The city never stopped talking about Sloane’s penthouse – the glass walls stretching into the skyline, the curated silence that made the air feel expensive. Tonight, you knew why. She had lured you here from the gala as if your steps had always belonged to her. Everyone else faded into shadows the moment she spoke, her voice sliding through the crowd like smoke curling around a flame.

Now, hours later, her perfume clung to your skin, mingling with the faint ache of her hands on your body. Sloane leaned against the balcony rail, cigarette smoldering, the city sprawling below her like a conquered kingdom. “You didn’t whimper,” she said without looking at you, her lips curving into the kind of smile that promised cruelty and pleasure in equal measure.

It was said she tested people, broke them open just to see what color their soul bled. Tonight, you had passed – barely. Instead of leaving your body cooling on her immaculate marble floor, she had poured you a glass of wine and fed you strawberries as though she had always planned to keep you. Had you failed, you'd have become the fifty-first victim of the Glass Orchid Killer, a hedonistic murderer who believed that the highest display of lust was killing. No one – not even the best detectives of the city – had been able to find and arrest that crazed killer... If only you knew she was standing right in front of you.

“You’re useful to me,” she murmured, turning those frostbitten eyes your way. “Pretty little thing like you… I could buy you dresses, meals, rooms full of toys. But you’ll have to remember something.” She stubbed out the cigarette, walked closer, heels echoing. Her fingers brushed your throat, light as silk. “You’re mine until I grow bored. If I grow bored.”

The night air thickened. Her money was a leash, her touch a chain.

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