CHAPTER 2—HIS RULES
1949 Words
Evie Lawson’s POV
The elevator doesn’t stop.
We pass floor after floor, the numbers climbing higher and higher while I stand here with Nathaniel Drake’s hand still wrapped around my wrist. The silence is suffocating. I want to say something—anything—but my throat feels like someone poured concrete down it.
Finally, the elevator chimes. Penthouse level.
Of course it is.
The doors slide open, and I forget how to breathe.
Floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere. The city spreads out below us like scattered diamonds, lights twinkling all the way to the horizon. Everything is sharp angles and cold surfaces—glass, steel, and white marble that probably costs more per square foot than I made in a year.
It’s beautiful.
It’s terrifying.
“This way.” Drake releases my wrist and walks ahead without checking if I’m following.
I am, though. Where else would I go?
My heels click against the marble, too loud in all this emptiness. A woman in a grey uniform appears from somewhere I didn’t even see where and stands with her hands folded, eyes on the floor.
“Mrs. Chen,” Drake says without looking at her. “This is Evie. Show her to her room. Get her settled.”
“Yes, Mr. Drake.”
He’s already walking away, pulling his phone from his pocket, done with me. Just like that. Five hundred thousand dollars and he can’t even—
“Miss?” Mrs. Chen’s voice is soft and accented. “Please, follow me.”
I want to scream at him. Demand answers. Ask what the hell I’m doing here, what he wants from me, and what my father supposedly took. But Drake disappears around a corner, already talking to someone on his phone, and I’m left standing there like an i***t.
“Miss?” Mrs. Chen repeats, gentler this time.
I follow her down a hallway lined with abstract art that probably belongs in a museum. She doesn’t try to make conversation. Doesn’t even look at me. We pass door after door—all closed—until she stops at one near the end.
“This is your room.” She pushes it open.
I step inside, and my stomach drops.
It’s bigger than my entire apartment was. King-sized bed with white silk sheets. Another wall of windows overlooks the city. A door that leads to what looks like a bathroom made of marble and gold fixtures. Everything is pristine, untouched, like a hotel room waiting for a guest who never comes.
“Your clothes are in the closet,” Mrs. Chen says. “Mr. Drake had them brought from your apartment this afternoon.”
“Wait, what?” I spin around. “He went through my things?”
She doesn’t react to my tone. “Dinner is at seven. You’re expected to dress appropriately. Breakfast is at seven a.m. sharp. Mr. Drake doesn’t tolerate lateness.”
“Hold on—”
“The doors lock automatically at night. For security purposes.” Her face remains blank. “Do you have any questions?”
About a thousand. But something in her expression—or lack of one—tells me she won’t answer them even if I ask.
“No,” I lie.
“Very good. Someone will come for you at dinnertime.” She turns to leave.
“Wait—” I grab her arm without thinking.
She goes rigid. Stares at my hand on her sleeve like I’ve broken some sacred rule.
I let go immediately. “Sorry. I just… can you tell me where Mr Drake is? I need to talk to him.”
“Mr. Drake is not to be disturbed unless he requests your presence.” The words sound rehearsed. “Please wait in your room.”
Then she’s gone, closing the door softly behind her.
I’m alone.
I stand there for a long moment, heart pounding, trying to process everything. The auction. The car ride here was in silence. This prison is disguised as luxury.
*You’re mine now.*
I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can still see his face. Feel his hand around my wrist. Hear that dangerous edge in his voice when he said I should never have signed the contract.
What did Dad take from him?
I move to the windows and press my forehead against the cold glass. The city looks so small from up here. All those people down there, living normal lives, going home to normal problems.
I’d give anything to be one of them right now.
-----
The knock comes at exactly seven.
A different staff member this time—a young guy, also in grey, also avoiding eye contact. “Miss Lawson. Dinner.”
I changed into jeans and a sweater from my closet, which is now apparently full of clothes I didn’t pack. Someone went through my apartment. Touched my things. Decided what I’d need for the next year of my life.
The violation of it burns in my chest.
The dining room is as cold and perfect as everything else. Long glass table. Chrome chairs. Drake sits at the head, reading something on his tablet, a glass of wine beside him.
He doesn’t look up when I enter.
I stand there, awkward and furious, waiting for… something. An invitation to sit? An acknowledgement that I exist?
Nothing.
“Um.” My voice sounds too small. “Where should I—”
“There.” He gestures vaguely toward the chair to his right, still not looking at me.
I sit, and immediately a server I didn’t notice appears with a plate. Seared fish, vegetables arranged artfully, and some kind of sauce drizzled in a pattern. It probably tastes amazing. I can barely taste anything past the anger lodged in my throat.
