From Chains to Forever

Evelyn's hands were still shaking as she tossed her phone onto the hotel bed. That email—"You can't run from what's already yours"—burned in her mind like a brand. She'd spent the last hour pacing, trying to convince herself it was just some obsessed fan, some loser with too much time and a laptop. But deep down, she knew better. The photo from the gala, the word *Mine* scrawled in red, and now this? It wasn't random. Someone was playing with her, and she hated how small it made her feel.

She grabbed her purse, forcing herself to move. She had a charity auction to attend tonight, another chance to network, to solidify her place in this cutthroat world. She wasn't about to let some creep steal her focus. Not when she was so close to everything she'd fought for. She slipped into a sleek emerald dress, the fabric cool against her skin, and checked her reflection. Green eyes sharp, curls pinned just so, smile practiced. She looked like a star. She *was* a star. And no one was going to dim her light.

But as she stepped into the elevator, Damian Blackwood's words from yesterday echoed in her head: *"People are watching you. Be careful who you trust."* She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. Was he talking about the emails? Did he know something? His gray eyes, intense and unreadable, flashed in her mind, and she pushed the thought away. She didn't have time for cryptic billionaires or their games. She had a career to build.

---

The auction was at a swanky downtown venue, all velvet curtains and golden light. The room buzzed with Hollywood's elite—directors in tailored suits, actresses dripping in diamonds, and investors who could make or break a career with a nod. Evelyn navigated the crowd, her smile a shield, her handshake firm. She was here to charm, to land the kind of connections that could get her that dream role—a film that would cement her as more than a flash in the pan.

Lila was by her side, as always, sipping a martini and whispering commentary. "That guy in the bowtie? Total sleaze. Tried to pitch me a 'private audition' last week." She rolled her eyes, and Evelyn laughed, the tension in her chest easing. Lila was her lifeline, the one person who saw through the glitz and kept her grounded.

"Any sign of your billionaire fanboy?" Lila teased, nudging her. "Blackwood was *staring* at you yesterday. Like, I'm-surprised-you-didn't-combust staring."

Evelyn snorted, grabbing a flute of champagne. "He's not my type. Too… intense. And that warning he gave me? Creepy as hell."

Lila raised an eyebrow. "Creepy or hot? There's a fine line, babe."

"Creepy," Evelyn said firmly, but her cheeks warmed. She hated how Damian's voice lingered, how his touch—barely a brush of his coat—had sent a spark through her. She didn't do sparks. Sparks got you burned.

She turned to scan the room, her eyes catching on a man across the crowd. Tall, lean, with a smile that was all charm and no warmth. He was watching her, his gaze steady, deliberate. Not like the gala creep who'd stared too long—this was different. Calculated. Like he was sizing her up, not just her body but her soul. She froze, her glass halfway to her lips.

"Who's that?" she muttered to Lila.

Lila followed her gaze and whistled low. "Vincent Kane. Runs Kane Entertainment. Basically owns every blockbuster that's come out in the last five years. Guy's richer than God and twice as ruthless."

Evelyn's stomach twisted. She didn't like the way he was looking at her, like she was a puzzle he'd already solved. Before she could turn away, he started toward her, moving through the crowd with a predator's grace.

---

"Evelyn Hart," he said, his voice smooth as silk, laced with something darker. Up close, Vincent Kane was striking—golden hair swept back, blue eyes that glinted like ice, a suit so sharp it could cut glass. But there was something off about him, something that made her skin prickle. Like a wolf in a designer jacket.

"Mr. Kane," she said, keeping her tone cool, professional. "Nice to meet you."

"Oh, I've been looking forward to this," he said, his smile widening. He offered a hand, and she shook it, his grip lingering a second too long. "Your performance in *Shades of Truth* was… captivating. You've got something special, Evelyn. Something rare."

She forced a smile, pulling her hand back. "Thank you. I'm just getting started."

"Modest," he said, chuckling. "I like that. But you don't need to be. You're going places, and I'd like to help you get there."

Lila coughed into her martini, muttering something about "cheeseball lines," but Evelyn kept her focus on Vincent. His words were flattering, but his eyes were too sharp, too hungry. She'd dealt with men like him before—producers who promised the world and expected your soul in return.

"I appreciate the vote of confidence," she said, sipping her champagne to buy time. "But I'm pretty selective about my projects."

"Good," he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping. "You should be. Not everyone in this room has your best interests at heart. But I do."

Her pulse quickened, not from flattery but from unease. His words echoed Damian's warning, but where Damian's had felt protective, Vincent's felt like a trap. She glanced at Lila, who was giving her a *get-out-of-there* look, but before she could excuse herself, Vincent leaned in, his breath warm against her ear.

"I'm producing a film," he said. "Big budget, A-list director. The kind of role that could make you a household name. I think you'd be perfect for it. Shall we discuss it somewhere… quieter?"

Her stomach churned. She knew that tone, that offer. It wasn't just about a role. She stepped back, putting space between them. "I'm flattered, but I'm here for the auction. Maybe we can talk business another time."

Vincent's smile didn't falter, but his eyes darkened, just for a second. "Of course. But don't wait too long, Evelyn. Opportunities like this don't come around twice."

He handed her a business card, his fingers brushing hers deliberately. She took it, her skin crawling, and watched him melt back into the crowd. Lila grabbed her arm the second he was gone.

"Okay, that guy's bad news," Lila whispered. "Like, serial-killer-in-a-rom-com bad news."

Evelyn nodded, tucking the card into her purse without looking at it. "Yeah. I got that vibe."

But as she turned back to the auction, she couldn't shake the feeling that Vincent Kane wasn't done with her. Not by a long shot.

---

The rest of the night passed in a blur—bids on art pieces, forced laughter with producers, and too many glasses of champagne. Evelyn played her part, charming and poised, but her mind kept drifting to Vincent's icy eyes, to Damian's warning, to that damn email. By the time she got back to her hotel, her head was pounding, her nerves frayed.

She kicked off her heels, collapsing onto the couch. Her purse spilled open, and Vincent's card fell out, glossy black with gold lettering. She picked it up, debating whether to toss it. Instead, she flipped it over—and froze.

On the back, in sharp, familiar red ink, was a single word: *Mine.*

Her heart stopped. She dropped the card, her breath shallow. It was the same handwriting as the photo, the same word that had haunted her for days. Vincent. It had to be him. But how? And why? She grabbed her phone, ready to call Claire, when a knock at her door made her jump.

"Evelyn," a voice called, low and urgent. Damian Blackwood.

She froze, her eyes darting from the card to the door. What the hell was he doing here? And how did he know where she was staying? Her mind raced, connecting dots that didn't quite fit. Vincent's offer. Damian's warning. The emails. The photo. And now Damian, here, in the middle of the night.

"Open the door," he said, his voice sharper now. "We need to talk. It's about Vincent Kane."

Her hand hovered over the knob, her pulse hammering. Trust him or not? She didn't know. But one thing was clear: whatever game these men were playing, she was the prize. And she was done being played.

She opened the door, ready to demand answers—but the look on Damian's face stopped her cold. His eyes were dark, his jaw tight, and in his hand was a crumpled piece of paper. Another photo of her, this one from tonight, with the same red word scrawled across it: *Mine.*