Bought by the Ruthless CEO

Chapter 3: The penthouse

The black Escalade with plate CROSS 1 was waiting exactly where he said it would be.

No delay. Engine running.

I didn't pack much.

One duffel bag. Two hoodies, even though he told me not to. Three thrifted dresses I sell on Depop but never wear. Jeans. My NYU textbooks. My laptop with the cracked screen.

My entire life fit into one bag that cost $29 on sss.

The driver didn't speak to me. He just opened the door, took my bag like it was trash, and drove.

We didn't stop at traffic. Or maybe I just didn't notice.

My eyes were fixed on Mount Sinai getting smaller in the mirror. On my father's window on the 4th floor. Where I knew he was watching the infusion drip. The one Aaron paid for.

Forty minutes later, we turned onto Fifth Avenue.

The building didn't look like a building.

It looked like a piece of glass that someone had stabbed into the sky.

The doorman saw the Escalade and literally RAN to open the door. He didn't look at me. He looked at the car. At the plate.

"Ms. Reyes," the driver said. His first words to me the whole ride. "Penthouse A. Mr. Cross is waiting."

The elevator needed a private black keycard.

It went up so fast my ears popped.

12... 24... 48... 60...

The doors opened directly into a house.

Not an apartment. A house. In the sky.

I had never seen anything like it.

The floor was black marble that reflected everything like water. Like I was walking on ice. The living room was bigger than my whole apartment in Queens. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing all of Central Park, lit up gold because the sun was starting to set.

No family photos. No clutter. No life.

Just art that looked expensive and cold. A black couch that cost more than my tuition. A white rug that I was immediately afraid to step on with my old sneakers.

And in the middle of it, standing by the window with a glass of something amber, was Aaron Cross.

He had changed.

He was no longer in the crisp white shirt from the hospital. Now he wore a black shirt, sleeves still rolled to his elbows, top two buttons undone. His hair was slightly damp, like he had just showered.

He looked less like a loan shark now.

And more like a man who owned half of New York and knew it.

"You are late," he said without turning around. He was looking at the park.

"You took 73 minutes, not 60."

"I— the traffic— there was—"

"I don't like excuses, Lisa."

His voice cut me off. Calm. Final.

He finally turned.

His eyes did a slow sweep. From my messy bun. To my wrinkled hoodie. To my old, dirty sneakers on his perfect marble.

His jaw tightened.

"I told you not to bring hoodies, did I?"

"They're my clothes," I snapped.

My fear suddenly turned into hot anger. Who did he think he was?

"You bought my time, Mr. Cross. Not my closet."

For a second, I thought he was going to be angry. His black eyes flashed.

Instead, he smiled. That slow, dangerous, cold smile from the hospital.

"Good," he said. "You still have fight in you. I was worried you would cry the whole ride here like in the hospital."

He walked toward me. His bare feet were silent on the marble. No shoes in his own house. Like a king.

He stopped right in front of me. Too close again. So close I had to look up.

He smelled like that ice and smoke, but now mixed with whiskey and something clean. Shower gel. Expensive.

"Listen carefully," he said. "Because I will only say my rules once. This is my house. While you live here for the next 365 days, you live by them."

He lifted one finger. Long finger. Clean nails.

"Rule One: You do not leave this penthouse without my permission. Ever. The driver, the elevator, the doorman, everything is logged. I will know."

Second finger.

"Rule Two: You do not touch my things, my office, my private bedroom, unless I tell you to. You will have your own room down the hall. You will stay there unless I call you."

Third finger. And his voice dropped. Lower. Darker.

"Rule Three: You do not lie to me. You do not hide things from me. I will always know, Lisa. I have people. Cameras. And I hate being lied to more than I hate being disobeyed."

My heart was hammering against my ribs. So loud I was sure he could hear it.

"And Rule Four?" I whispered, because I knew there was a four. There is always a four with men like him.

His eyes dropped to my lips. Just like in the hospital. But this time, he lingered there. For three full seconds.

"Rule Four," he said quietly, his eyes still on my lips, "you do not fall in love with me. It would make this year very... complicated for you. And messy for me."

My mouth fell open.

The ARROGANCE! The absolute, insane arrogance of this man!

I laughed. I actually laughed, loud and sharp in his silent, perfect penthouse.

"Fall in love with YOU?" I said, my voice shaking with anger. "You kidnap me from a hospital! You threaten my dying father! You blackmail me! You— you are a criminal in a nice shirt! A bully with a watch! I would NEVER fall in love with you! Never in a million years!"

"Good," he interrupted. His eyes were dark and amused now. Like he enjoyed my anger. "Then we will have no problem. Keep that energy, Lisa Reyes. I like it."

He stepped back and clapped his hands once. Loud.

A woman in her 50s appeared from nowhere, from a side door. Housekeeper. Kind face. Uniform.

"Martha will show you to your room. You have 30 minutes to shower and change. There are clothes in the closet already. Your size. Wear the black dress on the bed. We have dinner at 8. With my business partners. You will sit next to me, you will smile, and you will not speak unless I speak to you. Understood?"

Clothes in my size? How did he— how did he know my size?

"I don't want your clothes!" I shouted. "I brought my own clothes! I don't want to be your doll!"

"Lisa," he said, his patience thinning. His voice went cold again. That scary calm. "You can either wear the black dress willingly in 30 minutes, or I will come into that room and help you wear it myself. Your choice."

The threat was not s****l. It was worse. It was about total control. About ownership.

And it made my knees weak with rage and fear.

"Is that what this is?" I spat, tears in my eyes now. "You dress me up like a doll you bought?"

"I dress up what I own," he said simply. No shame at all. "Martha, 30 minutes. Don't be late again."

He turned back to the window, dismissing me completely. Picking up his whiskey. Conversation over. Like I was staff.

Martha touched my arm gently. Her hand was warm. Motherly.

"Come, dear," she whispered. "He is not so bad once you learn him. He just... he doesn't know how to be soft."

I followed her down a long hallway, my duffel bag still in the driver's hand, my old sneakers squeaking loudly on his perfect, expensive marble. Every step felt like I was dirtying his world.

The guest room — no, MY room — was bigger than my entire apartment in Queens.

And the closet... oh my God, the closet was full. Tags still on. Dresses. Skirts. Heels. Bags. All in my size. Black, red, nude, white. All expensive. All new.

On the huge bed, laid out perfectly like an offering, was a black dress. Short. Silk. Expensive. The kind of dress I had only ever seen on i********: models and in store windows I couldn't afford.

And a small white card on top of it, in sharp, slanted, familiar handwriting:

_Rule Five: Don't make me wait._

_- A_

I stared at it, my hands shaking.

Oh lord help me, indeed.

I was in the devil's penthouse on Fifth Avenue.

And I had 29 minutes left to become his doll.