CHAPTER TWO : THE FIRST NIGHT
1038 Words
His lips stayed on my forehead for three seconds.
Then he let me go.
I stumbled back. My hand pressed against my chest, over my heart, which was trying to escape my ribs.
Alexander watched me. Calm. Unreadable.
"You're trembling," he said.
"You're not."
"Should I be?"
I didn't answer.
He walked to the bar. Poured himself another whiskey. Two fingers. No ice. His back was to me. Broad shoulders beneath the white shirt. Dark hair curling at the base of his neck.
I should have run.
The door was ten feet away. Open. Unlocked.
I should have run.
"The bathroom," he said without turning around. "There's a toothbrush. Towels. Whatever else you need."
"I don't need anything."
"Then stand there. Shake. Stare." He turned. Drank. Swallowed. His throat moved. "I don't care."
I hated him.
I hated him so much my teeth ached.
"Three years," I said.
"Thirty-six months."
"One thousand ninety-five days."
"Counting already?" He set his glass down. Walked toward me. Slow. Deliberate. "You'll lose count after the first week."
"You don't know me."
"I know you signed a contract." He stopped inches from me. Close enough to touch. He didn't. "I know you're wearing my nightgown. Standing in my bedroom. Breathing my air."
"I'm breathing my own air."
"Not anymore."
His hand moved. Fast. His fingers wrapped around my wrist. Not hard. Not soft. Just... there. A reminder.
"Bed," he said.
"No."
"Bed, Ava."
"No."
He pulled me. One step. Two. The edge of the mattress hit the back of my knees.
"I said bed."
"You can't make me."
His eyes went dark. Not gray anymore. Black. The color of storms. The color of danger.
"Can't I?"
He pushed.
I fell.
The mattress caught me. Black sheets. Too many pillows. His scent everywhere — cedar and smoke and something I couldn't name.
He stood over me. Looking down.
"Move to the center," he said.
"No."
"Move. To. The. Center."
I didn't move.
He climbed onto the bed. One knee. Then the other. Then he was over me. His hands on either side of my head. His body hovering above mine. Not touching. Not yet.
"I own you," he said softly. "Every inch. Every breath. Every heartbeat. You signed. I paid. The transaction is complete."
"That's not how people work."
"No." His face lowered. Closer. His nose almost touched mine. "You're not people anymore. You're mine."
"Those are the same thing."
"Not to me."
He moved.
Not toward me. Away. He rolled onto his back. Stared at the ceiling. At the mirror that showed us both — two strangers in a bed neither of us wanted to share.
"Sleep," he said.
"I'm not tired."
"Then lie there. With your eyes open. Staring at the ceiling." He closed his eyes. "I don't care."
"I hate you."
"I know."
"Do you care?"
"Not yet."
The silence stretched between us. Long. Heavy. The kind of silence that suffocates.
I stared at the ceiling. At our reflections. At the girl in the black nightgown and the man beside her who looked like he'd never closed his eyes in the dark.
"Why me?" I whispered.
He didn't answer.
"Why me, Alexander?"
His eyes opened. He turned his head on the pillow. Looked at me.
"You want the truth?"
"I want something true."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then:
"You looked sad."
"What?"
"The auction. Behind the mirror. All the other women looked hungry. Greedy. Desperate." He paused. "You looked sad."
"That's why you bought me? For two million euros? Because I looked sad?"
"No." He turned back to the ceiling. "I bought you because you looked sad and you didn't try to hide it. Everyone hides, Ava. Not you."
"I was hiding."
"You were shaking. Not hiding."
I didn't know what to say.
He closed his eyes again.
"Sleep."
"You said you don't care if I sleep."
"I don't. But I'm tired of your voice."
I wanted to hit him.
I wanted to cry.
I wanted to go home.
But home didn't exist anymore. Just this room. This bed. This man who owned me.
I closed my eyes.
The darkness behind my lids was the same as the darkness in the room. Black. Empty. Cold.
Then his hand moved.
His fingers found mine. Wrapped around them. Held on.
I froze.
"Don't," I whispered.
"I'm not doing anything."
"Your hand—"
"Is mine. On my bed. In my house." His thumb traced my knuckles. Slow. Almost gentle. "Go to sleep."
I should have pulled away.
I didn't.
I lay there. In the dark. In his bed. In his hand.
And I hated myself for how safe it felt.
---
I woke to sunlight.
Morning. Madrid sun through tall windows. Gold and warm and completely wrong for how I felt.
The bed was empty beside me.
His side was cold. He'd been gone for hours.
I sat up. The nightgown had twisted around my thighs. My hair was a mess. My eyes were swollen from crying in my sleep — crying I didn't remember.
The bathroom door was open.
A towel hung over the edge of the tub. Steam on the mirror. He'd showered already. Dressed already. Left me alone.
I should have been relieved.
I was.
Mostly.
A door opened somewhere in the house. Footsteps. Not his — too light. Too fast.
A woman appeared in the bedroom doorway. Dark hair. Dark eyes. A white dress that cost more than my rent.
"You're awake," she said.
"Who are you?"
"Carmen. Mr. Black's house manager." She walked into the room like she owned it. "Your breakfast is downstairs. You have one hour to eat, shower, and dress."
"Dress for what?"
Carmen smiled. It wasn't warm.
"Your first lesson."
"Lesson?"
"Mr. Black wants you to understand your role." She turned toward the door. "One hour. Don't be late."
She left.
I sat in the bed. Alone. Confused. Terrified.
My role.
What did that even mean?
I looked at the empty side of the bed. At the dent in the pillow where his head had been.
His hand on mine in the dark.
His voice saying You looked sad.
Three years.
One thousand ninety-five days.
And this was only day one.
- Writer
