Sold To My Nemesis

2: The Creditor's Debt

The elevator ride down to the lobby was the longest sixty seconds of my life.

Every floor we passed felt like a year of my hard work being stripped away. The marketing floor. The research wing. The executive lounge where I’d spent more nights sleeping on a couch than in my own bed.

Roman didn't speak. He stood in the center of the car, his hands clasped behind his back, staring at the polished brass doors. He didn't look at me once. He didn't have to. The silence was his way of reminding me that he had already won.

When the doors opened, the lobby was a sea of chaos.

Security guards were rushing toward the elevators. The front desk was swamped with people in suits holding clipboards. They weren't our staff. They were his.

"Keep walking," Roman said, his hand landing on the small of my back.

His touch was electric, a sharp jolt that made me want to pull away and lean into him at the same time. He guided me through the glass doors to the curb where a black SUV was idling. A driver held the door open, his eyes fixed firmly on the pavement.

"Where are we going?" I asked as the door clicked shut, sealing us in a tomb of tinted glass and expensive leather.

"To my home," Roman said. He pulled a tablet from the seat pocket and began scrolling. "You’ll be staying there until the merger is finalized. It’s for your protection."

"Protection from what? You’re the only person who’s threatened me today."

He finally looked up from the screen. His eyes were a dark, stormy gray...the color of the Atlantic in mid-winter.

"You think the board is going to be happy when they find out the company is gone? You think the people your father owes money to are just going to walk away because I signed a piece of paper?" He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous silk. "You’re the only collateral left, Sloane. And in this city, collateral gets stolen."

The drive took us through the heart of Manhattan, but we didn't stop at the penthouses of the Upper East Side. We headed south, toward the iron and cobblestone of Tribeca.

We pulled into a private garage beneath a building that looked more like a fortress than a residence. The walls were reinforced concrete, and the security cameras followed us like hungry eyes.

The elevator opened directly into his living room.

It wasn't what I expected. There were no gold statues, no velvet curtains. It was cold. Minimalist. The floors were polished dark stone, and the floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the Hudson River. It felt like a museum for a man who didn't want to be remembered.

"Your things are already in the guest suite," Roman said, walking toward a bar built into the wall. He poured himself a glass of water. No ice. No garnish. Just the basics.

"My things? How? I haven't even been home."

"I sent a team to your apartment an hour before I walked into your father's office," he said, taking a slow sip. "I told them what to pack. The rest is being moved to storage."

I felt the blood rush to my face. The violation felt worse than the debt. "You had no right. My private life isn't part of the surety."

"Everything is part of the surety now," he said, setting the glass down with a sharp clack.

He walked toward me, his steps echoing on the stone floor. He stopped just outside my personal space, but the weight of his presence felt like he was pressing against me.

"There is a box on the bed," he said. "Wear what’s inside. We’re leaving for the Metropolitan Gala in two hours."

"I’m not going anywhere with you."

Roman reached out. He didn't grab me. He just traced the line of my collarbone with his pointer finger, his touch light enough to be a ghost but heavy enough to make my heart skip.

"The world needs to see you by my side, Sloane. They need to see that the Vane dynasty hasn't fallen...it’s just been... absorbed. If you don't show up, the stock drops to zero by midnight. And then my promise to keep those three thousand jobs disappears."

He leaned down, his lips inches from my ear. I could hear the steady beat of his heart. It was calm. Terrifyingly calm.

"Be ready in two hours," he whispered. "Or I start the layoffs before the appetizers are served."

He turned and disappeared into a room at the end of the hall.

I stood there for a long time, my hands curled into fists. I wanted to break something. I wanted to scream. But instead, I walked toward the guest suite.

The room was as cold as the rest of the house. On the bed sat a large, black velvet box.

I opened it.

Inside was a dress of deep, midnight-blue silk. It was beautiful. It was also the exact shade of the dress I had worn to our high school prom...the night I had laughed while my friends poured punch on his only suit.

My breath hitched.

I looked toward the vanity. There, sitting next to a bottle of expensive perfume, was a small, framed polaroid.

It was old. Faded.

It was a photo of me. I was eighteen, standing on the steps of the school, looking at someone off-camera and smiling.

I remembered that day. I had been talking to my brother. But the angle of the photo was wrong. It hadn't been taken from the steps. It had been taken from the bushes near the parking lot.

I turned the photo over.

In small, neat handwriting, it said: October 14, 2014. The Day the Debt Began.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

The same unknown number from before.

Look in the closet, Sloane. He didn't just pack your clothes. He's been keeping them for years.

I ran to the walk-in closet and threw the doors open.

My heart stopped.

There, hanging among my designer suits and silk blouses, was a row of items I hadn't seen in a decade.

My high school track jacket. A scarf I’d lost at a football game. A ribbon from my graduation cap.

He hadn't been watching me for three years.

He had been collecting me for ten.