Instantly, countless gazes landed on me.
"Isn't that Miss Sullivan?"
"What Miss Sullivan? The Sullivans went under ages ago. I heard she'll do anything to pay off debts."
"Tsk. Dressed like that—she's probably being kept by Mr. Vance, huh? She used to act like she was better than everyone."
Anthony acted like he heard nothing, guiding me through the crowd.
Those trust-fund kids who used to swarm around me—now they looked at me with something between mockery and hunger.
A potbellied man named Jesse Lambert walked over, wineglass in hand.
"Mr. Vance, you've got good taste. This one looks familiar—killer body."
His eyes crawled over my chest.
Instinctively, I shrank behind Anthony.
But he stepped aside, leaving me fully exposed to Lambert's gaze.
He sipped his champagne, a lazy smile playing on his lips.
"It is pretty killer. If Mr. Lambert's interested, I'll have her pour you drinks sometime."
I looked up at him.
No protection in his eyes. Only cold satisfaction.
"Then it's a deal!" Lambert reached out, fingers aimed at my waist.
I forced myself to dodge, swallowing back nausea.
"Oh, she's got some fire." Lambert's expression soured.
"That's what makes the training fun, isn't it, Layla Sullivan?"