His To Keep

MARCUS Are you actually going through with this? Jamie's voice cuts through my thoughts as I adjust my borrowed tie for the third time. It's just one night, I say, forcing confidence I don't feel. Some wealthy donor bids, we have an awkward dinner, and the shelter gets enough publicity to maybe secure actual funding. You hate these things. I hate a lot of things. It doesn't mean I don't do them. The charity auction is in full swing beyond the backstage curtain. I can hear the auctioneer's enthusiastic voice, the polite applause, the clink of champagne glasses. Jamie puts a hand on my shoulder. You don't have to prove anything to these people, Marcus. But I do. I have to prove the shelter is worth saving. That the twenty-three people currently living there deserve a chance. That I've built something meaningful from the wreckage of my life five years ago. I don't say any of this. Jamie knows about Dante, everyone who matters knows about Dante, but we don't talk about him anymore. What's the point? He's gone. I've moved on. I'm lying to myself again. Bachelor Number Seven, a volunteer calls. You're up. My stomach drops. Jamie squeezes my shoulder once, and then I'm walking toward the stage lights, forcing my expression into something pleasant and approachable. The auctioneer launches into my introduction, listing my work at the shelter, making me sound far more heroic than I am. The bidding starts at $500. A woman in the front row raises her paddle. Someone else counters. It's the kind of charitable giving that makes people feel good about themselves without actually making a tangible difference. Twenty thousand dollars. Everything stops. The auctioneer stutters. The crowd turns to look at the back of the ballroom. And my heart stops beating because I know that voice. I'd know it anywhere, in any crowd, after any amount of time. Dante Vittorio steps into the light. Five years. It's been five years since I've seen him, and the sight of him steals the air from my lungs. He's different, he looks more dangerous. The boy I loved has been replaced by something colder, more controlled. He's wearing a black suit that probably costs more than my annual salary, and his dark eyes are locked on me like I'm the only person in the room. Like he never left. Twenty thousand, he repeats, his voice echoing through the stunned silence. Going once? The auctioneer recovers quickly, probably scenting the biggest donation of the night. Twenty thousand dollars! Do I hear twenty-five? No one moves. No one would dare, not with the way Dante is looking at me. Like he's already won. Like I'm already his. Thirty thousand, Dante says, almost bored. The auctioneer is practically vibrating with excitement now. Thirty thousand! Going once, going twice I should run. I should walk off this stage and out of this building and never look back. But I'm frozen, caught in Dante's gaze like prey in a trap. Fifty thousand dollars. The crowd gasps. The auctioneer nearly drops his gavel. Sold! he practically shouts. Bachelor Number Seven goes to the gentleman in the back for fifty thousand dollars! Applause erupts. People are standing, craning to see the mysterious bidder who just dropped an insane amount of money on a charity date. But I can't move. Can't process what just happened. Dante starts walking toward the stage, and suddenly my paralysis breaks. I stumble backstage, ignoring the volunteer trying to congratulate me, pushing past Jamie's concerned questions. I need air. I need space. I need to be anywhere but here. But I'm not fast enough. Marcus. I'm in a back hallway, dim and quiet, when Dante's voice stops me cold. I turn slowly, and there he is. Close enough that I can see the familiar scar above his left eyebrow, the one he got falling off his bike when we were happy. What are you doing here? My voice sounds strange. I think that's obvious. He takes a step closer. I bought you. You can't buy people, Dante. And yet I just did. Fifty thousand dollars for one evening of your time. His eyes scan my face like he's memorizing it. You look tired. I'm fine. You're not. You're working yourself to death for that shelter. Another step. Still trying to save everyone except yourself. I back up until I hit the wall. You don't know anything about my life. I know everything about your life. His voice drops, intimate and dangerous. I know you take your coffee black now instead of with cream. I know you haven't taken a day off in six months. I know you're three weeks behind on rent for the shelter building and two of your major grants fell through last quarter. Ice slides down my spine. How do you know that? Because I've been watching you, Marcus. For five years, I've been watching you. That's…….. You left. You walked away without a word and now you're stalking me? Not stalking. Protecting. I don't need your protection! You've always needed my protection. You just didn't know it. Dante's hand comes up, almost touching my face before he stops himself. I need to talk to you. Real talk, but we can't do it here. We have nothing to talk about. We have five years to talk about. I don't want to hear it. I try to move past him but he blocks me easily. One month, he says quietly. What? Give me one month. Thirty days. Let me explain what happened, why I left. His eyes are intense and burning. After that, if you want me gone, I'll disappear and you'll never see me again. I laugh, but it sounds broken. Why would I agree to that? Because I'll make it worth your while. A substantial donation to your shelter. Enough to keep it running for years. I don't want your money. Yes, you do. You need it desperately. He's not being cruel, just stating facts. Your residents need it. The people you're trying to save need it. So this is blackmail? Spend time with you or let innocent people suffer? This is an offer. One month of your time in exchange for the financial security you've been fighting for. I want to say no. Everything in me is screaming to refuse, to walk away, to protect myself from the man who destroyed me once already. But then I think of Elena, who just arrived last month with nothing but nightmares and bruises. I think of David, who's finally starting to smile again. I think of all the people I've promised to help, to protect, to give a safe place. If I refuse? I ask, even though I already know the answer. Dante's expression doesn't change. Then I respect your decision and leave you alone. Just like that. just like that. He's lying. I can see it in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. Dante Vittorio doesn't walk away from things he wants, and for some weird reason, he still wants me. But there's something else in his expression. Something darker that I can't place. What aren't you telling me? I demand. Dante's lips curved up in a smile. I'm the anonymous donor, Marcus. I've been funding your shelter for five years. Every mysterious check, every last-minute grant that appeared when you were about to lose everything, that was me. The world tilts. You're lying. I'm not. Check your records. Check the routing numbers and the LLC names. Trace it all back and you'll find me. He pauses. If you refuse my offer, the money stops tomorrow. And we both know your shelter won't survive two months without it. I can't breathe. Five years of struggling, of miracles that weren't miracles at all, of being saved by someone I thought was gone. Five years of being in Dante's trap without even knowing it. You bastard, I whisper. Yes. He doesn't deny it, doesn't apologize. One month, Marcus. That's all I'm asking. You're not asking. You're threatening. I'm offering you a choice. The shelter survives, and you give me thirty days. Or you refuse, and I walk away. His voice softens slightly. I won't force you. I'll never force you. But I think we both know what you're going to choose. He's right. God help me, he's right. I can't let twenty-three people lose their homes because of my pride. I can't let Elena end up back on the streets. I can't destroy everything I've built just to avoid the man who broke my heart. After thirty days, you let me go, I say flatly. Completely. No more stalking. If that's what you want. And you triple your donations. Set up a trust or something permanent so the shelter never has to worry about funding again. Dante's smile widens. Agreed. I want it in writing. Of course. He pulls out his phone and types something quickly. My lawyer will have papers drawn up by tomorrow. You'll have everything you need to protect yourself and your shelter. I should feel victorious. I just negotiated protection for the people I care about. But all I feel is trapped, caught in a web I didn't even know existed. When? I ask. You have three days to get your affairs in order. This Friday, a car will pick you up and bring you to my home. He reaches out again, and this time he does touch me, just his fingertips against my cheek, so light I might have imagined it. Three days, Marcus. And then you're mine. I'll never be yours again. Dante's eyes darken with something that might be pain or might be promise. We'll see.