Daddy's Best Friend Bought Me

CHAPTER FIVE: The First Morning

I didn't sleep.

How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my father's face. The contract. Marcus's hand extended like this was all perfectly normal.

I spent the night testing every surface, every lock, every possible escape route. The windows don't open. The door to the hallway is locked from outside. The connecting door to Marcus's room stays locked on his side. I even checked the air vents—too small, and probably alarmed anyway.

Around three in the morning, I considered screaming. Just opening a window—oh wait, they don't open—and screaming until someone heard.

But forty floors up, who would hear? And even if they did, what would they do? Call the police? Marcus probably owns half of them.

Now I'm curled in the window seat watching dawn break over Boston. The city looks beautiful from up here. Distant. Like something that exists in a different reality than mine.

I'm still wearing yesterday's clothes. My birthday outfit. Jeans and a sweater that Lily said made me look cute. That was twelve hours and a lifetime ago.

Movement from Marcus's room. Footsteps. The sound of a door opening—his bathroom, probably.

I tense, waiting.

The connecting door opens.

Marcus appears in workout clothes—athletic pants and a fitted shirt that shows exactly how much time he spends in that gym he mentioned. His hair is slightly messy, like he just woke up. He looks human. Normal.

The monster should look like a monster.

He pauses when he sees me awake, still dressed, clearly haven't slept.

"Good morning." His voice is rough from sleep. "Did you sleep?"

"What do you think?"

He nods, like he expected that answer. "You should have changed. Been more comfortable."

"Comfort isn't really a priority right now."

"No, I suppose not." He runs a hand through his hair. "I'm making coffee. Would you like some?"

The surreal domesticity of it. Like this is a normal morning. Like I'm a houseguest, not a captive.

"I'm not hungry."

"I didn't ask if you were hungry. I asked if you'd like coffee." He moves toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer. "But you'll eat breakfast regardless. I won't have you making yourself sick out of spite."

"You don't get to control what I eat."

"Actually, I do." He says it calmly, like we're discussing the weather. "That's rather the point of our arrangement."

I stay in the window seat, refusing to follow him. Small rebellion. Pointless, probably, but it's all I have.

The smell of coffee starts filling the penthouse. Rich and dark and exactly how I like it. My stomach betrays me with a quiet growl. I didn't eat at the restaurant. Couldn't. My throat had closed up the moment Marcus sat down.

Now I'm starving, and I hate myself for it.

"Bella." Marcus's voice drifts from the kitchen. "Come here."

"No."

"You can stay over there and be stubborn, or you can come here and we can have a civilized conversation over breakfast. Your choice."

Everything is my choice, apparently. Except none of it really is.

I unfold myself from the window seat and walk to the kitchen. Not because he told me to. Because I'm hungry and I need coffee and I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me collapse from stubbornness.

That's what I tell myself, anyway.

Marcus is cooking. Eggs in a pan, bread in the toaster, moving around the kitchen with easy competence. He's done this before. Many times, probably. The motions are automatic.

"Scrambled or fried?" he asks.

"I don't care."

"Scrambled, then." He plates eggs, adds toast, slides it across the counter to me. "Eat."

I don't touch it.

He makes his own plate, pours two mugs of coffee—black for him, cream and sugar for me without asking how I take it—and sits across from me at the kitchen island.

He eats. I don't.

The silence stretches. Morning light floods through those massive windows, making everything look clean and perfect and wrong.

Finally, hunger wins. I take a bite of eggs.

They're good. Perfectly seasoned. I hate that.

"Good girl," Marcus says quietly.

My glare could melt steel. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Talk to me like I'm a pet you're training."

"I'm acknowledging that you're taking care of yourself. There's a difference."

I eat another bite just to have something to do with my hands. The coffee is perfect too. Exactly the right amount of cream and sugar.

"Tell me about the contract," I say. "The real version. Not the legal nonsense."

Marcus sets down his fork, wipes his mouth with a napkin. Always polished. Always in control.

"Your father incurred significant gambling debts over eighteen months. Five million dollars to some very dangerous people."

"People you know."

His slight smile doesn't reach his eyes. "People who know better than to come after what's mine."

The possessive language makes my skin crawl. What's mine. Like I'm a car or a watch or property.

"So you paid them off and took me as collateral."

"I paid them off and took you into my protection."

"Same thing."

"Not to me." He drinks his coffee, watching me over the rim. "Collateral implies temporary ownership until debt is repaid. Protection implies something more permanent."

My stomach knots. "How permanent?"

"That depends entirely on you."

Cryptic. Terrible. I push my plate away, appetite gone.

"What do you expect from me?" I ask. "Really. Day to day. What does this look like?"

"Time," he says. "Proximity. Eventually, understanding."

"Understanding that you're completely insane?"

"Understanding that I've protected you for years. This is just more direct."

I straighten. "Protected me from what?"

He pauses. Just for a second, but it's there—a flicker of something in his expression. Like I've asked the right question. Or the wrong one.

Before he can answer, the elevator chimes.

"The delivery is here." Viktor's voice carries from the foyer, heavily accented.

Marcus stands. "Your belongings. You can arrange your room however you'd like."

"How generous." My voice drips sarcasm. "I can decorate my cell."

Something flashes in his eyes. Irritation. His patience is fraying, just slightly.

"You're not a prisoner, Isabella."

"Then I can leave?"

Silence.

I stand too, facing him across the kitchen island. "That's what I thought."

Viktor appears with another man, both carrying boxes. My books. My clothes. My laptop. They move past us toward my room, Viktor handling everything with unexpected care. Like my stuff matters.

When they finish, Viktor nods at me. Something almost respectful in the gesture. Then he and the other man disappear back into the elevator.

Marcus turns to me. "I have meetings today. Viktor will drive you to campus at nine."

"I'm not going."

He crosses the space between us. Doesn't touch me, but gets close. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can smell his cologne and coffee and the faint scent of his shampoo.

"Yes, you are." His voice is quiet but absolute. "Your education matters. This situation doesn't change that."

"Everything changes this."

"Not everything." He studies my face like he's memorizing it. "You still have classes. Friends. A future. I'm controlling the framework, Bella. What you do within it is yours."

The twisted logic of it. The reasonable tone about unreasonable things.

"And if I tell someone?" I ask. "At school. If I ask for help?"

He leans in slightly. Voice dropping. "Who would you tell? Campus security? They'll call Boston PD. Who do you think funds the police benevolent association?"

My breath catches.

He straightens, but doesn't step back. "But go ahead. Try. Learn how far my influence reaches. Learn that you're safer with me than fighting me."

He moves toward his room to change. At the doorway, he stops.

"Oh, and Bella? Your friend Lily has been texting."

My heart lurches.

"I took the liberty of responding from your phone last night. Family emergency, staying with relatives, you'll explain later." He pulls my phone from his pocket. The screen glows, perfectly functional. "Funny how a reset fixes charging issues."

He sets it on the counter between us.

"You'll find I've installed tracking software. And the numbers for campus security, Boston PD, even the FBI are all functional." His smile is cold. "Make any call you want. Report me. Try to get help."

I stare at the phone.

"Learn the hard way if you need to," he says. "I've got time."

He disappears into his room, leaving me alone with my phone and the crushing realization of what he's doing.

He's so confident in his control that he's giving me the tools to fight him.

Because he knows I'll fail.

The cruelty of it steals my breath.