PART TWO
1155 Words
The contract was waiting for me on the table.
Five pages. White paper. Black ink. A gold seal at the bottom that looked like it belonged on a royal decree, not a document selling a human being.
I picked it up.
My hands were shaking. The red stilettos had stopped hurting. That scared me more than anything that my body was already going numb. Already accepting. Already surrendering.
I read the first line.
Clause 1: The signatory agrees to be my slave for three years.
My knees buckled. I grabbed the edge of the table to stay standing.
Slave.
Not companion. Not employee. Not even mistress.
Slave.
I turned the page. My eyes raced down the clauses like a woman reading her own death sentence.
Clause 2: The signatory will reside exclusively in Mr. Black's residence. No outside contact without permission.
No phone calls. No friends. No father.
Clause 3: The signatory will wear what Mr. Black provides. No personal clothing permitted.
The black lace I was wearing. That was him. He'd chosen it before I even arrived.
Clause 4: The signatory will share Mr. Black's bed every night.
My stomach turned. I pressed a hand to my mouth.
Clause 5: The signatory will not refuse Mr. Black's touch.
I stopped breathing.
Not s****l. The word wasn't there. But it didn't need to be. Touch could mean anything. Everything. Whatever he wanted.
Clause 6: The signatory will accompany Mr. Black to all social functions. Public behavior must reflect absolute devotion.
Devotion. A lie in a dress. Smiling for cameras while wearing his chains.
Clause 7: The signatory will not speak unless spoken to.
I laughed. A broken, hollow sound that echoed off the empty walls.
Ava Sinclair, who'd talked back to every boss she'd ever had. Ava Sinclair, who'd argued with her father's doctors until they listened. Ava Sinclair, who'd never learned to keep her mouth shut.
Three years of silence.
Clause 8: The signatory will maintain physical appearance as directed. Diet. Exercise. Grooming.
He would shape me. Sculpt me. Turn me into whatever he wanted.
Clause 9: The signatory's family debts will be paid in full upon signing.
My father's surgery. The hospital bills. The debt that had been crushing me for two years.
Gone. With one signature.
Clause 10: The signatory will not attempt to terminate the agreement early.
No escape clause. No buyout. No emergency exit.
Three years. Three hundred and sixty-five days times three.
Clause 11: Any violation of the above terms will result in financial penalty deducted from the final payment.
He wouldn't just punish me. He'd starve me.
Clause 12: Any disobedience will extend the contract by one month per incident.
One month. Per incident.
A single wrong word. A moment of defiance. A second of forgetting my place.
And my sentence grew longer.
I flipped to the last page. The signature line waited for me. Blank. White. Terrifying.
Above it, a single line in bold:
By signing below, the signatory acknowledges that she is entering this agreement freely and without coercion.
Freely.
I almost laughed again.
There was nothing free about this. My father was dying. My bank account was empty. My options were gone.
But the contract would say I chose this.
That was the lie that made it legal.
I set the pages down. My hands were flat on the table. My breath was coming in short, shallow gasps.
Three years.
I thought about my father's face. The way he used to smile when I came home from school. The way he held my hand during my mother's funeral. The way he whispered "te quiero, hija" every night before bed.
He would never know what I was doing for him.
No one would ever know.
The door opened behind me.
I didn't turn around. I couldn't. My body had turned to stone.
"You've read it."
His voice was low. Dark. Accented with something I couldn't place money, maybe. Power. The kind of voice that had never been told no.
Alexander Black.
I felt him before I saw him. The temperature in the room dropped. The air grew thick. My skin prickled like a storm was coming.
"I've read it," I whispered.
"And?"
I turned.
He was leaning against the doorframe. One ankle crossed over the other. Hands in his pockets. Watching me like I was a puzzle he'd already solved.
He was younger than his photos. Thirties, maybe. Dark hair pushed back from his face. A jaw that could cut glass. Cheekbones that belonged on a statue in a museum.
And his eyes.
Gray.
Not blue. Not green. Gray like a winter sky. Like the sea before a storm. Like something that had never been warm.
"You're staring," he said.
I looked away. Too late. He'd already seen.
"Sit," he said.
It wasn't a request.
I sat.
He walked toward me. Slow. Measured. Each footstep deliberate. He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down. Elbows on the table. Fingers steepled. Eyes never leaving my face.
"You have questions," he said.
Not a question. A statement.
"One hundred," I said. My voice was steadier than I felt.
"Ask."
"Why me?"
He tilted his head. "There were thirty-seven women tonight. I could have bought any of them."
"You didn't answer my question."
A flicker of something crossed his face. Surprise, maybe. Or amusement.
"I don't like repeating myself," he said.
"Neither do I."
The silence stretched between us. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't warm. It wasn't kind. But it was real the first real thing I'd seen on his face.
"You're not afraid of me," he said.
"I'm terrified," I said honestly. "I'm just more afraid of my father dying."
His smile faded. He looked at me for a long moment. Assessing. Weighing.
Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a pen.
Gold. Heavy. His initials on the side.
He placed it on top of the contract.
"Sign," he said.
"The contract says I'll be your slave."
"Yes."
"Three years."
"Yes."
"I can't leave."
"No."
"I can't speak unless you let me."
"That's correct."
I looked at the pen. Then at him.
"What if I say no?"
His gray eyes went cold. Colder than before. The temperature in the room dropped another ten degrees.
"Then your father dies tomorrow. The hospital will pull the plug at sunrise. His tumor will take him by noon." He leaned back in his chair. "You'll go home to your empty apartment. You'll work your café job for twelve more years. And every morning, you'll wake up knowing you could have saved him."
The words hit me like bullets.
"You're a monster," I whispered.
"I'm a businessman." He pushed the pen toward me. "And this is a transaction. Your father's life for three years of yours. Fair trade."
Fair.
There was nothing fair about it.
But he was right.
I picked up the pen.
- Writer
