The Chronicles Of Power

Six months later.

Lucy was in Paris, where she had just finished a shoot for Rick Owens’s latest collection. Rick had loved both her body and the way she carried herself. These days, Lucy moved as though the world belonged to her, and more often than not, people seemed happy to let her believe it. She now sat in a folding chair at the edge of the set, drinking champagne with a handsome young male model while assistants dismantled lights and rolled away backdrops. She would probably sleep with the model later, if she still had the energy. Tomorrow was important: she had landed a small role in a film, and her scenes were due to begin shooting. It wasn’t a major production, but it was another step forward. She and Smith had their sights set firmly on Hollywood.

Tamara stood between two men in hard hats, studying the blueprints for the gym that would soon rise on the empty lot before them. Both men hovered close, agreeing too quickly with everything she said and laughing a little too eagerly at her jokes. Tamara was rich now, and more importantly, she was famous. Her wrestling matches against wealthy men had opened the door to a career as a professional fighter—real matches, with clothes, rules, and opponents strong enough to make her work for every victory. She had moved rapidly from a novelty act between bouts to the name printed largest on the poster. Sponsors competed for her attention, promoters called constantly, and everything seemed to be gathering speed.

Molly was dressed from throat to ankle in leather and studs. In high-heeled boots, she moved confidently through the club, greeting other dommes and joining conversations about whips, restraints, and slaves as naturally as if she had been doing it all her life. This was where she belonged. She didn’t own any slaves yet; for now, she was experimenting, discovering what she wanted and what kind of dominant she intended to become. That evening, she had arranged to meet a woman who had registered her interest through the club’s website. Molly had instructed her to arrive completely naked and wait on her knees beside the bar. There was no need to hurry. Waiting would do her good. Eventually, however, Molly’s curiosity became too strong. She made her way through the crowd and found the woman exactly where she had ordered her to be: naked on the floor, hands held behind her back. The slave turned her head and smiled. “Hello, Miss Molly.”

Ivan wandered through the decaying house and knew, with absolute certainty, that he was home. The Kolotoff family estate was little more than a ruin. Over the years, it had served as a school, a hospital, a nursing home, and, most recently, a potato warehouse. The roof was gone, rain had reached almost every room, and the garden had grown into a forest. Yet where anyone else would have seen nothing but collapse and neglect, Ivan saw possibility. He had money now, along with valuable contacts acquired through Sir. Walls could be rebuilt. Roofs could be replaced. The Kolotoff family would rise again.

Stephen sat on a beach beneath the setting sun, a martini resting comfortably in one hand. The suit had been replaced by Bermuda shorts, the polished shoes by bare feet in the sand. Life was good.

Joanna had passed through every stage of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance. She had accepted that her art collection was gone. She had accepted the loss of every piece of jewelry she owned, accepted that thieves had stripped the house of nearly everything valuable, and even accepted that the police had reached the end of what they could do. Acceptance, however, did not mean surrender. Now it was time to act. John would simply have to work twice as hard. Their fortune would be rebuilt, the empty rooms refilled, and order restored. They would find a new Stephen, and four new twelve-month contracts would be drawn up.