NO OTHER CHOICE
1798 Words
DAISY’S POV
I own three bags.
One duffel that I've had since I was sixteen, a backpack with a broken zipper, and a plastic shopping bag I use for overflow. That's it. That's everything I own in the world that's worth taking with me.
It takes me less than twenty minutes to pack.
Clothes, toiletries, the few books I've collected from thrift stores over the years. A photo of my mother—the only one I have—tucked into a frame I found in a dumpster and cleaned up. I stare at her face for a long moment before wrapping it in a t-shirt and placing it carefully in the duffel.
She died when I was twelve. Cancer, they said, though I think it was more than that. I think she just got tired of fighting. Tired of my father leaving, tired of being broke, tired of watching her daughter grow up with nothing.
I wonder what she'd think of this. Of me selling myself—because that's what this is, isn't it? A transaction. My time and my dignity for three hundred thousand dollars.
But she's not here to have an opinion, and I'm too desperate to care what anyone else thinks.
I zip up the duffel and look around my apartment one last time. The landlord will probably change the locks and throw out whatever I leave behind. I don't care. There's nothing here worth coming back for.
At exactly nine o'clock, there's a knock at my door.
I open it to find a tall Black man in a dark suit standing in the hallway. He's probably in his forties, with kind eyes and the kind of solid, dependable presence that makes you feel safer just being near him.
"Miss Matty?" he asks. "I'm Marcus. Mr. Kindre sent me to collect you."
Collect me. Like I'm a package.
"Just Daisy," I say, trying to smile. "And I'm ready."
He glances past me at the tiny studio, at the three bags sitting by the door, and something flickers across his face. Pity, maybe. But he's too professional to comment.
"Let me help you with those," he says, reaching for the duffel.
"I can manage—"
"I insist."
He picks up two of the bags like they weigh nothing and heads for the stairs. I grab the backpack and follow him down, my heart pounding harder with each step.
This is it.
No going back.
The car is even nicer than I remember. Black leather seats, tinted windows, and that new-car smell that makes my old life feel even more pathetic by comparison. Marcus loads my bags into the trunk while I slide into the backseat, trying not to touch anything.
"Comfortable?" he asks as he gets behind the wheel.
"Yeah. Thanks."
We pull away from the curb, and I watch my building disappear in the side mirror. Good riddance.
The drive to North Harbor takes about thirty minutes, and with every mile, the neighborhoods get cleaner, nicer. The buildings get taller. The cars get more expensive. By the time we cross into North Harbor proper, I feel like I've entered a different world.
Tree-lined streets. Boutique shops. Restaurants with names I can't pronounce. And then, finally, we turn onto a private road that winds up a hill overlooking the water.
"Here we are," Marcus says, pulling up to a gate.
He enters a code, and the gate swings open to reveal a driveway that curves up to a house that can only be described as a mansion. It's modern, all glass and steel and clean lines, with a perfect lawn and a view of the harbor that probably costs more than most people make in a lifetime.
I can't breathe.
"This is where Sebastian lives?" I ask weakly.
"Yes, ma'am."
"It's huge."
"Six bedrooms, seven bathrooms, home gym, pool, and a wine cellar Mr. Kindre never uses." Marcus parks in front of the entrance. "It's a lot of house for one person."
Two people now, I think. At least for the next six months.
He helps me out of the car and retrieves my bags, leading me up the front steps to a massive door made of dark wood and frosted glass. It opens before we reach it.
Sebastian stands in the doorway, dressed more casually than I've ever seen him. Dark jeans, a grey sweater pushed up to his elbows. He looks younger like this. Less intimidating. Though the expression on his face is still all business.
"Daisy," he says. "Welcome."
"Thanks." My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
He steps aside to let me in, and I walk into a foyer that's bigger than my entire apartment. Marble floors. High ceilings. A staircase that curves up to the second floor like something out of a movie.
"Marcus, take her bags up to the blue guest room," Sebastian says.
"Yes, sir."
Marcus disappears up the stairs, leaving me alone with Sebastian in this enormous, echoing space. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how out of place I look in my faded jeans and ancient coat.
"Let me show you around," Sebastian says.
The tour takes fifteen minutes, and I forget half of it immediately. There's a living room, a dining room, a kitchen that looks like it belongs in a magazine. The home gym Marcus mentioned, complete with equipment I don't know how to use. The pool is out back, covered for the winter but still visible through the wall of windows.
