Branded By The Devil's Cruel Kiss

The heavy mahogany doors swung open. Elie stepped into the room. Her bare arms were covered in goosebumps. Her toes throbbed in the tight heels. Her movements were stiff, mechanical.

The VIP suite was massive. The lights were dimmed to a sultry, dark amber. The air was thick and heavy, suffocating her with the smell of expensive cigars, spilled alcohol, and cheap, overpowering perfume.

Davin pulled the doors shut behind her. The soft click of the lock engaging severed her last connection to the outside world.

Elie's eyes scanned the room. In the center sat a massive, U-shaped leather sofa.

Right in the middle of the sofa sat Mortimer Finch. He was a heavily overweight man with thinning hair and a flushed, sweaty face.

But what made the blood freeze in Elie's veins was the man sitting on the single armchair to the right.

Ebert Ewing.

He was already there. He held a martini glass in his hand, his legs crossed, his expression completely bored and detached.

Mortimer's eyes snapped toward the door. His gaze locked onto Elie. His eyes crawled over the thin red silk clinging to her curves, lingering on the expanse of her bare skin. It was the look of a starving predator.

Then, Mortimer's eyes landed on her neck. He saw the angry, purple-red hickey.

Mortimer's thick eyebrows shot up. A greasy, highly suggestive smile spread across his face.

"Mr. Ewing," Mortimer laughed loudly, his voice grating. "The 'gift' you brought me is absolutely exquisite. And the packaging... very kinky. I like it."

Ebert slowly swirled the clear liquid in his martini glass. He didn't even look at Elie.

"As long as Mr. Finch is pleased," Ebert said, his voice flat and businesslike. "I trust the Series C funding will proceed without any further delays."

Hearing herself being traded like a piece of meat for a corporate funding round made Elie's stomach violently cramp. She felt physically sick. Her fingernails dug deeper into the bleeding crescents in her palms.

Mortimer patted the empty leather cushion right next to his thick thigh.

"Come here, sweetheart. Sit next to me," Mortimer commanded, his voice dripping with lust.

Elie's legs felt like they were made of lead. She couldn't move. She turned her head and looked at Ebert. Her eyes were wide, silently begging him. Please. Don't do this.

Ebert took a slow sip of his martini. He deliberately looked away, staring at the wall. He completely ignored her plea.

The last shred of hope died inside Elie. She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. She forced her leaden legs to move. She walked over and sat down stiffly on the very edge of the cushion next to Mortimer.

The second she sat down, Mortimer's large, sweaty hand clamped down heavily onto her bare thigh.

Elie flinched violently. She instinctively jerked her body away from him.

But Mortimer's other arm shot out, wrapping around her narrow waist. He yanked her hard against his side, pinning her against his bulky body.

The overpowering stench of his cologne mixed with the smell of stale alcohol and bad breath hit Elie's face. She held her breath, fighting the intense, physical urge to vomit.

Sitting across from them, Ebert watched Mortimer's arm wrap around Elie's waist. The fingers holding his martini glass tightened abruptly. His knuckles turned stark white against the crystal.

But his face remained a perfect, frozen mask of indifference. He made no move to stop it.

Mortimer picked up a glass filled to the brim with straight, high-proof vodka from the table. He shoved it directly against Elie's lips.

"Drink it," Mortimer ordered.

Elie turned her head away, pressing her lips tightly together. "I... I don't drink," she managed to say.

Mortimer's greasy smile vanished. He grabbed her chin roughly, his thick fingers digging into her jawbone.

"If you don't drink, you're disrespecting Mr. Ewing," Mortimer threatened.

Elie's eyes darted to Ebert.

Ebert stared at her with dead eyes. "Drink it," he commanded coldly.

Those two words were the final blow. They shattered whatever was left of her soul. A look of absolute, dead resignation washed over her eyes.

Elie took the glass from Mortimer's hand. She tilted her head back and downed the entire glass of straight vodka in one go.

The liquid was like liquid fire. It burned a path down her throat and exploded in her empty stomach.

Elie immediately began to cough violently. The harsh coughing racked her small frame. Tears sprang to her eyes, turning the edges of her eyes a painful, bright red.

Mortimer threw his head back and laughed. Taking advantage of her coughing fit, he slid his sweaty hand higher up her thigh, his fingers moving dangerously close to the edge of the silk dress.

Elie's body shook like a leaf in a hurricane. She slammed her hand down, grabbing Mortimer's thick wrist to stop his hand. She was panting heavily.

She forced her head up. Her eyes were bloodshot and watering.

"Excuse me," she choked out, her voice raspy and broken. "I need to use the restroom."