OWNED BY A BILLIONAIRE

CHAPTER TWELVE: THE VISITOR

The next morning, Alexander took me to the hospital.

No driver. No Carmen. Just him. His car. His hand on my knee.

"You're quiet," he said.

"I'm nervous."

"Don't be."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one lying to your father."

He glanced at me. "You're not lying. You're protecting him."

"Same thing."

"No." He took my hand. "Lying is selfish. Protecting is selfless."

"You always have an answer for everything."

"I'm a businessman. It's my job."

The car stopped at the hospital. White walls. White lights. The smell of bleach and fear.

"I'll wait here," he said.

"You're not coming in?"

"He doesn't know me. He doesn't know about the contract. It's better if I stay."

I looked at him. His gray eyes were soft.

"Thank you," I said.

"For what?"

"For letting me do this."

He touched my face. "Go. Before I change my mind."

I walked into the hospital.

Room 308. The door was open. My father was sitting up in bed. He looked better than last time. More color in his cheeks. More light in his eyes.

"Ava," he said.

"Papa."

I ran to him. Hugged him. Held him.

"You look different," he said.

"Different how?"

"Healthier. Happier." He pulled back. Looked at me. "Your job must be going well."

"It's going very well."

"Tell me about it."

I sat on the edge of his bed. And I lied.

I told him about the café. About the customers. About the owner who was so kind.

I didn't tell him about the collar. The house. The man who owned me.

I didn't tell him about the nights in Alexander's bed. His hands. His mouth. His voice in the dark.

I didn't tell him any of it.

Because the truth would kill him.

"The owner," my father said. "What's his name?"

"Alejandro," I said. The name slipped out before I could stop it.

"Alejandro. That's a good name. Strong."

"Yes." I looked down at my hands. "He's... strong."

"Do you like him?"

"He's my boss."

"That's not what I asked."

I looked at my father. His brown eyes were warm. Knowing.

"Yes," I said. "I like him."

"More than like?"

"Papa"

"It's okay, hija. You're allowed to be happy."

I wanted to cry. I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to scream that I wasn't happy. That I was owned. That I was collared. That I was sleeping with a man who bought me.

But I didn't.

I smiled. Kissed his forehead. Said goodbye.

And I walked back to the car where Alexander was waiting.

He was on the phone when I climbed in.

"I don't care what it costs," he said. "Get it done."

He hung up. Looked at me.

"How is he?"

"Better. Happier." I paused. "He asked about you."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him you were my boss."

"And?"

"And that your name is Alejandro."

He was quiet.

"You used my real name," he said.

"It slipped out."

"Did it?"

I didn't answer.

He started the car. Drove out of the parking lot.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Home."

"No. Not home. Somewhere else."

He glanced at me. "Where?"

"I don't care. Just... not home."

He nodded. Changed direction.

We drove through Madrid. Past the café where my mother used to work. Past the apartment where I used to live. Past the streets where I used to be free.

"Stop here," I said.

He stopped.

There was a park. Small. Green. A bench where my father used to sit.

"My father used to bring me here," I said. "Every Sunday. He'd buy me ice cream and push me on the swings."

"Do you want to go in?"

"Yes."

We walked into the park. The swings were still there. Old. Rusted. The bench was still there. Faded.

I sat on the bench. Alexander sat beside me.

"I used to be happy here," I said.

"You can be happy again."

"How? I'm trapped in your house. I wear your collar. I sleep in your bed."

"You also write. You also see your father. You also..." He paused. "You also have me."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I'm here. Whether you want me or not."

I looked at him. His gray eyes were soft.

"What if I want you?" I asked.

"Then I'm yours."

"I'm already yours."

"No." He touched my face. "You're my property. That's different. Being mine means choosing me. Every day. Even when it's hard."

"Have you ever chosen anyone?"

"No."

"Then why start with me?"

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Because you're the first person who ever made me want to try."

We stayed in the park for an hour.

Then he took me home.

The house was dark. Quiet. Carmen was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is everyone?" I asked.

"I gave them the night off."

"Why?"

He took my hand. Led me upstairs.

To the bedroom.

The fire was lit. The candles were burning. The bed was covered in rose petals.

Red ones.

"Alexander," I whispered.

