Third Person's POV The message had come to Lana's WolfComm device like a curse. One careless tap, and the screen filled with damning truth. The video was raw, grainy, but far too clear. She was there-half-drunk, cheeks flushed, draped across Victor. From the angle, it was obvious the bastard had set his device nearby with the lens trained on them. Every movement, every humiliating slur spilled from her lips, had been captured. Her hands clawed at Victor's shirt, sliding down from his face to the hard ridges of his chest and abdomen. Her voice slurred with drink, but the words cut sharper than any blade. "You… you look so much like Victor Ashford. That face, these abs… mm, let me pay you-just once-let me use you, let me vent!" Victor's voice in the video was calm, even mocking. "Vent?" "Y-yeah," she stammered, drunken and bitter. "That bastard… he said I was just a way to pass the time. Said I meant nothing. He played me, treated me like a toy. So I'll play him, just once. But damn it-he's too strong, I can't touch him. Come on, handsome, do me a kindness. Let me use you, let me have this, let me end this dream…" "And you want so badly to ‘use' Victor Ashford?" he asked from beneath her. "Want it? Gods, I dream of it…" she mumbled, tugging his tie loose. With clumsy determination, she wrapped it around his wrists, binding them to the headboard with surprising force. The screen froze there, the image of his bound hands and her flushed, drunken determination seared into her soul. The video ended. Lana's face flamed scarlet, though she was alone in her apartment. Her hands trembled as she lowered the device. Saints above. So this was what came of drink-shame, evidence, and a noose around her neck. That night, she agreed to meet him. There was no running, no denying. Victor Ashford had her cornered. The private dining chamber was quiet, lined with dark wood and silver fixtures, the sort of place reserved for powerbrokers of The Capital. Lana forced a bright smile as he entered, her pulse thundering beneath her skin. "Mr. Ashford," she greeted, voice unnaturally sweet. "Allow me to buy you dinner as… an apology."Victor's gaze was unreadable, sharp as a hawk's. "So. You've watched the video. You think you did wrong?" Her laugh came out brittle, brittle as glass. "Heh… well… let's eat, shall we? No point rehashing what can't be undone." She snatched up the menu, desperate for distraction. "Please-order whatever you like." Victor took her at her word. His choices were deliberate, and every dish he named was one of the priciest on the list. She felt the sting of it like claws raking across her purse, but what could she say? She was in no position to object. The food arrived, fragrant and steaming. They ate in silence at first. Lana chewed, her mind racing with strategies, excuses, bargains. The memory of last night was blurred with alcohol, fractured. She couldn't remember all that she had done. Had she crossed the final line? No. She was certain she hadn't. When she'd woken, her clothes were intact. Surely nothing irreversible had happened. Still, her eyes betrayed her. They drifted to him, as they always had, against her better judgment. Watching Victor eat was enough to make her ache in places she refused to name. He was the very image of the noble scion: elegant, composed, carved from restraint itself. His face was sharp, ascetic, yet there was a dangerous magnetism there that only made him harder to ignore. Beside him, Lana felt like what she was: a woman who had clawed her way up through luck and timing, building SkyVex Armaments into fortune while the winds of the market blew in her favor. To the world she was "Lana, the business wolf." But compared to him, she still felt small. Petty. A pretender. Her gaze slid lower, and her breath caught. Beneath the sleeve of his tailored shirt, just above the glittering watch worth more than her car, faint red marks traced the pale skin of his wrist. Binding marks. Her eyes widened. Saints. Those were from her. From the tie she had looped around his wrists with drunken determination. Victor's voice cut through her thoughts, low and sudden. "What has you staring so intently at my wrist? Do you admire the watch?" Heat rushed to her cheeks. "Who cares about your watch? I was looking at those marks." She regretted it instantly, but the words were already out. Victor set down his fork, gaze cool as moonlight. "Then by all means-look closer." He slid the watch free, rolled up his sleeves deliberately. The angry red welts stood out starkly against his skin.Lana's stomach twisted with guilt. Perhaps she had tied the knot too tightly. "Sorry," she muttered, uneasy. Then, with a flash of defiance to cover her discomfort, she added, "But why didn't you fight back?" Victor's eyes darkened with something unreadable. "I was drunk. I couldn't resist." Lana nearly snorted aloud. Liar. He'd been sober enough to set the WolfComm up and record everything. If he'd wanted to stop her, he would have. But she swallowed the retort. "Last night," she asked instead, careful, cautious. "After I tied your wrists… what else did I do?" Victor leaned back, his expression infuriatingly calm, like a wolf toying with prey. "You kissed and touched me from head to toe," he said smoothly. "Then you picked up a belt and whipped me." Lana froze, fork halfway to her lips. Her entire body flushed hot, then cold. Saints. If that were true-if even half of that were true-then she was in far deeper trouble than she'd imagined.