Aiden’s POV

While Father was greeting the other guests, I had no interest in the boring adult conversations. I left the crowd and walked around.

My attention drifted to the displayed pieces throughout the interior design showcase. Most were predictable—overly ornate lighting fixtures, sculptural furniture more suited to galleries than homes. But one collection caught my eye—a series of minimalist home organization solutions that seemed both elegant and functional.

“Wright Creatives,” I read from the small plaque, examining the clean lines and innovative storage concepts. The designer credit read “Cedar Wright.” Interesting—the design language was distinctly different from Wright Creatives’ usual ornate aesthetic. The pieces demonstrated sophisticated spatial understanding while maintaining accessibility. A difficult balance most designers failed to achieve.

A vibration from my pocket interrupted my assessment. Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, I slipped toward the balcony doors.

“Report,” I said quietly to the man waiting in the shadows.

Henderson, my personal assistant, straightened. “Young Master, we’ve tracked Master Oliver’s location to the Wicker Park district.”

A mixture of relief and irritation washed through me. It had been two days since Oliver’s disappearance. Father’s stoic expression couldn’t hide his growing concern.

“Which specific building?” I kept my voice level, though a hint of frustration slipped through.

“He’s remained within the same block, but we haven’t pinpointed the exact apartment yet. We’ve narrowed it to a five-story building on North Damen Avenue.”

I processed this information, weighing options. “Increase surveillance but maintain distance. Absolute discretion is essential. If anyone discovers Oliver’s identity or location before we’re ready, the media attention could be problematic.”

Henderson nodded. “We’ve also verified Master Oliver is safe and appears… content.”

That last word caught my attention. Oliver was rarely content, especially at home.

“Continue monitoring. Focus resources on the Wicker Park location, but ensure security remains invisible. And Henderson—not a word to Father about this. Understood?”

“Yes, Young Master.”

I felt it then—the weight of eyes on my back. Turning smoothly, I scanned the glass doors leading back into the ballroom. A woman in a simple blue dress stood half-illuminated by the ballroom’s golden light, observing me.

My first instinct was annoyance at being caught during a private conversation. But as our eyes met, something unexpected happened. She smiled—not the calculating smile adults typically offered, but something genuine. Warmer.

I studied her with practiced precision. Mid-twenties, simple but quality attire, posture suggesting quiet confidence rather than social ambition. Her eyes held a curious gentleness that seemed strangely… familiar.

“Aiden.” Father’s voice broke my assessment as he appeared in the doorway. “The showcase presentation is about to begin.”

He followed my gaze toward the woman and then turned his attention back to me.

“Have you located Oliver?” he asked, voice low enough that only I could hear.

“He’s attending an outdoor exploration camp,” I replied without hesitation. “Poor signal reception in the area. I’ve confirmed he’s safe.”

Father’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t cover for him, Aiden. I know he’s acting out because of my disciplinary measures.”

As I approached the restroom, I heard Elara’s voice from inside, pitched low but clear enough. “Make sure Cedar goes to Brad’s private box tomorrow night. The drink will be prepared in advance.”

I froze, hand on the door.

Selena’s voice followed, dripping with malice. “Once Cedar drinks it, she’ll be ‘compliant enough’ for Brad’s taste. He’ll be very satisfied.”

“And when Brad is satisfied,” Elara continued, “the $8 million contract he promised will be ours. Cedar only needs to sacrifice one evening.”

My stomach lurched violently. They were planning to… to drug me? To essentially trade me to Brad Wilson for a contract? The cold calculation in Elara’s voice made it clear this wasn’t an impulsive decision.

I backed away silently, my hands trembling. After everything I’d done for Wright Creatives—the late nights, the award-winning designs, the client relationships I’d carefully built—I was nothing more to them than a commodity to be traded.

I need to get out of here.

My vision blurred as I hurried down the hallway. My entire relationship with the Wright family crystallized in that moment—I’d never been a daughter to them, only an asset. A tool. A transaction.

Lost in my spiraling thoughts, I didn’t notice the solid presence before me until I collided with a firm chest, strong hands steadying my shoulders as I stumbled backward.

“I apologize, I wasn’t—” I began, then looked up into the cold, assessing eyes of his.