out her tablet and begins tapping the screen. Her acrylic nails are a glossy nude shade. “I looked it up: there are five stages of grief to go through and you don’t want to stall at any of them or you’ll never process it and move on.”
I don’t have time to process it. I’ve got bigger things to worry about. “I’m fine. Maybe I’ve already been through them all.”
“No way. Have you done anger yet? What about denial?”
“Can you stop going on about it?” I snap. “I said I was fine.”
Sloane’s eyes widen and silence stretches between us.