Daddy's Best Friend Bought Me

CHAPTER SEVEN: Dinner

I spend the afternoon in my room, unpacking boxes like I'm moving into a dorm instead of a prison.

Books go on the shelf Marcus provided. My worn copy of The Bell Jar, the annotated Complete Works of Shakespeare Mom gave me for my thirteenth birthday, contemporary romance novels I read when I need to believe in happy endings. They look wrong here, too shabby against the expensive white shelving.

My clothes stay in the boxes. I refuse to hang them in the closet next to the designer pieces Marcus bought. Small rebellion. Meaningless, probably.

My laptop sits on the pristine white desk. I open it, try to log into my email. The internet works, but when I try to access anything—email, social media, even Google—a message pops up.

Content filtered. Please see system administrator.

Of course. Marcus controls the wifi. Controls what I can access. I slam the laptop shut hard enough that I worry I've cracked the screen.

A knock on the connecting door makes me jump.

"Dinner in twenty minutes," Marcus calls through. "I hope you're hungry."

I don't answer.

"Bella."

"I heard you."

Silence. Then: "Wear something nice. Please."

The please almost makes it worse. Like this is a date. Like I have any choice in the matter.

I look down at my jeans and sweatshirt. The urge to show up exactly like this is strong. But I'm hungry, and picking battles I can't win seems pointless.

I dig through a box and find a sundress. Simple, yellow, from Target. Nothing like the designer pieces in the closet, but it's mine. I change quickly, leave my hair down, don't bother with makeup.

When I emerge from my room, Marcus is in the kitchen. He's changed too—dark slacks and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Casual elegance. He looks like he should be in a cologne ad.

The dining table is set. Actually set, with cloth napkins and wine glasses and candles that are definitely not from Target.

"You cooked?" I ask.

"I can cook." He pulls out a chair for me. "Cooking is chemistry. I'm good at chemistry."

I sit because standing feels more awkward. The chair is the most comfortable thing I've ever experienced. Of course it is.

Marcus brings over plates. Chicken piccata with roasted vegetables and risotto that smells incredible. He sets one in front of me, then takes the seat across the table. Not at the head. Across from me, like we're equals.

We're not.

He pours wine into my glass. Something red that probably costs more than my textbooks.

"I'm not twenty-one," I point out.

"You're twenty. And you're in a private residence. The law is flexible." He pours his own glass. "But if you'd prefer water—"

"I didn't say that."

I take a sip. It's good. Smooth and rich and exactly what I need to get through this surreal dinner.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. The chicken is perfect. I hate that it's perfect.

"How was your day?" Marcus asks, like this is normal. Like we're a couple catching up over dinner instead of captor and captive performing domesticity.

"You already know. Viktor told you."

"Viktor told me you attended class and spoke with your friend Lily. I'm asking how you are."

"I'm great. Living the dream. Literally trapped in an ivory tower."

He sets down his fork. "You went to class. You saw your friend. You're eating dinner you didn't have to cook. Many people would find that pleasant."

"Many people chose their living situation."

"Did they?" He tilts his head slightly. "Most people are trapped by circumstances. Money, family, obligations. At least your cage is comfortable."

"That doesn't make it not a cage."

"No," he agrees. "But context matters."

I think about Viktor's words. Bad choice is better than worse choice. The men my father owed. What they would have done.

"Tell me about them," I say. "The people Dad owed money to. If you're going to use them to justify this, at least give me details."

Marcus considers this, swirling his wine. "How much do you know about your father's gambling?"

"Enough. He's been doing it since Mom died. Maybe before."

"Before," Marcus confirms. "Your mother tried to help him. Got him into programs. Threatened to leave. Nothing worked." He pauses. "The night she died, he'd lost fifty thousand dollars at a poker game in Chinatown. She found out. They fought."

My chest tightens. "You said she had a heart attack."

"She did. The stress, the fighting—it triggered something undiagnosed. But Dante was there. Watched her collapse. And his first thought wasn't calling an ambulance." Marcus's voice is carefully neutral. "It was how to use her death to his advantage."

The food in my stomach turns to lead.

"You're lying."

"I wish I were." He takes a drink. "He called me after. I came to the hospital. He was already working the angles. Life insurance. Her family's trust. How to position himself as the grieving widower."

"Stop."

"You asked for details."

"I changed my mind."

Marcus leans forward. "Your father is not a good man, Isabella. He's weak and selfish and he's been selling pieces of your life for years. You think this started with me? He's been borrowing against your future since you were sixteen."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he took loans using you as collateral. Told people he had a daughter who'd inherit money someday. Made promises about what you'd be worth." His eyes are hard now. "Why do you think men started showing up at your house? Your prom date? That boy Tommy you dated junior year?"

Tommy Morrison. Who moved away suddenly. Whose family lost everything.

"That wasn't Dad," I whisper. "That was—"

"Me," Marcus finishes. "I made Tommy's father's business collapse because the alternative was letting that boy take you to Ohio and marry you at nineteen." He doesn't look apologetic. "I've been protecting you from your father's schemes for years. This is just more direct."

I stand up so fast my chair scrapes. "You destroyed a family because I dated their son?"

"I removed an obstacle."

"He was seventeen!"

"He was going to take you away." Marcus stands too, and suddenly the dining room feels too small. "You were supposed to go to Boston University. Study literature. Have the future your mother wanted for you. Not become a teen bride in Ohio."

"That wasn't your choice to make!"

