OWNED BY A BILLIONAIRE

CHAPTER NINE: THE TRUTH

The days blurred together.

Wake up. Eat. Write. Lesson. Dinner. Bed. His hands. His mouth. His body.

Repeat.

I stopped counting the days. Stopped counting the marks on my body. Stopped counting the ways I was losing myself.

The writing room became my escape.

Every morning, I went there. Every morning, I wrote. Words on paper. Sentences that didn't matter. A story about a girl who sold herself to save her father.

The girl in the story was me.

But I changed her name.

I changed her face.

I changed everything except the truth.

On the tenth day, Alexander found me crying.

I was sitting at the desk. The paper was wet with tears. The pen was broken in my hand.

He stood in the doorway. Watching.

"Ava," he said.

I didn't look up.

"Ava."

"I can't."

"Can't what?"

"Do this anymore." I held up the paper. The words were smeared. "I can't write about her. I can't be her. I can't pretend this is okay."

He walked to the desk. Knelt beside my chair. His hand touched my knee.

"Then don't pretend," he said.

"You don't understand."

"Then help me understand."

I looked at him. His gray eyes were soft. Patient. Waiting.

"I miss my father," I said. "I miss my apartment. I miss my old job. I miss the girl I used to be."

"She's still here."

"No." I shook my head. "She died the night I signed that contract."

"Then let me help you find her."

"You can't help me. You're the one who killed her."

He flinched.

I'd never seen him flinch before.

"You're right," he said. "I bought you. I collared you. I took you away from everything you loved." He paused. "But I didn't kill you, Ava. You're still here. You're still fighting. You're still writing."

"The writing is nothing."

"The writing is everything." He stood. Pulled me up. "Come with me."

"Where?"

"You'll see."

He led me to the garage.

I'd never been here before. Cars. Black ones. Expensive ones. A motorcycle in the corner.

He walked to the motorcycle. Threw me a helmet.

"Put this on," he said.

"What?"

"We're leaving."

"I can't leave. The contract"

"To hell with the contract." He put on his own helmet. Climbed onto the bike. "Get on."

"Alexander, if Carmen sees"

"Carmen is gone. I gave her the day off."

"You planned this?"

He looked at me. His gray eyes were almost warm. "Get on the bike, Ava."

I put on the helmet. Climbed on behind him. My arms wrapped around his waist.

"Hold tight," he said.

The engine roared.

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

The wind was cold. The city was bright. Buildings passed. Streets passed. People passed. People who didn't know I was owned. People who didn't know I was collared. People who looked at me and saw a girl on a motorcycle with a man who loved her.

They were wrong.

But for a moment, I pretended they were right.

He stopped at a small café.

Not a fancy one. Not an expensive one. A small one. With chipped paint and plastic chairs and a sign that said Café de la Luz.

"Café of Light," I said.

"I know."

"Why are we here?"

He climbed off the bike. Took off his helmet. "This is where your mother used to work."

My heart stopped.

"What?"

"Your mother. Before she died. She worked here." He walked toward the door. "Come."

I followed him inside.

The café was empty. Old tables. Old chairs. A counter with a bell. Photos on the walls.

I looked at the photos.

And there she was.

My mother.

Young. Beautiful. Smiling. Behind the counter. In a white apron. Holding a tray of coffee.

"Mama," I whispered.

"She worked here for ten years," Alexander said. "From the time she was eighteen until the year she died."

"How do you know this?"

"I hired a researcher. Before the auction. I wanted to know everything about you." He walked to the counter. Touched the bell. "Your mother was loved here. The owner remembers her. The customers remember her. She was happy."

"Why are you showing me this?"

"Because you said the girl you used to be is dead." He turned to face me. "She's not. She's here. In this café. In these photos. In your blood."

Tears ran down my face.

"I miss her," I said.

"I know."

"I miss her every day."

"I know."

He walked to me. Pulled me into his arms. Held me.

For the first time, I didn't pull away.

For the first time, I let myself cry.

We stayed at the café for an hour.

The owner made us coffee. Old man. Gray hair. Kind eyes.

"You look just like her," he said to me.

"Everyone says that."

"Because it's true." He looked at Alexander. "Your husband?"

I didn't answer.

"Boyfriend," Alexander said. "For now."

The owner laughed. "Good luck, my friend. She's stubborn. Like her mother."

"I know."

We drank our coffee. We looked at the photos. We didn't talk about the contract. We didn't talk about the collar under my dress. We didn't talk about the house or the rules or the bed where I slept every night.

For one hour, we were normal.

For one hour, I was free.

Then Alexander stood.

"We should go," he said.

"Not yet."

"Ava"

"Five more minutes."

He sat back down.

"You're going to be difficult," he said.

"I'm always difficult."

"I know." He reached across the table. Took my hand. "That's why I bought you."

"That's why you bought me? Because I'm difficult?"

"Because you're real." His thumb traced my knuckles. "Everyone else in my life is pretending. You're not."

"I'm pretending every day."

"Not with me." He leaned closer. "With me, you're exactly who you are. Angry. Scared. Stubborn. Beautiful."

"Beautiful isn't real. Beautiful is what you see."

"Then what's real?"

I looked at our hands. His fingers wrapped around mine.

"Real is me, sitting in a café with a man who owns me. Real is me, wishing things were different. Real is me, knowing they never will be."

"They could be."

"What?"

He was quiet for a long moment. Then:

"When the contract ends, you'll be free."

"I know."

"You could leave. Go anywhere. Do anything."

"I know."

"You could forget me."

I looked at him. His gray eyes were dark. Vulnerable.

"Could you forget me?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

We left the café. Climbed onto the motorcycle. Rode back to the house.

The gates closed behind us.

The garage swallowed us.

The house waited.

And for the first time, I wasn't sure if I wanted to leave.

That night, he didn't take me.

He held me.

We lay in the dark. His arm around my waist. His chest against my back.

"Alexander," I whispered.

"Hmm."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For showing me my mother."

"She was beautiful."

"I know."

"Like you."

I turned in his arms. Faced him. His face was inches from mine.

"Why did you really buy me?" I asked.

"I told you. Because you looked sad."

"That's not enough."

He was quiet. His hand moved to my face. Traced my cheekbone.

"I bought you because I saw myself in you," he said.

"What?"

"At the auction. Behind the mirror. You were terrified. But you didn't run. You didn't cry. You stood there. shaking. And you didn't break." His thumb brushed my lower lip. "That's what I do. Every day. I stand in rooms full of people who want to destroy me. And I don't break."

"You're not afraid of anything."

"I'm afraid of you."

"Me?"

"You make me feel things I haven't felt in years. Things I don't want to feel." His hand moved to my hair. "Things I can't control."

"Like what?"

He kissed me.

Soft. Slow. Like I was something precious.

"Like this," he said against my lips. "Like wanting to hold you instead of take you. Like wanting to protect you instead of own you. Like wanting to keep you."

"Your contract ends in three years."

"I know."

"Then I leave."

"I know."

"Unless"

"Unless what?"

I didn't finish the sentence.

But he understood.

"Unless I ask you to stay," he said.

"Would you?"

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Yes," he said.

And then he kissed me again.

And for the first time, I kissed him back like I meant it.