Bought by the Ruthless CEO

Chapter 5: Midnight

I didn't sleep.

How could I sleep in a bed that cost more than my entire apartment in Queens? In sheets that felt like cold water on my skin? In a $2,800 dress I was too scared to take off because I didn't know if he would walk in without knocking?

I finally peeled off the dress at 1 AM.

I hung it back in the closet like it was holy. Like it would get angry if I left it on the floor.

I put on my old NYU hoodie — the grey one with the hole in the sleeve, the one he hated — and my cotton shorts. My armor.

I sat on the floor, back against the huge bed, staring at Central Park lights blinking 60 floors below. New York looked so small from here. So far away.

That's when I heard it.

Knock. Knock.

Not loud. Two soft knocks on my bedroom door. Polite. Hesitant.

My whole body froze. Blood cold.

"Lisa."

His voice. Aaron. On the other side of my door at 1:17 AM in the morning.

"Go away," I whispered, but loud enough for him to hear through the wood.

A pause. A long pause.

Then the handle turned. He didn't wait for permission. Of course he didn't. It was his house. His door. His girl in his penthouse.

He walked in wearing black sweatpants and a black t-shirt. I had never seen him in casual clothes.

In the hospital, he was a loan shark in white.

At dinner, he was a CEO in black.

Now, he was just... a man. A man with messy hair like he had been running his hands through it for hours. A man with tired eyes.

He looked younger. More human. Less like a devil and more like someone who couldn't sleep.

He stopped when he saw me on the floor in my hoodie, hugging my knees.

"You changed," he said. It wasn't a question. It was disappointment. Like I had taken off something that belonged to him.

"You told me to go to my room. I did. Now leave my room," I said, trying to sound brave while sitting on the floor like a child.

He didn't leave. He closed the door behind him.

The soft click made my heart hammer so loud I thought he could hear it.

"I can't sleep," he said simply.

"Not my problem, Mr. Cross."

"It is your problem," he said, walking closer, barefoot on my carpet. "Because you are the reason I can't sleep tonight."

"What? I didn't do anything! I sat where you told me! I wore what you told me!"

"Exactly," he said, and sat down on the edge of MY bed. Like he owned that too. Which, technically, he did. He owned the bed, the room, the building, and me for 365 days.

"You did exactly what I told you to. You sat next to me. You wore the dress. You let Julian talk about you. You didn't cause a scene until after they left. You were... perfect. And I hate perfect. Perfect is boring."

I stared at him. "You are insane. You are actually insane."

"Probably," he admitted. He rubbed his eyes with both hands. For the first time since I met him 14 hours ago, he looked truly tired. Not cold CEO tired. Human tired. The kind of tired that comes from not sleeping for years.

"My mother used to sit on the floor like that," he said quietly, looking at me huddled against the bed. "When my father yelled. She would sit with her back against the bed so he couldn't see her from the door. So he would think she left."

I didn't know what to say. The devil had a mother? A mother who hid on floors?

"Aaron—"

"Don't," he said quickly, his voice sharp again. "Don't do the pity voice. I don't want it. I don't need it."

Silence fell. Heavy silence.

The city hummed outside. 60 floors below us, New York was still awake, honking, living. Up here, it was silent like space.

He looked at me on the floor. I looked at him on my bed.

"You know why I really made Rule Four?" he asked quietly, after a long time.

"Because you're arrogant and you think every girl in Manhattan falls for you the second you look at her?" I snapped.

He laughed. A real laugh this time. Not the scary, cold one from the hospital. A short, surprised, real laugh that made his eyes crinkle.

"No," he said, still smiling a little. "Because I knew I would be the one to break it first. Not you."

My breath caught in my throat.

"What?"

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. His black t-shirt stretched over his shoulders. I could see muscles.

" Lisa, I have bought companies. I have bought buildings. I have bought islands. I have bought people. I know how to own things. I know how to control things."

