You Were Never Supposed to Be Mine

Evie Lawson’s POV The lights were too bright. I can’t stop blinking my eyes; my hands can’t stop shaking as I stand on this platform like a piece of furniture someone’s trying to get rid of. The velvet rope around the stage doesn’t make this classy. Nothing could. “Did I hear fifty thousand?” The auctioneer’s voice bounces off the walls, cheerful, like he’s selling antiques instead of a human being. My stomach twists so hard I think I might be sick right here in front of everyone. A card goes up in the back. Then another. I dig my nails into my palms. I whispered, "Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry." “Sixty thousand. Thank you, sir. Do I hear seventy?” I knew what I was signing. I read every word of that contract three times, sitting in that lawyer’s office with its leather chairs and mahogany desk. I needed the money. Mom’s medical bills weren’t going to pay themselves, and the debt collectors weren’t going to wait. But knowing doesn’t make this easier. The crowd is mostly men in expensive suits, drinks in hand, looking at me. Some woman in diamonds is whispering to her companion, smirking. My skin crawls. “Eighty thousand!” I force myself to breathe. In and out. This is temporary. One year of my life—that’s what the contract said. I can survive anything for a year. “Ninety thousand from the gentleman in the—” “Five hundred thousand.” The voice cuts through the room like a blade. Everything stops. The auctioneer’s mouth hangs open mid-sentence. The blonde woman with diamonds turns so fast her champagne sloshes. Every head swivels toward the back corner, where the shadows are thickest. I can’t see him at first. Just a silhouette, tall and still, while everyone else shifts and murmurs. Then he steps forward, and the light catches his face. My breath dies in my throat. He’s younger than most of the men here—maybe early thirties—but he wears power like other people wear cologne. Dark suit that probably costs more than my childhood home. Black hair pushed back from a face that could be handsome if it wasn’t so… cold—sharp jaw. Straight nose. Eyes that pin me in place from across the room. “I’m sorry, did you say—” The auctioneer stumbles over his words. “Five hundred thousand.” His voice is deep, controlled, and almost bored. Like he’s ordering coffee, not buying a person. “Or do I need to repeat myself?” “No! No, of course not, Mr.—” “Drake.” The name ripples through the crowd like wind through grass. People lean toward each other, whispering frantically. I see fear on some faces. Respect for others. The woman in diamonds has gone pale. Who is he? “Well.” The auctioneer clears his throat, recovering his showman smile. “Going once at five hundred thousand…” Drake doesn’t look away from me. His gaze is a physical thing, heavy and inescapable. I try to read his expression—anger? Interest? Disgust?—but his face gives nothing away. “Going twice…” My heart hammers against my ribs. Part of me screams to run, to jump off this platform and bolt for the door. But my legs won’t move. I’m frozen, trapped in his stare like a butterfly on a pin. “Sold! To Mr. Nathaniel Drake for five hundred thousand dollars!” Applause scatters through the room, polite and thin. People are already moving toward the bar; the excitement is over. Just another transaction completed. But Drake doesn’t move. He stands there, watching me, while someone in a suit approaches him with paperwork. He signs without looking down, his eyes never leaving mine. I should look away. I can’t. The platform attendant woman in black, who hasn’t met my eyes once tonight, gestures for me to step down. My heels click against the wood, too loud. Each step feels like walking toward the edge of a cliff. Drake moves through the crowd, and people part for him. No one touches him. No one even tries to make small talk. He walks like he owns not just this room, but everything in it. Including me now, I guess. He stops three feet away. Up close, he’s even more intimidating. Tall enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. They’re grey, I realize. Storm-cloud grey, with something dangerous lurking underneath. “Evie Lawson.” My name sounds wrong in his mouth. Too familiar. “Do you know who I am?” “I—” My voice comes out hoarse. I clear my throat and try again. “No.” “But I know you.” His head tilts slightly, like he’s examining something under a microscope. “I know your father.” Ice floods my veins. “My father’s been dead for two years.” “I’m aware.” Something flickers across his face—satisfaction? Fury? It’s gone before I can identify it. “Tell me, Evie. Did he ever mention the name Drake? Maybe in passing? Maybe when he was drinking?” My mouth goes dry. Dad drank, yeah. Especially toward the end, when the debts got bad and the loan sharks started calling. But he never talked about his business. Never mentioned names. “I don’t know what you’re—” “He took something from me.” Drake steps closer, and I instinctively step back. My shoulders hit the wall. When did we get to the wall? “Something valuable. And then he died before I could make him pay for it.” “That’s not my fault.” My voice shakes, but I force the words out. “I didn’t even know what he was involved in. I’m not responsible for—” “Aren’t you?” His hand comes up, and I flinch before I can stop myself. But he doesn’t hit me. Just reaches past my shoulder to brace against the wall, caging me in. “You signed that contract. You sold yourself to clear his debts. That makes you responsible for everything he owed.” He’s so close I can smell his cologne—something expensive and woodsy that makes my head spin. His jaw is tight, a muscle ticking there. Angry. He’s angry. But there’s something else in his eyes when they drop to my mouth, then lower, then back up. Something that makes my skin flush hot despite the fear. “I need the money,” I whisper. “That’s the only reason I—” “I don’t care about your reasons.” His voice drops lower, intimate in a way that feels like a threat. “You’re mine now. For one year, as the contract states. And you’re going to help me get back what your father stole.” “I don’t know what he took. I don’t know anything.” “You will.” His hand moves from the wall to my wrist. His fingers close around it—not tight enough to hurt, but firm. Possessive. I can feel my pulse jumping against his palm. He leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across my ear. “You should never have signed that contract, Evie.” Then he’s pulling me toward the exit, and I’m stumbling after him in my too-high heels, and everyone is watching, and I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but follow as Nathaniel Drake leads me out into the night.