Bought by the Ruthless CEO

Chapter 2: I SIGNED

"You have begged for 180 days, Mr. Reyes," Aaron said.

He didn't even look at my father.

His eyes were still on me.

"Your begging is what brought me here."

He said it without smiling a bit. No emotion. Like he was reading a bank statement.

He finally tore his eyes off me and looked down at the contract on the small hospital table. The gold pen was still lying there, reflecting the harsh Manhattan light coming through the window.

The whole room smelled like disinfectant and fear.

"Let me make this very simple for you, Lisa. So you understand the business," he continued, like a professor explaining a lecture to a slow student.

He spoke calmly. Clearly. Every word was a knife.

"Your father has stage three liver disease. He needs a transplant. He needs to be on that list for at least six months while staying stable. Stable costs money."

"$15,000 a week just for this room. The private nurses are $3,000. The drugs are another $8,000. The scans. The bloodwork. You have paid nothing for three weeks."

"The hospital has been calling me because my company guaranteed his bill. Do you know why they called me and not you?"

I didn't answer. My throat was locked.

"Because you have $412 in your checking account. I checked."

My face burned with shame and fury. Hot tears pricked my eyes.

"You went through my bank—" I choked out. "You can't— that's private—"

"I do due diligence on every investment," he cut me off. Cold. Efficient. "And you, Lisa Reyes, are now my biggest investment this quarter. $670,000. That's a lot of money for a girl who sells vintage jackets on Depop for $40 and works for $15 an hour at a cafe."

That was when I broke.

It wasn't the money. We had never had money. I was used to being broke.

It was that he knew. He knew exactly how small we were. How desperate. How we were counting pennies at the grocery store while he was counting millions in a penthouse.

He knew about my Depop. He knew about my cafe job. He knew I had $412.

We were naked in front of him. And he liked it.

The tears I had held for three weeks while sleeping in that stiff leather chair, while watching my father fade from a strong man to skin and bones, while pretending to be strong for my mother on the phone every night so she wouldn't cry — they all came.

I didn't sob loudly. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

They just fell. Hot, angry, silent tears rolling down my cheeks. My shoulders shook.

Aaron watched me cry for a full ten seconds without saying anything. His men stood like statues behind him. My father was crying too now, silently.

Then, slowly, he reached into the inner pocket of his black trousers and pulled out a handkerchief. White. Folded perfectly. Ironed so sharp you could cut yourself.

He held it out to me. His hand was large. Veins prominent. A black Patek Philippe watch on his wrist. The watch alone probably cost more than my father's entire treatment.

I stared at it. Then at him. My vision blurry.

"I don't want your handkerchief," I hissed through tears. My voice was raw.

"I know," he said. His voice was lower now. Almost soft. "Take it anyway. You are ruining your bargaining face."

Something about the way he said it — so matter-of-fact, so... almost gentle under all that cruelty — made me grab it. My fingers brushed his. His skin was warm. Mine was ice cold.

I wiped my face roughly. It smelled like him. Ice and smoke and something dark and expensive. I wanted to throw it away. But I clutched it.

"Why are you doing this?" I whispered, my voice raw and broken. "You don't need money. You don't need an assistant. You have fifty assistants. What do you actually want from me? I'm nobody."

He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle he was enjoying solving. His black eyes moved over my face, my messy bun, my cracked lips, my wrinkled hoodie.

"I want obedience," he said simply. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I am surrounded by people who say yes because they are paid to say yes. They fear me. They want my money. Their yes means nothing."

"I want to see if a girl who has nothing will say yes because she has no choice. And then I want to see how long it takes for her to stop hating me."

The honesty was more terrifying than any lie he could have told. Because it was true. He didn't want an assistant. He wanted a challenge. He wanted me to break.

The door opened — a nurse came in, glanced nervously at the three men, checked the monitor, and said quickly, her voice shaking, "Dr. Patel says we need to decide about the next infusion in 20 minutes. If the guarantor is not confirmed, we cannot proceed. I'm so sorry."

She left fast.

The clock was ticking. Literally. I could hear the loud tick-tick-tick of the wall clock in the room.

My father was now sobbing openly, his thin body shaking under the white blanket. "Lisa, go home. Leave me. Let me go. I am old. You have your whole life ahead— you have NYU— you have your dreams—"

"Dad, stop!" I shouted, and the whole room went silent. Even Aaron's men looked at me, surprised.

The heart monitor beeped louder. 112. 114.

I picked up that heavy Montblanc pen. My hand was shaking so hard the tip rattled against the thick paper. My tears dropped onto the contract and made small wet circles.

I looked at Aaron one last time. His black eyes were unreadable. Cold. But for a second, just for one second, I swear I saw him hold his breath. Like my decision actually mattered to him.

"If I come with you... you promise my father will live? You will pay for everything? The transplant list? The drugs? The private room? Everything? No tricks? No hidden fees?"

"I don't do tricks, Lisa. I do contracts. And I honor my contracts to the letter," he said, his voice deep and final. "Your father will receive the best care Mount Sinai can offer. The best doctors in New York. That is written in section 4. Read it if you want. My lawyers don't lie."

I didn't read it. I couldn't read anymore through tears.

I pressed the pen down so hard my knuckles turned white.

The ink bled into the expensive paper.

_L-i-s-a M. R-e-y-e-s._

Ugly. Shaky. Final. The worst signature of my life.

The moment I lifted the pen, the air in the room changed.

It was done. I had sold myself.

Aaron picked up the file. He didn't smile in victory. He didn't look happy. He just closed it with a soft snap and handed it to the man on his right.

Then he pulled out his phone. An iPhone, latest model, black case.

"Room 412. Reyes. Proceed with the infusion immediately," he said, his voice now crisp business, like he was ordering coffee. "Upgrade to full private care, unlimited. Add him to the priority consult list for transplant with Dr. Chen. Bill everything to Cross Holdings, my personal code. Authorization Cross-Black-1."

He hung up.

Less than 60 seconds later — I counted — two nurses rushed in with the infusion bag my father had been waiting for for two days. The bag they said was "out of stock" until payment.

My father gasped as the cold medicine started to flow into his veins. Color came back to his face slightly.

Aaron looked at me. Really looked at me. Now that I had signed, his gaze had changed. It was no longer assessing a product.

It was possessing. Claiming.

"One hour," he said softly, but it was an absolute order. No room for no.

"Pack a bag. My driver is downstairs in a black Escalade. License plate CROSS 1. Bring only essentials. Dresses. Heels. You won't be wearing hoodies in my house."

He leaned down, close enough that only I could hear his next words. His breath was warm on my ear.

"And Lisa... welcome home."

He walked out. No slam. Just a soft click of the door. More final than any slam could ever be.

I collapsed back into the leather chair, his white handkerchief still clutched in my fist, smelling like the man who just bought my next 365 days for $670,000.

My father whispered, holding my cold hand, tears in his eyes, "What did we do... my baby, what did we do..."

I stared out at Manhattan, bright and indifferent and rich, while we were drowning down here.

"What we had to," I whispered back.

And I didn't let go of the handkerchief.