Chapter 3 - Thirty StrikesAdrian walked to the side of the room and picked up a heavy leather riding crop from the display near the terrace doors. He tested its weight in his hand, the sharp crack of leather ringing out across the vaulted ceiling.
Vanessa stood beneath the central chandelier, dabbling her eyes with a linen napkin, a cruel, triumphant smile spreading across her lips beneath her ruined dress.
"Thirty strikes," Adrian declared to the room, his voice echoing off the marble walls. "One for every thousand dollars that dress cost. Maybe now you’ll learn your place."
He stepped behind me.
CRACK.
The first strike hit the center of my back, tearing through the thin silk of my dress. A white-hot line of pain exploded across my skin, stealing the air straight from my lungs. My eyes squeezed shut, but I kept my teeth clenched tight. I refused to give him a sound.
CRACK.
CRACK.
The fifth strike. The tenth. The pain burned like liquid fire, radiating up my neck and down my spine. My legs trembled violently, struggling to hold my weight as my hands pulled against the leather restraints.
Around the room, fifty of the city's most influential people stood watching. Some looked away; others watched with morbid curiosity. Margaret Cole took a slow sip of her champagne. Richard adjusted his gold cuff links. Vanessa’s smile only grew wider with every blow.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Sweat poured down my forehead, stinging my eyes. My vision blurred into dark red patches, but inside my mind, a cold, terrifying clarity was settling in.
I remembered my childhood. I remembered the heavy oak table in our old family estate, where five older brothers had sworn an oath never to let anyone bleed a Moretti without paying ten times the price in blood.
They had spent years keeping their true identity hidden from the public, building legal empires, security firms, and financial networks to shield me from the dark reputation our family name once carried. Adrian mockingly called my brothers "gangsters" whenever they were mentioned, assuming they were low-level street thugs.
He had no idea.
Twenty-five.
Twenty-nine.
THIRTY.
The final strike burned across my back like a branding iron. The leather crop slapped against the floor as Adrian stepped back, breathing heavily, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.
He walked around to face me, placing his hands on his hips.
"Apologize," Adrian commanded softly.
I slowly lifted my head. My skin was burning, my body was shaking, but when I opened my eyes, I stared straight into his. I didn't offer him tears. I didn't offer him begging.
"I’m sorry," I whispered, my voice raspy.
Vanessa chuckled from beneath the chandelier. "See? She knows who she is now."
I shifted my gaze from Adrian to Vanessa, looking directly into her smug, beautiful face.
May you like
"I’m sorry you think this ends here," I said softly.
The entire ballroom went dead silent.
