His By Contract

Elena's pov I sat there, staring at the textbook in front of me, but for some reason the words wouldn't sink in. Maybe it was the strain I'd been feeling from my parents lately. Something about them had felt off for days — something they weren't telling me. I couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was coming, and that everyone around me was determined to keep me from it. I forced my eyes back to the page. Then I heard my parents' voices through the wall — low, tight, serious. I couldn't make out the words, but something in the tone made my stomach twist. I pushed my chair back and crossed to their door. "It's going to be fine. She's going to be fine," my father was saying. "He's rich. He can take care of her better than we ever could." My heart skipped, breath catching in my throat before I could stop it. "Do you hear yourself?" My mother's voice cracked. "Are you really doing this because of your own mess?" "She hasn't exactly been earning her keep around here," my father said. "Most of what I've spent on her came out of that business. So I don't see the problem with her helping make it right." Give me away? The words hadn't even been said, not exactly — and somehow that was worse. My whole body went cold, then started shaking. Tears blurred my vision as I backed away from the door. I wasn't watching where I was going. My foot caught on something, and I hit the floor hard, the sound echoing down the hallway. Silence. Then the door opened. My parents stood there. One look at my face and they knew. I stared at my father first, searching for even a flicker of regret. There was nothing — just the same flat expression he wore reading the newspaper. "Really?" My voice shook. "You're going to use me to clear your debts? Like I'm — what, a tool?" He didn't answer. "Elena, calm down," my mother said quickly. "It's not what it sounds like. He won't hurt you. We'd just be staying there until the debt's cleared." "And that's supposed to make it okay?" I wiped my face with the back of my hand. "You want me to leave school, my friends, everything — because of a mess you made?" I turned to her. "You're really not going to say anything? You're going to let this happen because of his gambling?" "Watch your tone," my father cut in. "I'm the one paying for that school of yours. I can pull you out of it just as easily as I put you in it." That landed harder than I wanted it to. I looked at him a long moment, blinking back another wave of tears. "Now I know exactly where I stand with you." I didn't wait for an answer. I turned and walked back to my room, shut the door, and leaned against it, chest heaving. For the first time in my life, I wasn't sure I'd ever really known my father at all. I went into my room and sank onto the bathroom floor, still trying to process what I'd just heard. A knock at the door. "Can I come in?" my mom asked. "You already made the decision without me. I don't see what's left to talk about." She came in anyway. "I know you think your dad is being unreasonable," she said gently, "but he wants what's best for you." "The best?" I stared at her. "You mean giving me away to a stranger? How is that the best for me?" She looked at me sadly. "I know how it sounds. Just — don't get on his nerves. That's all I ask." "Don't get on his nerves?" My confusion sharpened into something colder. "Who is he?" My mother went quiet. She looked away, then finally met my eyes. "His name is Damian Cross." The name alone seemed to drop the temperature in the room. "He's not a patient man," she said, her voice trembling. "He doesn't forgive people who cross him. So whatever you do — don't. Just go along with it. The outcome won't be good otherwise." I could see the fear in her eyes, and that scared me more than anything she'd said. My mother wasn't someone who scared easily. "Whoever this Damian is," I whispered, "I don't think I want to find out what he's capable of." She reached for my hand. I pulled away. "You're asking me to live with a man you've just told me to be afraid of." Her gaze dropped. "I know, Elena." Her voice was barely a whisper. "But sometimes we don't get to choose the things that happen to us." She said nothing else. She left, and I sat there staring at the door. After she left, I stayed on the floor for a long time, staring at nothing. Eventually I reached for my phone, thumb hovering over my best friend's name. I typed something happened, can you talk — then deleted it. What was I even going to say? My dad sold me to pay off a debt? It didn't even sound real typed out. I set the phone face-down on my knee and didn't pick it up again. My eyes landed on the acceptance letter still pinned above my desk, the one I'd been so proud of three months ago. I used to look at it every morning before school. Now it just felt like something that belonged to a different version of me — one who still got to have a future. I don't know how long I sat there before I finally picked the phone back up and typed his name into the search bar instead. Damian Cross. The first result was a photo — dark suit, unreadable expression, the kind of face that gave nothing away. A few articles came up beneath it: something about an acquisition, a quote from an interview where he'd said almost nothing at all. Nothing that explained why my mother had looked at me like that when she said his name. I clicked on one of the articles and started to read, but a sound outside my door made me freeze. My parents. Downstairs, but not quiet enough. I crept to the top of the stairs and sat, my back against the wall, listening. "—already told him she'd be ready," my father was saying. "He's sending a car in the morning." Silence. Then my mother, quieter: "So soon?" "The sooner it's done, the sooner this is behind us." The morning. Not next week. Not after I'd had time to process any of it, to say goodbye to anyone, to pack more than a bag. Hours. I had hours left in the only life I'd ever known, and they hadn't even told me — I'd had to find out sitting on the stairs like I was still a kid eavesdropping on Christmas presents. I went back to my room and closed the door as quietly as I could, my hands shaking too hard to do much else. I looked around at everything — my desk, my books, the photo of me and my friends from graduation, all of it — and realized I might not get to see any of it again for a long time. Maybe not ever, if what my mother said about him was true. Tomorrow, a stranger was going to walk into this house and take me away from everything I knew. And there was nothing I could do to stop it. I sat down on my bed, pulled my knees to my chest, and watched the numbers on my clock change, one minute closer to a morning I wasn't ready for.