"Sit."

I sat on the edge of the bed.

He knelt in front of me.

"I'm not good at this," he said.

"Good at what?"

"Feelings. Words. All of it."

"Then show me."

He reached into his pocket. Pulled out a key.

"The key to your collar," he said.

"You said you'd never give it to me."

"I said it wasn't negotiable. I was wrong."

He unlocked the collar. Removed it from my neck.

I touched my throat. The skin was bare.

"You're free," he said.

"Free?"

"To leave. To stay. To choose."

"What about the contract?"

"The contract is still valid. But the collar..." He set it on the nightstand. "The collar was a symbol. Of ownership. Of control. I don't need it anymore."

"What do you need?"

He looked at me.

"You," he said. "Just you."

I kissed him.

Not because he owned me. Not because the contract said I had to.

Because I wanted to.

He made love to me slowly.

Every touch was deliberate. Every kiss was a question.

"Do you want this?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Do you want me?"

"Yes."

"Is this a choice?"

"Yes."

He entered me. Gentle. Deep.

"I love you," he said.

The words hung in the air.

"What?"

"I love you, Ava."

"You can't."

"I do."

"You bought me."

"I know."

"You own me."

"I know."

"Then how can you love me?"

He stopped moving. Looked at me.

"Because love isn't about ownership. It's about choice." He touched my face. "And I choose you."

Tears ran down my cheeks.

"I'm scared," I said.

"Of what?"

"Of loving you back."

"Then don't. Not yet." He kissed my forehead. "Just stay."

"I can do that."

"Good."

He moved inside me again. Slow. Gentle.

And for the first time, I let myself feel everything.

Not hate. Not anger. Not fear.

Him.

Just him.

Afterward, we lay in the dark.

The fire had died. The candles had burned out. The rose petals were scattered across the floor.

His arm was around my waist. His breath was warm on my shoulder.

"Alexander," I whispered.

"Hmm."

"Did you mean it?"

"Mean what?"

"That you love me."

He was quiet for a long moment.

"I've never said those words to anyone," he said.

"Not even your mother?"

"Especially not my mother." His arm tightened around me. "She left when I was seven. Walked out the door. Never looked back."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. She did me a favor." He paused. "She taught me that love is a lie. That people leave. That the only thing you can trust is money."

"And now?"

He turned me to face him. His gray eyes were soft in the darkness.

"Now I have you. And I don't know what to do with that."

"You don't have to do anything."

"I want to."

"Then start here." I touched his face. "Start with me."

He kissed me. Soft. Slow.

"I'm trying," he said.

"I know."

"Do you love me?"

The question hung between us.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "I've never loved anyone either."

"Then we'll figure it out together."

"Together?"

He nodded. "Together."

The sun rose over Madrid.

Gold light through the windows. Warm on our skin.

Alexander was still asleep. His face was peaceful. Younger. Softer.

I watched him.

The man who bought me. The man who owned me. The man who said he loved me.

I didn't know what to believe.

But I knew one thing.

I wasn't the same woman who walked into that auction.

That woman was scared. Desperate. Alone.

This woman had survived.

This woman had fought.

This woman had felt something she never thought she'd feel.

Hope.

Alexander's eyes opened.

"You're staring," he said.

"You're beautiful when you sleep."

"I'm beautiful all the time."

I laughed. "And humble."

"I'm a billionaire. Humility is for poor people."

He pulled me close. Kissed my forehead.

"Today," he said, "I want to show you something."

"What?"

"Another piece of Madrid. Another piece of me."

"Will I like it?"

"I don't know." He smiled. "But I hope so."

We showered together. Dressed together. Walked downstairs together.

Carmen was in the kitchen. Her eyes widened when she saw my bare neck.

"The collar," she said.

"Is gone," Alexander said.

"For good?"

He looked at me.

"For now," he said.

Carmen smiled. It was the first time I'd ever seen her smile.

"Good," she said. "It's about time."

Alexander took my hand. Led me to the garage.

The motorcycle was waiting.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Somewhere special."

I climbed on behind him. Wrapped my arms around his waist.

He kissed my hand. Then he started the engine.

We flew out of the garage. Out of the gates. Into Madrid.

The wind was cold. The sun was bright.

And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't afraid.