Page 1 of Captive Ruin

One

Amelia

Before you start, please be aware this isn’t a cozy small-town romance. First, it’s set in NYC, and second, no one would ever accuse Van Wyk of being ‘cozy.’ If this book has opened on this page, please scroll up to read the content warnings. Really. You should.

The bouncer barely glances at the invitation I hand him before waving me through the door.

I walk in like I belong here, and I didn’t just give him a card carrying someone else’s name.

The event is a private party in an understated, old money venue in Manhattan, a charity gala for the obscenely wealthy and bored.

It’s an art auction, of course; Serranto’s usual hunting ground. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s here looking for more naïve, rich women to prey on. I’d love to stop him for good, but I’ll have to settle with keeping him away from my sister.

It’s my fault they were introduced. But I’m going to set that right and un-introduce them, right now.

The room is large, well-lit, with clean lines and a white marble floor. It’s not a gallery but it’s been converted for the occasion, with various pieces on the walls and some sculptures on plinths throughout. There are maybe a hundred people here. The guests are predominantly men, all in tuxedos, and the few women present wear cocktail dresses that ooze elegance and money.

Mine oozes Macy’s.

I self-consciously smooth it down, checking the straps cover my bra. At short notice, it was the only suitable option I had for an event like this. A navy midi that is great for my usual evenings out, but here it clearly marks me as an outsider among the rich and shameless. It doesn’t even match my clutch.

But I don’t care. I’m not here for appearances or the art on offer. I’m here for Lucy, to blackmail Serranto into leaving her the hell alone.

The auction isn’t due to start for another two hours. This is the pre-session, soft music playing from hidden speakers; canapes and glasses of champagne; networking and schmoozing. I accept a glass from a passing server in a uniform, sipping without tasting it.

I stop at a piece here and there that catches my eye, but I don’t care much for what’s on display. I have better in my gallery. The work on these walls is predominantly decorative, society portraiture, chosen because it matches a sofa, and these people will bid ridiculous sums for all the wrong reasons. It’s a quietly painful place to be.

I’m feigning interest as I navigate from exhibit to exhibit around the room, looking for my quarry.

And then I see him. My anger unfurls, cold and eager.

Steven Serranto is in his mid-thirties, handsome enough I suppose, if going to seed. He smiles too easily, and it never seems to reach his eyes. He’s condescending to the extreme, gaslights like it’s a weapon, and his ego is swollen like a bullfrog in mating season.

I know him now, but the worst of it is that I didn’t realize what he was until it was too late. To my shame, at first I was taken in by him. I liked him, with his easy charisma and cultured tones. I was the one that introduced him to Lucy.

I brought him into her life, and I’ll get him out of it. She wouldn’t have been vulnerable to him if I hadn’t given it my blessing.

I’m such a goddamn fool.

He’s thirty feet away, standing near a sculpture that offers more depth and conceptual tension than most of the pieces in here, and he’s not even looking at it. Instead, he’s conversing with another man.

The contrast between them is striking.

If Serranto is a leech, drawn to Lucy and her inheritance, the man he’s standing with is a predator in an entirely different class. He doesn’t lounge, he looms, and six feet of lean physique has never looked like so much. His tuxedo is perfectly tailored, his jacket open to reveal a white dress shirt that clings to a flat stomach and hard chest. He appears to be in his late thirties, just enough silver in his dark hair to hint he’d be experienced. No ring on his finger, but that doesn’t mean he’s not married. Yet most men with a wife go soft at the edges. He’s stayed sharp. With the money in this room, that might merely suggest narcissism.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped to stare until Serranto calls my name.

“Amelia. I didn’t know you were on the guest list.”

His voice is loud enough to travel, and several pairs of eyes swing first to him, and then to the direction of his gaze: me.

If he wants to make this public, let him.

I close the gap between us, head up, back straight. Staring down this worm of a man. “I wasn’t,” I say as I approach. “I took Lucy’s invitation. She’s not coming, Serranto.”

Because I told her what I know, and now she hates you as much as I do.

“Oh, that’s disappointing.” Serranto’s tone doesn’t match his words. Instead, he eyes me like I’m a suitable replacement, the sister he hasn’t yet fucked, as if that was ever in the cards.