Drake cuts his fish with surgical precision. Takes a bite. Chews. Still doesn’t look at me.
Five minutes pass. Ten.
“So this is it?” The words burst out before I can stop them. “You’re just going to ignore me? Pretend I’m not here?”
“Would you prefer I don’t?” He sets down his fork, finally meeting my eyes. “I thought silence would be more comfortable for you.”
“Comfortable?” I nearly laugh. “Nothing about this is comfortable. You dragged me here, locked me in a room, and won’t even tell me what you want from me.”
“I want you to follow the rules.”
“What rules? No one told me any—”
“The staff gave you the schedule.” His voice is maddeningly calm. “Breakfast at seven. Dinner at seven. Don’t leave the penthouse without permission. Don’t enter rooms that are locked. And speak when you’re spoken to, not whenever you feel like it.”
Heat floods my face. “You can’t be serious.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
He doesn’t. His expression is carved from ice, completely devoid of humor or warmth. This is the man who bought me. This is what five hundred thousand dollars gets you—a pretty cage and a master who treats you like an inconvenience.
“I’m not your pet,” I say through clenched teeth.
“No.” Something flickers in his eyes. “You’re collateral. There’s a difference.”
The word hits like a slap. Collateral. That’s all I am to him. Payment for whatever debt he thinks my father owed.
I shove back from the table, chair scraping loudly. “I can’t do this.”
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“Evie.” He stands too, and suddenly the room feels smaller. “Sit down.”
We stare at each other across the glass table. My heart hammers. His jaw is tight, that muscle ticking again, but his eyes… God, his eyes are storm clouds about to break.
I should sit. I should obey. That’s what the contract says, isn’t it? One year of compliance in exchange for cleared debts.
But I can’t make myself move.
“You want to know why you’re here?” His voice drops, dangerous and soft. “You want answers? Then follow the goddamn rules, and maybe—*maybe*—I’ll give them to you.”
“Or maybe you could just tell me now like a normal person—”
“Normal?” He laughs, sharp and bitter. “Nothing about this is normal. Your father made sure of that when he destroyed everything I—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. “Go to your room.”
“What?”
“Now.”
I don’t move. Can’t. There’s something in his face that wasn’t there before—pain, maybe, or rage so deep it’s turned cold. He’s gripping the edge of the table hard enough that his knuckles have gone white.
“Fine.” I turn toward the door, blinking back angry tears. “You know what? You can take your rules and—”
“Your father murdered someone.”
I freeze.
The words hang in the air, impossible. Wrong.
I turn back slowly. “What did you say?”
Drake’s face is carved from marble. “You wanted the truth? There it is. Jonathan Lawson—your father—killed someone I cared about. And then he took something from me that I’ll never get back.”
“No.” My voice shakes. “No, my dad wasn’t—he wouldn’t—”
“Ask me how I know.”
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe.
“Because I watched it happen.” His eyes bore into mine. “And you, Evie, are going to help me prove it.”
Before I can respond, his phone buzzes. He glances at it, and his expression shuts closed again.
“Go to your room,” he says flatly. “We’re done here.”
This time, I go.
-----
I don’t sleep.
How could I? I lie in that massive bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying his words over and over until they don’t sound like words anymore.
*Your father murdered someone.*
It’s not true. It can’t be true. Dad was a lot of things—a gambler, a drunk toward the end, someone who made bad choices—but not a killer. Not that.
Around midnight, I hear Drake’s voice through the wall. Muffled, but angry. I press my ear against the cold plaster, trying to make out words.
“…doesn’t matter…” His voice rises and falls. “…she doesn’t remember…”
A pause.
“…good. That makes it easier.”
My blood turns to ice.
*She doesn’t remember.*
Remember what? What am I supposed to remember?
I back away from the wall, heart racing. What did I forget? Or what does he think I know?
I pace the room like a caged animal, questions multiplying in my head. Maybe Dad did something terrible. Maybe he was involved in things I never knew about. But murder?
The knock on my door makes me jump.
I stare at it, frozen.
Another knock, firmer this time.
“Evie.” Drake’s voice, muffled through the wood. “I know you’re awake.”
I don’t answer. Don’t move.
“Open the door.”
“No.”
Silence. Then: “You want to know what you’re paying for?”
My hand moves to the handle before I can think about it.
“Open it,” he says, quieter now. Almost gentle. “And I’ll tell you everything.”
I stand there, fingers wrapped around cold metal, knowing that whatever is on the other side of this door will change everything.
Knowing I’m going to open it anyway.
I turn the handle.
- Writer
