PART THREE
959 Words
The pen felt heavy in my hand. Gold. Cold. Heavy like a lie.
I looked at the signature line. Then at him.
Alexander Black hadn't moved. He sat across from me like a king on a throne. Waiting. Patient. Certain.
He already knew what I would do.
That was the worst part.
"You've already paid the bills," I said. "Before I signed. Before I even agreed."
"Yes."
"That's not how transactions work."
He tilted his head. "I'm not most men."
"You're not a man at all. You're a devil."
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Then you're selling your soul to the right demon."
I looked down at the contract. Page after page of clauses that stripped me bare. No freedom. No voice. No body of my own.
Three years.
Thirty-six months.
One thousand ninety-five days.
I thought about my father's face. His hand squeezing mine during the bad nights. His voice, weak but steady, telling me everything would be okay.
He lied.
Everything was not okay.
But it would be. After tomorrow. After the surgery. After the tumor was gone and his heart was beating and his eyes were open again.
He would live.
And I would die. Slowly. Piece by piece. Night by night in a stranger's bed.
"Tick tock," Alexander said.
I glared at him. "I'm not a bomb."
"No. You're a woman with a dying father and a pen in her hand. Same difference."
I wanted to throw the pen at his face.
Instead, I signed.
Ava Sinclair.
My name looked wrong on the paper. Small. Scared. Like a child's handwriting.
The moment the pen left the page, Alexander moved.
Fast. Too fast.
He reached across the table and grabbed my wrist. His fingers were iron. His grip was fire.
I gasped.
He pulled me up. Out of the chair. Across the table. Papers scattered. The decanter of whiskey tipped over. Amber liquid spilled across the contract — across my name, across his clauses, across everything I'd just sold.
He didn't care.
He pulled me against his chest.
My hands hit his shoulders. Hard muscle beneath expensive fabric. My heart slammed against my ribs. My breath came in short, sharp gasps.
"Let me go," I whispered.
"No."
"Let me—"
"No."
His free hand came up to my chin. Two fingers tilted my face toward his.
Close now.
Close enough to see the gray in his eyes. Close enough to count his lashes. Close enough to feel his breath on my lips.
"I own you now," he said softly.
The words sank into my skin like poison.
"The contract says—"
"The contract says whatever I want it to say. You signed. You're mine." His thumb brushed my lower lip. Slow. Deliberate. "Every inch. Every breath. Every heartbeat."
I stopped breathing.
"Tonight," he continued, "you'll sleep in my bed. Tomorrow, you'll wake up in my arms. The day after, you'll forget you ever wanted to leave."
"I will never forget."
His smile was sharp. "We'll see."
He released my wrist. I stumbled back. My hips hit the table. I stayed there, frozen, watching him.
He straightened his cuffs. Platinum cufflinks. His initials. A.B.
"One hour," he said.
"What?"
"One hour to say goodbye to your freedom." He walked toward the door. Slow. Unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world. "My bedroom. Top floor. Don't be late."
"Alejandro—"
He stopped.
Turned.
His eyes were dark now. Darker than before. Something flickered in them — hunger, maybe. Impatience.
"What did you call me?"
"Your name." I lifted my chin. "Alejandro. That's what you are, isn't it? Under all that Black? Just a man."
He walked back toward me.
One step. Two. Three.
I didn't move.
He stopped inches from my face. So close I could smell his cologne. Cedar and smoke and something dangerous.
"Alejandro," he repeated. Like he was tasting the word. "No one calls me that."
"Then I will."
"You're brave."
"I'm stupid."
"The same thing, sometimes."
He reached up. I flinched. But he only tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my skin.
"You have one hour," he said again. "Say goodbye to the girl you used to be. When I see you next..." His eyes dropped to my lips. "You'll be someone new."
He walked away.
The door closed behind him.
I stood there. Alone. Shaking. The contract soaked in whiskey. My signature blurring into nothing.
One hour.
I looked around the room. The couch. The fireplace. The mirrors on the walls.
My reflection stared back at me.
A girl in black lace. Red stilettos. Hair falling across her face.
A girl who'd just sold herself to the devil.
What have I done?
I thought about running.
The door wasn't locked. The hallway was empty. The street was outside. I could run. I could hide. I could disappear into the Madrid night and never look back.
And my father would die.
I pressed my hands to my face. Breathed. Counted to ten. Breathed again.
You did this for him. Remember that.
I walked to the mirror. Looked at myself. Really looked.
Ava Sinclair. Twenty-two years old. Waitress. Daughter. Soon-to-be slave.
No. Not slave.
Survivor.
I would survive this. Three years. Then I would walk away with two million euros and never think about Alexander Black again.
I straightened my shoulders. Fixed my hair. Wiped the tears from my cheeks.
One hour.
I had one hour to become someone new.
I walked to the door. Opened it. The hallway stretched before me, long and dark and cold.
At the end, a staircase.
At the top, his bedroom.
⁶
I took a step.
Then another.
And another.
For you, Papa. Everything for you.
- Writer