"Your room is upstairs," Sebastian says, leading me up the curved staircase. "Third door on the right. Mine is at the end of the hall. There are two other guest rooms if you prefer one of those instead."
"The blue room is fine."
He stops at the door and pushes it open.
It's beautiful. Of course it is. A king-size bed with white linens. A sitting area by the window. A bathroom attached that's bigger than my old kitchen. My three pathetic bags sit on the floor, looking as out of place as I feel.
"I took the liberty of having some clothes delivered," Sebastian says, nodding toward the closet. "Basic items. We can go shopping this week for anything else you need."
I walk to the closet and open it.
Inside are at least twenty outfits. Dresses, pants, blouses, sweaters. All in my size. All expensive-looking. I touch the sleeve of a silk blouse and pull my hand back like it burned me.
"How did you know my size?"
"I'm thorough," he says simply.
Right. Because he had me investigated. Because he knows everything about me, and I know almost nothing about him.
"There's something else we need to discuss," Sebastian continues. He pulls an envelope from his pocket and holds it out to me. "Your first payment. One hundred fifty thousand dollars. Cashier's check made out to you."
I take the envelope with shaking hands.
One hundred fifty thousand dollars.
I've never held that much money before. Never even imagined holding that much money.
"There's a bank branch two blocks from here," he says. "Marcus can take you tomorrow to open an account if you need one."
"I have an account."
"With thirty-seven dollars in it."
Heat floods my cheeks. Of course he knows that too.
"Look," I say, my voice harder than I intended. "I get it. You had me investigated. You know I'm broke and desperate and that I have no other options. You don't have to keep reminding me."
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or regret.
"That's not what I'm doing," he says.
"Then what are you doing?"
"Trying to make this easier for you."
"By pointing out how pathetic my life is?"
"By trying to help." His jaw tightens. "I know this is a difficult transition, Daisy. I'm not trying to make it worse."
We stare at each other for a long moment. Then I look away first, clutching the envelope to my chest.
"I'm sorry," I mutter. "I'm just—this is a lot."
"I know." His voice softens. "Take today to settle in. Unpack. Explore the house. Tomorrow we'll go over the details of what I'll need from you. But for now, just—breathe."
He leaves before I can respond, closing the door quietly behind him.
I sink onto the edge of the bed and stare at the envelope in my hands.
One hundred fifty thousand dollars.
A way out.
Or a cage made of money and lies.
I don't know which yet.
But I'm here now, and there's no going back.
I spend the rest of the day unpacking my meager belongings and trying not to touch anything that looks expensive. The clothes in the closet fit perfectly. The bathroom has more towels than one person could ever need. There's even a stocked mini-fridge in the sitting area.
It's perfect.
It's suffocating.
By evening, I'm restless and starving. I venture downstairs, following the smell of something cooking. I find Sebastian in the kitchen, standing at the stove. He's changed into a t-shirt, and I'm struck by how normal he looks doing something as mundane as cooking dinner.
"I wasn't sure if you'd eaten," he says without looking up. "I made extra."
"You cook?"
"When I have time." He plates two servings of pasta and sets them on the counter. "Sit."
I do, watching as he pours two glasses of water and joins me. The food smells amazing, and my stomach growls embarrassingly loud.
"Eat," he says. "You look like you haven't had a decent meal in weeks."
He's probably right, but I don't admit it.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. Then Sebastian sets down his fork and looks at me.
"I need you to understand something," he says. "This arrangement works because we're both getting something out of it. You're not my prisoner, Daisy. You're my business partner. If you're unhappy, if something isn't working, you tell me. We figure it out."
"Okay," I say quietly.
"I mean it. I'm not—" He stops, seeming to struggle for words. "I'm not trying to control you. I'm trying to solve a problem. Our problem, now."
I study him across the counter. He looks tired. There are shadows under his eyes that I didn't notice before, and something in his expression that seems almost vulnerable.
Maybe I'm not the only one who's desperate.
Maybe we're both just trying to survive.
"Okay," I say again. "Partners."
He nods, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
We finish dinner in more comfortable silence, and when I head back upstairs, I realize something.
I'm not afraid of Sebastian Kindre.
I don't trust him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But I'm not afraid.
And for now, that's enough.
- Writer
