My Five Thousand Dollar Don

The hall fell deathly silent.

The only sound was the frantic clicking of camera shutters.

The flashes froze the moment: the fearsome Mafia Don, his impossibly handsome face inches from mine, questioning why I had only paid a paltry five thousand dollars.

I glanced at the stunned faces of New York's high society around me.

This was being broadcast live to the entire upper crust.

A wave of doom washed over me. This was it. I was finished.

“Speak,” Ronan commanded, his thumb and forefinger gripping my chin tightly. The calloused skin of his fingers brushed against my jaw, sending a shiver down my spine.

He couldn't care less about the eyes on us.

To him, it was just me and that ridiculous sum of money.

“You weren't this quiet in bed last night, begging me to go faster.”

His voice was a low murmur, meant only for me. “So you enjoy skipping out on the bill, Miss Prescott?”

Heat flooded my cheeks.

It had to be the potent mix of sandalwood and whiskey still clinging to him that was doing this to me.

“Let her go!” Julian's voice rang out as he slapped Ronan's hand away, shielding me with his body like a human bulwark. “Don't listen to a word this bastard says!”

He glared into the cameras, his voice trembling but firm. “This is slander! A shameless insult! My sister has had the finest upbringing of a socialite since she was a child. She's never even held a man's hand!”

I hid behind him, guilt threatening to drown me.

Julian, please stop. You're only making things worse.

Julian pointed at the cash on the table and sneered. “You say she paid for you? What a joke!”

“She is the princess of the Prescott family, and you are nothing but filth from the underworld. Why would she ever deign to look at you?”

“This money, this business card—it's all a fabrication! You're making up filthy lies to tarnish my sister's reputation and clear your own name!”

The murmurs from the crowd grew into a buzz.

“Oh my god, Mr. Julian is right! How could someone like Miss Cordelia even look at a mafioso?”

“This Ronan is shameless. It's one thing to commit assault, but spreading dirty rumors is another!”

“Still, look at Don Cain's physique, those legs… I might be willing to pay five thousand too.”

The tide of public opinion was turning in favor of the “victim.”

Ronan offered no defense.

He simply straightened his cufflinks, a mocking glint in his eyes as he looked at me.

His gaze pierced deep into my soul, like a hunter watching his cornered prey.

“Innocent?” he scoffed, taking a step closer.

His presence was so powerful that everyone around him instinctively took a step back.

“If you're all so sure she's a victim,” he said, gesturing to the bite mark on my collarbone, his voice deceptively casual,

“Perhaps you can be the judges.”

“There's a world of difference between a mark of force and a mark of passion.”

“The scratches she left on my back last night haven't even begun to heal.”

The hall erupted into chaos!

Reporters swarmed forward, shoving microphones up to our faces.

“Mr. Cain! Are you suggesting this was consensual?”

“Miss Cordelia! How do you respond?”

Julian was trembling with rage. He looked at me, his eyes a mixture of pain and hope. “Cordelia! Tell them! Did he force you?!”

I opened my mouth.

If I told the truth, Julian would have a conniption, our family’s stock would plummet, and I’d become the laughingstock of New York.

If I lied?

My eyes met Ronan's.

A storm raged in his dark gaze, a silent threat: if I lied, he would spill everything.

I was trapped, with no way out.

In the end, I chose the most cowardly, despicable response.

I lowered my head, bit my lip hard, and said nothing.

My silence was a tacit admission, and we both knew it.