"I don't know how to... have a person in my house who looks at me like I'm a monster at 8 PM and then five minutes later looks at me like I might be her only safe place in the world. It confuses me. I don't get confused. Ever."

"I'm not your safe place," I whispered, my voice shaking. "You kidn*pped me from a hospital. You threatened my dad."

"I saved your father's life today," he said, his voice low. "The infusion you saw? That was $12,000. He would have died without it tonight. And you thanked me by lacing your fingers with mine under the table when Julian was hurting you."

"I did not— I was trying to push you away! You were on MY thigh!"

"You held on for 7 seconds," he said calmly. "I counted. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Then you let go. Seven seconds is a long time when you hate someone, Lisa."

I wanted to throw something at him. My shoe. My pillow. My whole stupid $29 duffel bag.

Instead, my eyes filled with tears because he was right.

"Why are you in my room at 1 AM, Aaron?" I asked, my voice small now.

He was quiet for a long time. He looked out at Central Park lights.

"Because my penthouse is 8,000 square feet and tonight it felt empty for the first time in 10 years," he said honestly. So honestly it scared me. "And because your light was on under your door and I knew you weren't sleeping either. And I... I didn't want to be alone in this big empty house tonight."

He stood up and walked to where I was sitting on the floor. He crouched down in front of me, so we were eye level. He smelled different now. Not ice and smoke and whiskey. Just... clean. Soap and skin.

"Get in the bed, Lisa," he said softly. "The floor is cold. And the marble makes your back hurt. I can see you're cold."

"I'm fine here. I like the floor."

"Lisa."

It was an order, but said so gently, so tiredly, that I obeyed before I could think.

I stood up, angry at myself for obeying him again. I climbed into the huge bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. My old hoodie was ridiculous against his $10,000 luxury sheets.

He didn't leave. He sat back on the edge of the bed, far from me, looking out the window, his back to me.

"Can I ask you something?" I said, my voice small and muffled by the blanket.

"You can ask me anything, Lisa Reyes. Whether I answer is my choice. That's how this works."

"That money... my father's money... the $400,000... did he really borrow it for treatment? Or... or was it gambling? My mom said he used to—"

"Your father does not gamble," Aaron said firmly, cutting me off, but not unkindly. "He borrowed it because your mother was going to lose her boutique in Brooklyn last year and he didn't want you to know you were broke while you were at NYU. He told the hospital he had premium insurance. He didn't. He had nothing. He borrowed from me because banks said no. Private lenders said no. I was the only one who said yes."

"He is not a bad man, Lisa. He is a desperate father who loves his daughter too much. There's a difference."

Tears filled my eyes and spilled over. My dad... my poor dad carrying all that alone...

"Why are you telling me this?" I whispered.

"Because you should stop hating him for putting you in this position," he said quietly. "Hate me instead. It's easier. I'm used to being hated. I can handle it. He can't."

He stood up then, like he had said too much. Like he regretted letting me see inside.

He walked to the door, stopped, hand on the handle, without turning around.

"Rule Six," he said.

"There is a Rule Six now? You just make them up as you go?"

"Rule Six: If you are going to sit on the floor at 1 AM and stare at the park and not sleep, you text me. So I don't have to stand outside your door like a creep checking if your light is on."

I laughed despite myself. A wet, teary, surprised laugh.

"Goodnight, Aaron Cross," I whispered.

He finally turned around at the door. And smiled — a real smile this time, small and tired and almost boyish. The scar on his eyebrow softened.

"Goodnight, Lisa Reyes. Try to sleep. Day 2 starts at 7 AM. You work for me now, remember?"

He left. The door clicked softly.

I touched the place on the bed where he had sat. The sheets were still warm from his body.

And for the first time since signing that contract 12 hours ago in that cold hospital room, I didn't feel like a prisoner locked in a tower.

I felt... seen. Heard. Almost safe.

But then I remembered — I am here for 365 days. And it's only Day 1. Day 1 almost killed me.

What will Day 2 do?