.
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. It was not pity. It was colder than that. Older. Angrier.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Elena,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Elena Vargas.”
“Elena,” he repeated slowly, as if weighing the name. “Arthur Vargas’s daughter.”
It was not a question.
Elena trembled and nodded. Her father had died two years earlier, leaving his modest shipping company under the control of his second wife, Patricia. From that moment on, Elena had stopped being treated like a daughter. She had become a captive, a pawn, something Patricia could use to pay off the gambling debts that kept growing around her.
Tonight, Patricia’s chosen buyer had been Oscar Becerra—a wealthy, infamous man with a cruel reputation.
“I didn’t want this,” Elena said, choking on the words as tears finally broke through her numbness. They burned against her bruised skin. “She locked me in the room. She said if I didn’t… if I didn’t please him, she would sell my father’s house. She hit me. So I ran. I just ran.”
Matthew watched her fall apart. He did not offer soft words. He did not comfort her.
Instead, he reached into his coat, pulled out a thick wool blanket, and tossed it onto her lap.
“Dry yourself,” he said coldly. “It’s a long drive, and I don’t allow blood or tears on my upholstery.