"Someone had to make it. Your father certainly wasn't going to protect your interests."

I grab my wine glass and throw it. Not at Marcus—just at the wall. At something. The glass shatters, red wine running down the expensive white paint like blood.

Marcus doesn't flinch.

"Feel better?" he asks.

"No."

"There are eleven more wine glasses in the cabinet. Break them all if it helps."

The calm of him. The absolute control.

I sink back into my chair, suddenly exhausted. "How many lives have you ruined for me?"

"Three boyfriends. Two business associates of your father's who got too interested. One professor who asked you out for coffee."

Seven. Seven people's lives destroyed because of me.

"Professor Williams?" I remember him. Adjunct in the English department. He'd suggested we discuss my paper over coffee. I thought he was being nice.

"He was thirty-five. You were nineteen. It was inappropriate."

"So you got him fired?"

"I had his contract not renewed. There's a difference."

"Not to him!"

Marcus moves around the table, crouches beside my chair so we're eye level. "I have spent eight years keeping you safe. Keeping you on the path your mother wanted for you. Every choice I've made has been to protect your future."

"By controlling my present."

"Yes." No hesitation. "Because you deserve better than your father's chaos. Better than men who see you as a conquest. Better than the life Dante was going to give you."

"And you think this is better?" I gesture at the penthouse. "Being bought like property?"

"I think this is temporary. I think once you understand what I'm offering, you'll see this differently."

"What are you offering, Marcus? Really?"

He's quiet for a long moment. Those gray-blue eyes search my face like he's looking for something.

"Everything," he says finally. "Safety. Security. A future where you never have to worry about money or violence or men with bad intentions. Where you can finish your degree, pursue any career you want, live without fear."

"As your possession."

"As my partner. Eventually." He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it because I'm too tired to fight. "I know how this looks. I know what I am. But I also know I'm the only person in your life who's ever put your interests first."

"My mother did."

Pain flickers across his face. "Your mother loved you. But she also stayed with Dante despite everything. Let him slowly destroy your security while she tried to fix him. Love made her weak."

"And you're not weak."

"Not where you're concerned." His thumb brushes across my knuckles. "I've wanted you since you were eighteen, Bella. I've watched you and waited and planned. That's not weakness. That's dedication."

"That's obsession."

"Yes," he agrees. "It's that too."

The honesty is almost worse than lies would be. At least lies I could argue against.

"What happens when the debt is paid?" I ask. "What happens when your five million is settled?"

Marcus smiles, and it doesn't reach his eyes. "The debt is already paid. I settled it the day your father signed the contract."

My blood runs cold. "Then why am I still here?"

"Because the contract wasn't about the debt. It was about acquiring legal authority over you. The debt was just the excuse." He stands, still holding my hand. "Your father can't take you back. You can't leave until you're twenty-one and the contract expires. And by then—"

"I'll what? Fall in love with you?"

"You'll understand that I'm your best option. That the world out there is full of people who want to use you. And I'm the only one who wants to protect you."

I pull my hand away. "That's insane."

"Probably." He starts clearing the table like we didn't just have this conversation. "But it's honest. I won't lie to you, Isabella. I'll control you, protect you, keep you here until you see reason. But I won't lie."

He carries plates to the kitchen. I sit at the table, staring at the broken wine glass and the red stain on the wall.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out.

Lily: Please just send me a sign you're really ok. I'm worried.

I type: I'm fine. Promise. Just dealing with family stuff.

The lies are getting easier. That's the worst part.

Another message appears, but not from Lily. Unknown number.

We know where you are. Your father still owes us. We'll be in touch.

My hands start shaking.

Marcus appears beside me, takes the phone. Reads the message. His face goes cold.

"Viktor," he calls out.

I didn't even know Viktor was here, but he appears from somewhere. The hallway. The elevator. Wherever guards materialize from.

Marcus shows him the phone. "Trace it. Find them. Handle it."

Viktor nods and disappears.

"Who—" My voice doesn't work. I try again. "Who was that?"

"The men your father owed." Marcus deletes the message. "Or people working for them."

"But you said you paid them."

"I paid Dante's bookies. But your father borrowed from multiple sources. I'm still tracking them all down." He hands me back the phone. "This is why you stay here. Why Viktor drives you. Why you don't wander off campus. Because there are people out there who think you're an asset they can leverage."

The reality of it hits me. I'm not just Marcus's prisoner. I'm everyone's target.

"I want to go to my room," I whisper.

"Of course." He doesn't try to stop me. "Bella?"

I pause.

"That message is exactly why I can't let you go. Even if I wanted to. Even if the contract didn't exist. You're safer here than anywhere else."

I walk to my room and close the door. Lock it from my side for the first time.

The lock feels pointless. Marcus has keys. Marcus has everything.

I lie on the too-soft bed and stare at the ceiling and think about being an asset people want to leverage.

About my father borrowing money against my future.

About Marcus destroying lives to protect me.

About a cage that might actually be keeping me safe instead of just keeping me trapped.

My phone is still in my hand. I scroll through old photos. Me and Lily at orientation. Me in my dorm room. Me at a party last spring, laughing at something someone said.

That girl looks happy. Free.

That girl didn't know she was already sold.

Another text appears. Marcus.

The door between our rooms is unlocked on my side. If you need anything. If you're scared. I'm here.

I stare at the message.

I'm always here.

I don't respond.

But I also don't delete it.

And I hate myself a little bit for that.