Bought by the Ruthless CEO

He didn't knock. The door to my father's hospital room slammed open so hard the IV stand rattled. I flinched. Three men walked in. The two at the back were in black suits. Big. Silent. Hands behind their backs like bodyguards in a movie. But the one in front was not in black. He was in white. A white shirt so crisp it looked cruel. Sleeves folded to his elbows, showing veins on his forearms. Black trousers. No tie. No smile. And he was staring at me. Not at my father. Not at the machines beeping. At me. "You are Lisa?" he said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that makes your skin rise. I stood up from the leather chair I'd been sleeping in for three nights. My hoodie was wrinkled. My hair was in a messy bun. I hadn't brushed my teeth that morning. My eyes were swollen from crying in the bathroom. But his eyes didn't move. He was studying me like I was a contract. Like he was already calculating my price. "Who are you?" I asked. My voice cracked. He didn't answer me. He walked past me — and his cologne hit me. Expensive. Cold. Like ice and smoke and money. The kind of cologne that doesn't belong in a hospital room that smells like disinfectant and fear. He stopped at my father's bed. My father, who hadn't been able to sit up by himself in two weeks, tried to sit up. His hands shook. His eyes were wide with pure, animal fear. I had never seen my father afraid of anyone. Not even when the doctor said "stage three." "Mr. Aaron... please..." my father coughed, his voice broken. "I told you my daughter doesn't know anything about this. Please. Don't bring her into this." Mr. Aaron. So this was him. The loan shark my mother whispered about on the phone , thinking I was asleep. The man who owned our nightmare. "She knows now," Aaron said, without even looking at my father. He was still looking at me. Only at me. He turned to face me fully. Now I could see him properly. 32. Maybe 33. Sharp jaw that looked cut from stone. Dark hair pushed back, but messy like he ran his hands through it. Lips that looked like they never said sorry. A small scar on his left eyebrow, thin and white. And his eyes — dark, almost black. Not brown. Black. And empty of any pity. "Your father borrowed $400,000 from me six months ago," he said, talking to me like we were in a business meeting and not in a room where my father was dying. "For this private treatment. For Mount Sinai. For the transplant list." "He said he would pay back in 30 days." He paused. Let the silence do the work. "It's been 180 days. With interest, it's now $670,000." The number didn't sound real. It sounded like a joke. A sick joke. Six hundred and seventy thousand dollars. We didn't have six hundred and seventy dollars in our house. "We don't have that money," I whispered. My throat was dry. "We're already struggling to pay for his meds— we're behind on rent— we—" "I know you don't have it," he interrupted. Not rude. Just factual. Like he was stating that the sky is blue. "That's why I'm here with a solution." One of the men in black placed a black file on the small hospital table and opened it. Inside was a single page. A contract. Thick paper. Expensive. My father started crying. Real tears. "Lisa, don't look at it! Don't! Baby, don't look!" Aaron ignored him. He spoke only to me. "Here's my offer, Lisa Reyes. One year." "You come work for me. Live in my penthouse. You will be my personal assistant. You will do what I say, when I say it. You will follow my rules. In return, I clear your father's debt completely. I pay for his treatment till he recovers. Every infusion. Every drug. The transplant surgery. Everything." "After one year, you are free. Debt gone. Father alive. You walk away." The room was silent except for my father's heart monitor beeping fast. Beep. Beep. Beep. 102. 105. 108. I laughed nervously. It sounded crazy even to me. "Work for you? What kind of work? Why would you want me? I'm nobody. I'm just a student—" "I know enough," he said, stepping closer. Too close. I could see the tiny stubble on his jaw. I could see his pulse in his neck. Steady. Unlike mine. "22 years old. Senior year Business at NYU. GPA 4.3. You sell vintage clothes on Depop to pay tuition. You work three shifts at a cafe in Queens. No boyfriend. Last relationship ended eight months ago. You are stubborn. You argue with professors. You have $412.18 in your checking account." "And you've been taking care of this man alone for three weeks without sleeping properly. Without going to class. Without eating properly." My heart was beating so fast I thought he could hear it. How did he know? How did he know everything? "And if I say no?" I asked, trying to sound brave. Trying to sound like the girl who argues with professors. He smiled for the first time. That was scarier than when he wasn't smiling. Because his smile didn't reach his eyes. It was cold. It was a predator's smile. "Then by morning, this hospital bed will be empty," he said softly. Almost gently. "Not because he will die. Because I will move him to county where there is no private nurse, no meds. Where he will share a room with six people. I will tell the board to stop treating him on credit. He will be discharged to die slowly at home in Queens, in pain." "And I will still come for my $670,000. I will take your mother's small boutique in Brooklyn. I will take your tiny apartment in Queens. I will freeze your student account. And you will lose everything, and still owe me. For years." My legs lost power. I sat down hard on the leather chair. My hands were cold. He leaned down, face level with mine. His voice dropped to a whisper only I could hear. His eyes dropped to my lips for half a second, then back to my eyes. That half second made my whole body hot with anger and something else I didn't want to name. Something shameful. "Or... you can be smart," he whispered. "One year is not forever, Lisa. You might even like living in a penthouse. You might even like working for me. Most women would kill for this offer." "I'm not most women," I spat. "I know," he said. And for the first time, his voice had something like amusement. "That's why I chose you." My father's fingers squeezed mine. They were so cold. So thin. His hospital gown was damp with sweat. The heart monitor beside him was beeping faster now — 110, 112, 115. The nurse at the station outside would come soon if it kept rising. "Baby... Lisa... don't," my father whispered, tears rolling down his thin cheeks. "Don't sign anything. Your mother and I... we will find a way. I will talk to him. I will beg him again." "You have begged for 180 days, Mr. Reyes," Aaron said, finally looking at him. His voice was still calm. Still cruel in its calmness. "Your begging is what brought me here." He placed a black Montblanc pen on the contract and slid it towards me. The pen was heavy. Real gold on top. The page said: EMPLOYMENT & DEBT CLEARANCE AGREEMENT. 365 DAYS. At the bottom, already signed in sharp, slanted handwriting: Aaron D. Cross. The space for mine was empty. Waiting.